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i see a window

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  • i see a window

    it's a languid, liquidy feeling. the pincers dissolved reveal a portion of the whole. a judgment made indicts the witness to the crime. wonder stands mute. intelligence in its honeycombs spiderwebs out, and takes the corners down, the long hallways with seldom doors. I bare the light, and above me sifting through the air are those spirits. I singly know, this place I've come to, this effusion behind dark glass. what it matters to do, means anything to me; I who've thrown myself to fields, to piles of thorns, and wire-wrapped vestiges. i'm beyond myself in going further, beyond my fear I've mastered. into that place I know awaits. the stairs. i see a window to outside, and it's not well lit out there. i decide to go up the flight of steps, and see the pictures on the wall; people, laughter, parties, hats, outdoors. I'm watching the faces go by as I see love, and underneath it is something of a new color I've not before seen. I am not sure what it is. it's there, I can sense it, and yet it makes me feel like it makes barely any difference whether I do or not. the walls hold on to shadows, and I can hear from behind closed doors how helplessly one cry fails one, alone. and I don't know what to do but to continue walking through here. at the top stair, the room opens up. glass reflects with things behind it, and the wood grain moves its pattern, and the lights blare a bit too bright. tables are clear, everything's so still, and a dinnerplate sits broken on the tile floor. eggs have spilled between the cracked apart pieces, and everything doesn't move. neither do i for a minute. I'm wondering what depth, how these rooms have lived, held moments; I wonder at the way light opens the rooms in the morning, so slowly, and thoughts that occupy the house on the first wakings. I can almost hear a cry bleeding through the walls, and I can almost see the place better because the clouds obscure the sun for a moment. paused here, what do these memories tell us. bouncing around the crock pots in the cabinets filled with dishes, and the silverwear in the dark of drawers, unused. thinking, what about the emotions that went into all of this; what these things are, or were, that have been touched. windows being seen through, light passing between the panes, generations of currents, a queer motion of things. so strange, the way we forget; the sun shines so fast, and the dark is on its heels. 'we feel left in corners, we're inside the world we made come true'. it is not real. somehow, it does not exist. doubt. you impinge. I see the fading image of a star, bound with all the machinations of the world I knew. bodiless places where absence doesn't hurt anymore. painless laughter, smiles, reactions without residuum. the red dram of mercury tilted and spilling. O wonder, light, beautify these things, a house of open windows, let light come in. for your shape dances right above. for you are the one involved in love. why, everything stays and goes, and it barely matters anymore. to have been, and to have known, and more, the enrichment of having done that well. not needing from another. knowing pure things. being broken and being taken into a higher relationship again, binary star. little twin. Andromedan. doppelganger. Sin. ... God I am. now everything shatters. it happens in a fast-slow pattern. the shapes are those of routine, taken, and the disposed of discards yet still remain. fancy, the sunshine winks, and clouds course over twisted cloth. fancy, the world we've become conscious of. and we still wonder what's wrong, why we feel alone, we want it to make sense, and can't find out why it doesn't. it hurts, you say. and I listen. pain infused into the walls, like muscles that hold on too tight, and can't untense. the blaring of the anxiety-music, the paranoia of taut strings vellicates. and I can't speak, staring in the face of God. there's no one else. yes I want to be comfortable here. here, I want to live. the stark difference between life when things were grown to a swell, and the uphill struggle which led so far to where this is. tedium displaces my patience, my breath catches, I am as empty as a doorway with only a hinge. then the five kids. they don't belong, and they shouldn't be here. I'm not sure how it works, if it's a bad time waiting to happen: they're announcing themselves with loud mouths, and I'm wondering what they're doing. i have a sudden urge to get out, it feels like glass breaking too close to my ears, shattering; it hurts. for all that noise, and the train of dust, and the transformed house, and the carpet spots, and their losing games, for every mismatched placement upon the scales of fate, and each hand that never thought to wait. I do not wonder, and I'm not thinking of anything else except: Get out. this is a split place, a twilight, and for me it is sufficient to taste how beautiful life is, knowing all of this will be flattened: and there will be nothing left but an absence. but why be or do anything at all, unless you're willing to be changed? do we always think that way, when making a decision? i think the difference is that life means everything, but that within it we find the game board of its moving, daring, loving plot to show us the way. to incarnate that purpose within us, come true. i step on this carpet. it's filled with dust and memory, and I breathe in the light, and the little sound, and how everything wants to fall. and I want to, too. until there's just the floor.
    Last edited by amenOra; 01-27-2019, 03:23 PM.
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