Regarding death (such being the manner of things)
What is it that makes things not what they are?
It was a naïve question. But then, children are. And this was the learning hour. And, the window, having shattered its way into adulthood the night before, was now jagged and open, a cool breeze wafting in through its remains, for anyone to feel. To tickle anyone with its tendrils.
Things are not what they are when they are what they are the most.
The child stood there. A light, sweet-smelling perspiration forming along her hairline. Reached up with a finger and pulled her lower lip down towards her chin. A blonde child. Blue eyes. These fragments on the floor, reflecting a fragment of sky, collectively, purposefully, as if they had been arranged there, but ultimately reflecting the mystery of arrangement without purpose. Something about skin, and what it contains, and the relinquishing of that.
A cloud floating gentle and majestic, coming into existence at one wooden slat and disappearing at another, but not really. A white cloud made white by the absence of blue, or by the existence thereof, and the temporal nonexistence of all other colors. Plus boundaries, soft ones, not jagged, like the remains of the window, but yes, jagged because of filtering. Because of pretending. Certain conditions, under which it is appropriate to wear black, and be sad, and send flowers. How to explain.
The child stood there, and kept standing, and the finger on the lip grew long and gnarled, the flesh around the chin dark and leathery, dangling, and the learning hour passed, and her spine began to grow crooked back on to itself. The mind grew heavy like an overripe fruit, and eventually dropped to the ground, and was consumed by the soil. Molecule scattering, like the window shattering. This was the nature of death. But the child was gone. And the lesson had gone unlearned.
It was a naïve question. But then, children are. And this was the learning hour. And, the window, having shattered its way into adulthood the night before, was now jagged and open, a cool breeze wafting in through its remains, for anyone to feel. To tickle anyone with its tendrils.
Things are not what they are when they are what they are the most.
The child stood there. A light, sweet-smelling perspiration forming along her hairline. Reached up with a finger and pulled her lower lip down towards her chin. A blonde child. Blue eyes. These fragments on the floor, reflecting a fragment of sky, collectively, purposefully, as if they had been arranged there, but ultimately reflecting the mystery of arrangement without purpose. Something about skin, and what it contains, and the relinquishing of that.
A cloud floating gentle and majestic, coming into existence at one wooden slat and disappearing at another, but not really. A white cloud made white by the absence of blue, or by the existence thereof, and the temporal nonexistence of all other colors. Plus boundaries, soft ones, not jagged, like the remains of the window, but yes, jagged because of filtering. Because of pretending. Certain conditions, under which it is appropriate to wear black, and be sad, and send flowers. How to explain.
The child stood there, and kept standing, and the finger on the lip grew long and gnarled, the flesh around the chin dark and leathery, dangling, and the learning hour passed, and her spine began to grow crooked back on to itself. The mind grew heavy like an overripe fruit, and eventually dropped to the ground, and was consumed by the soil. Molecule scattering, like the window shattering. This was the nature of death. But the child was gone. And the lesson had gone unlearned.
posted by NoisyMia | 7:29 PM
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