My eyes are blue, the whites white, and the pupils shrink and expand like any lens, but I don’t capture the negatives; I see them plain as day.
Shadows bleached white and the light-switch turned off on colour, the conventional worlds gone bizarre and I’m left feeling like I’ve gone mad. Is this evil? This darkness I always see? The way the normal all others take for granted is twisted when it comes to me?
I see the world with it, but they only see it when they look at me.
What’s this? What’s this? There’s white things in the air!
I’ll wildly grab my steering wheel and spin it everywhere! The slushy asphalt won’t prove too much to bear, and I’ll stick it too it with aggressive speed and a little less care! Hesitance meekly hiding behind a mask of intelligent caution won’t grab hold of the streets, or keep the drive inline with all the others I’ve been auto-piloting home all fall and summer.
What’s this? A ditch? Outlandish! How could this be where I landed?! If I could be candid I think this is madness and the roads must be worse because last year wasn’t like this! How can we be expected to be flawless when the roads are against us and conspiring a mess regardless of the stress we place on our selves! It’s unfair! A nightmare. No wonder there’s sirens and flashing light in the air with these bullying flakes that don’t care about the disrepair closing streets and blocking exits everywhere!
Tow me away…. And honestly, I bear no blame! It’s insane to think these three lanes can contain all of us the same when the weather’s blowing against the grain and we’re slipping and sliding away! I swear on my name I don’t think I can survive the short days that end this way: slush and mush halting the rush and causing such a fuss!!
From the roadside I prepare to ride in the truck that’s going to try and get me home. I take a last look at the wasteland leading astray man and machine by the hand. What will become of us as the pages of the calendar flip like those of a book left outside as the winter surfaces? Will anything be done to the streets that torment us? Who will we greet the spring as?
We don’t know. We just don’t know.
If I let it be the dust it sparkles naturally as it’ll be lost to the wind. The wind that howls and breeds anxiety in my chest; that irrational paranoia from my youth.
In the wind it cuts and rubs my skin raw while I hold my breath, clenching every muscle I have like soldiers bracing shields against the storming enemy’s assault.
In my hands it’s beautiful though. A thing of rare wonder that frosts mountains and turns the ordinary in to magic, capable of vanishing the air in your lungs in to a gasp of wonder and awe.
If I let it be the dust it sparkles naturally as the wind will take it for its own, leaving nothing but cold, faint reminders of crystals melting in my gloves. That’s why I cup my hands together and pack it. I pack solid and dense, and then grab handfuls to pack it more. Pressed and rounded I smooth the edges until they’re gone and hold it in my hands anew. The wind glides around it and moves my hands before it’ll get any of the neat ball I’ve shaped my treasure in to.
I won’t see it lost to the feral winds. I’ll pack so cleanly and precise that I can keep it as I go.
Boil in the steel belly until there is steam out of your mouth: gushing in to the air in white wisps for seconds before you click stop. It’s you and I tonight conspiring together against the conspiracies of my tightly wound mind, and I’m hoping you’re cooler than I in spite of your scalding ins and outs. There’s probably no resolution for us right here, nothing but raw fingers pulling at the knot’s strings without a clue about how to go about solving this.
A few too many swivels of my chair and blank glances at a blank page stock just enough procrastination that I can see it over the wall: stilted and reflecting. To the window, cold to the touch from the outside but maybe the moisture to break the drought, and outside in the light of a tall lamppost I see the pre-cursor to the coming winter nights. There it is! The reason stepping in to the room while I flail about; the rescuers arriving at the island of wild, pig-worshipping children. I dress to impress and head out in to the welcomeness so unwelcome by car tires sloshing and splashing in its mess. I only walk a bit, take a video and photos, then return inside to watch it through out the window.
It’s a brief reunion before it’s a memory, but their ticket home for the extended stay is only so far away.
My eyes raked over the last sentence and then I turned the page. I didn’t realize, even though the subject matter was the last few leaves lying on the ground, that the chapter was ending and the next pages laying open in front of me were at the ready. They marched forward suddenly in an immediate pace: brisk and purposeful. It was a new chapter, in purpose by the author, but that’s not the way it seemed to a reader. Just like that, an answer springing from unknown to unquestionable fact, the single story of a character was an anthology. Stories of the same name and face chronicled like volumes arranged neatly on a shelf, their covers and backs pressed against one another so close you would think they longed to meld together. Still, no matter how desperately the space between was scooped in to buckets and tossed out, it was never little enough to press them deeper in to each other than being pressed against one another. The recounting of their individual living never wove together as one would always sleep in to dark that would never know the morning, while the other woke with mystery of weeks and months in length putting them ahead of where they were.
This new beginning, groping in to the dark for a doorknob to a middle, jars me but preserves the inherent values readily for the new piece taking shape in the diligent, reading eyes. This is the next, the coming, and the unclear follow-up to the tale just ended. Don’t judge how the words fit like pieces of chalk trying to mimic those of a puzzle, and equally remain unmoved if they skate like angels on the crisp ice, because these are languages used to speak words of a story that’s importantly told and needs to be listened to in equal measure. There’s a conclusion somewhere at the end of these flipping hills and waves of words in print, a conclusion that’ll requires an author to reverse the meticulous folds of a bundled note and smooth it flat, then put it in the pile of others just like it. The stack builds and as it does so it carries on, in turn, the long walk to the end through door-frame after door-frame of exits and endings like folding hands in rounds of poker.
The seeds are scattered and the dandelion forgotten as a whole. The last of them that remain must have a purpose in mine, or I in its. Like most questions of that nature we’re not sure what we’re asking or trying to know. The introduction looks less like tiny dots and more of the image taking shape, and thus we go again through the gallery in search of meaning.