I want to break all the windows and let the sky crash in, pour myself over the broken shards and revel in the raging blue. Bleed thick and dark, like indigo honey, until I’m nothing but air and dust in the open skies.
Let the rain come. Let it rage and snarl, sweep possessions off shelves and fill every crack and crevice with its pounding hurt. Let the wind guide it further, channel its rage into a howling torrent as it slams, relentless, against my door, my floor, my walls. The baseboards crack and the ceilings heave, bowing out as the sheer force of the water whips around in a frenzy.
Its name is carnage.
It is torn books, broken toys, shards of glass and snapped ukulele strings.
Its name is anger.
Quick and dark and powerful,
and
so.
so.
so.
cold.
All the things that I was, that I chose, that I loved; objects that came to be mine because I made them so. Because I held them in my hands, and let them into myself. Took threads of love, of time, of memory and emotion, and sewed together a world of my own. A quilt of Me. My room, my things, my memories tied to objects. Objects and feeling and thoughts, all precariously stitched together in a little room, in a little town, in a little state, in a tiny, tiny little world.
And when the rain comes, when my things break, am I broken as well?
Maybe.
Maybe I would have been, had I not invited the rain in myself.
It was I who broke those windows, who stretched and tore and gave myself to the flood. And now my room, my quilt, my objects, my threads, are all gone. Pieces to shards to ashes to dust. Gone.
Yet still, the walls groan and shudder as the rain continues to thrash,
for a lack of things to break never quieted a storm.
Where am I?
Certainly not down there.
My everything is destroyed.
Where am I?
The liquid torrent screams and claws at the walls.
Everything is blue.
Where am I?
I’m..looking through my window. The window. A window.
A room.
There’s a room?
A storm.
Who am I?
A breath of air on a clear evening. A ray of light in a dusty barn. The twinkle of a bird's black eye as it reflects the colors of another’s shiny wings. I am smoke, laughter and faded music, curling up into the Great Blue Beyond.
I….am. I am.
I am.
Let the rain come. Let it rage and snarl, sweep possessions off shelves and fill every crack and crevice with its pounding hurt. Let the wind guide it further, channel its rage into a howling torrent as it slams, relentless, against my door, my floor, my walls. The baseboards crack and the ceilings heave, bowing out as the sheer force of the water whips around in a frenzy.
Its name is carnage.
It is torn books, broken toys, shards of glass and snapped ukulele strings.
Its name is anger.
Quick and dark and powerful,
and
so.
so.
so.
cold.
All the things that I was, that I chose, that I loved; objects that came to be mine because I made them so. Because I held them in my hands, and let them into myself. Took threads of love, of time, of memory and emotion, and sewed together a world of my own. A quilt of Me. My room, my things, my memories tied to objects. Objects and feeling and thoughts, all precariously stitched together in a little room, in a little town, in a little state, in a tiny, tiny little world.
And when the rain comes, when my things break, am I broken as well?
Maybe.
Maybe I would have been, had I not invited the rain in myself.
It was I who broke those windows, who stretched and tore and gave myself to the flood. And now my room, my quilt, my objects, my threads, are all gone. Pieces to shards to ashes to dust. Gone.
Yet still, the walls groan and shudder as the rain continues to thrash,
for a lack of things to break never quieted a storm.
Where am I?
Certainly not down there.
My everything is destroyed.
Where am I?
The liquid torrent screams and claws at the walls.
Everything is blue.
Where am I?
I’m..looking through my window. The window. A window.
A room.
There’s a room?
A storm.
Who am I?
A breath of air on a clear evening. A ray of light in a dusty barn. The twinkle of a bird's black eye as it reflects the colors of another’s shiny wings. I am smoke, laughter and faded music, curling up into the Great Blue Beyond.
I….am. I am.
I am.
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