Scary
thought: there are words, sentences even. But no stories can be found.
Lack of
coherence and purpose. A litany of activity that is reduced to mere chores.
Colours fading independently and into each other, dull, rusty, helpless,
themselves tainted with age. Loneliness masquerading as solitude. Scary
thought: somewhere in all the words, conversation was lost.
Ersatz memories
substituting for desires, second string players moving incoherently in a
ballpark. Where did everyone go, when did we lose everything? Cold comfort for change-
What is
left? Inside is a great cold hard ball which refuses to melt.
Nothing?
One day,
all this heartbreak will erupt as a sharp, shooting pain in the chest, a blinding
fireball of horror made of all the unbearableness of life and for a moment
everything will be black and then he will be back in his greatgrandpa’s
village, lying on a cot by the edge of a mango orchard and the sun will be a
painted crimson disc in the far sky framed by inky clouds and a gentle breeze
will caress his lined face and a single songbird will trill into the dusk. And
then, there will be peace.
No comments:
Post a Comment