I thought I heard rain. I thought I saw wind joined with water. But it wasn’t. It was simply a pale reflection of this entire state, this place we came to be in, an image of a tired and confused rain lacking its real purpose.
The memory of the hit faded with time. The bruise swelled, and turned blue, then dark purple and then yellow, until it was nearly gone entirely.
I think it may have been a hundred years since, and now, all I need is to hear this name and the words come up. Come in a language that isn’t mine. The words feel too slow, something paralyses me. Feels like I have to cut these words right out of a living flesh, and hand them out, dripping.
Reality becomes a colour, amorphous reality receives a shape. Butterflies become little earthquakes. And it amazes me every time. Yellow turns blue once more.
I wish I could write a thousand faces and places and silences and all these awkward moments.
The bruise left its mark. I wonder whether I’ve left mine. Or was I only a panic attack.
On days like this, the nerves are sensitive. Ticklish. White ceilings slowly cover up with pale pale words, with names, which aren’t ripe yet.
I want to be held,
and see my paper boats sail and how the wind takes them farther,
and then I want to jump right after.
I don’t know who you are. Let me invent you in my mind. Let me sculpt you a face, a body.
I wish I could write a million words, like on a computer log, but instead I just keep quiet, like in real life.
It’s like that game I used to play when I was a kid, you close your eyes and turn around and round and round, and when you open your eyes again, feel dizzy and try to stabilise yourself, need to be careful not to fall, try to imagine where you are now exactly, trying to monitor your new location.
And somehow it’s never where you thought at first.