Various muted whispers, stone causing concentric circles over the surface of a stagnant lake, flickering lamp and varying gradations of light and shadow, what meaning, what insinuations, what innuendoes, when standing right in front of you, I am conveniently invisible?
In what constellations did tiny particles of hope align, within the miasma of isolation?
In what lines did narration and fantasy coincide?
To hope, to cling onto—how, by what technique, by what principle, in infinitude of incertitude, a justification materializes?
By various revisited mazes patterns of a unnavigable labyrinth emerge my very own personal labyrinth where each destination or the temporary illusion of it screameth “whither”, to where, to which corner, and each scream trapped in the high walls (Oh yes your highness, walls higher than the moon) resonates and ultimately synchronizes itself with all others in my garden of timeless echoes.
Of limitation of language, the inconsistent structure (why not no onomatopoeic word for orgasm?), the constant struggle in search of a meaning, of words, of sentences, of whispers and of our lives (if that has a meaning), somnolent prayers, incipient resignation, imaginary osculation, still less action more contemplation, incapacity at terroritoriztion (Yes you can cut your heart in two, all you need is time), the face of her father, the distance in her eyes.
Silent nights… A mocha latte, extreme rare steak (what? Suddenly an aversion to tasting blood), concomitant euphoria with hints of nausea or vice versa (One or the other would kick in first, but my dear, wait for the other). Isn’t it a great time discussing vampire stories?
The balancing act, the good the bad and the ugly, a partial amnesia doesn’t bite either, and time… How time will obliterate these memories, equally but differently in protagonist and the author?
But to hell with that all.
She is tired, she needs to sleep.