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

6 comments:

  1. ... the contents within our minds... included with the shadows and layers of dust, are the broken memories of what could have been... slowly being erased by what we are now...

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  2. I am glad you are 'home' again Indigo. In these words your spirit soars, mine too, as I read them. You are a wonderful graphic writer.

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  3. Hope you find your stride friend...

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  4. driven away by all those little things that explains those realities in our lives when we are in those dusty corners

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Thank you for giving my silence a voice, my muse your words, and taking the time to discover my prose.