2nd July 2017 at 5:43am
The past decries itself to slumber whilst the future becomes insistent. Your body hammered out of experiences is chiseled everyday with memories. A sheath of unspoken torments is chaffed away. You begin to surface, pink, embryonic, a mass of bones and skin, fragile but sturdy. Your flesh withstands and withdraws. From the present you shave off slivers of platitudes and expectations. With this you create a future, a time yet to dawn, blueprints of which are carved in your callused palms, etched in stars, the dead, soggy tea leaves stuck to the bottom of a cup. You construct interpretations, against the past that has been, out of which you rise, misshapen and cruddy, full of hope and glory only to retch mouthfuls of bogus tears and spitton, maddeningly but assuredly murmuring “everything will get better”.
Alone, naked, hugging your knees, sodden and wretched, you wail from the bottom of an empty well. Echoes return to you carelessly, even the clobbered walls, damp with lichen and moss will not absorb your sounds. Glassy eyed, you stare ahead. An aimless pail hangs above your head, flailing ever so slightly at every hint of wind – wind that never carries away your voice. You are trapped in the nowhere.