Sunday, March 30, 2014

In the Dusty Corners

“Pulvis et umbra sumus. (We are but dust and shadow.)” ~ Horace, The Odes of Horace

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Slim bare feet walk silently into the room, tickled by the powdered dust winding between toes with each delicate footfall. She knows this place, every crevice, and nook in this abandoned chamber. Her shadow dances with the dust motes of long forgotten words, as she makes her way to the windowsill and gently parts the inter weavings of a spider’s repast. Gossamer strands wind about her fingers and wrist as if to hold her prisoner until she finds what she’s searching for. She lets out a guilt ridden sigh and places a five fingered pale handprint into the grime of a windowpane. This is her doing, these corridors of desolate bleak forgetfulness.
                                                                       
I close my eyes and concentrate on the sunlight slanted through a dusty handprint, watching the air dance with movement. Triturated webbing and motes coat every pore of my exposed skin like a fine mist of nourishment. Kansas Dust In the Wind serenades the lost memory of hearing, stretching the silence into refrain.

I close my eyes
Only for a moment and the moment's gone
All my dreams
Pass before my eyes with curiosity

Dust in the wind
All we are is dust in the wind

I am the woman lost in the dusty corners of her mind. Pulsing veins rising like tattoos through the epidermis, cutaneous markings with a message for me and me alone. I breathe deep, choking on particles of paragraphic nuances I’d long packed into hidden trunks of my subconscious.

The woman I parted words with a while ago awakens within me and words condense into the meaty bone she wears beneath her (my) skin. I clasp her hands in mine and we dance like mad women, dust motes rising and drifting in a hurricane of remains. I am her, she is me, we are the book of my life. Words are sketched skin deep into the recesses of who we were, who we are, and in the shadows of who we are yet to become. The sunlight glints through a handprint, in the attic of a dusty mind and I smile. I’m home. I’m forever home among these writings. ~ Indigo

Picture From Here

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

These Quiet Shadows



“I've begun to realize that you can listen to silence and learn from it. It has a quality and a dimension all its own.” ~ Chaim Potok, The Chosen

Smoke twists and churns from a fluted chimney across the wooden fence like hand shadows entertaining a child. I’m mesmerized watching this dance of shadow play as my mind escapes into innocence, away from reminders, dates, and traumatic anniversaries… I’m well aware, some days carry a heavier weight than others. Chasms which at any given moment open up one self to heartbreak and gnat infested nitpicking introverted despondency. Not today. Ambience distorts the smoke shadow silence into a dance for an audience of one and I’m easily entertained.

Nine years doesn’t seem like much time, yet exactly three thousand, two hundred, and eighty five days have come and gone in an incandescent time suck. Days passed in idyllic disorientation without the calls of wildlife, birds, laughter, music, and so on into the depths of what passes for mute in a world devoid of sound. And on one singular day of each of those forlorn years I misplace my belief and dare to ponder a miracle. January 8th - a day in which I crave a wild debauched desire for nothing more than to wish away a nightmare; a nightmarish realism I can’t escape, as if the fates would bestow a magical cure proclaiming, “Enough sweet child, for you have paid your dues in full.”

Smile.

To quote an Eurhythmics’ song, 
Sweet dreams are made of this
Who am I to disagree
I travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something.

Oh, I disagreed for years. I guess, some part of me still does, but time distorts things, giving my victim terminology a strange perception. Could be human nature for all I know, pushing the whole, ‘I can overcome any obstacle’ to survive mentality. Some days that thinking is a joke and others awe inspiring, carrying a rootless spirituality that leaves you the sole worshiper. Three thousand, two hundred, and eighty five days later I’m not the same person shouting from the rooftops about how unfair my life is. My views have canted toward a very different outlook.

So what does nine years get me? Serenity. There is no right or wrong way of thinking in my situation, it’s not even about acceptance, but choices. I could let the world dictate my value or I could name my own price. My deafness is a priceless experience. True, I spend more time in my own head than most people do in a lifetime. These days, I can’t think of a better place to be. I’m comfortable in my own skin and forever inspired by the journey I’ve undertaken. The silence is so loudyou should listen in some time.
~ Indigo