A
All of my beads are plastic. Their colors are funny but faded and not very pretty, not like Celine's. Hers are the real thing. More than the real thing, they're ancient and from strange places and have qualities that make it hard for me to think of them as just beads. They're artifacts of older and different cultures. They speak of ancient peoples, ancient energies.
My beads reflect my history, my values, my likes and dislikes. They have soaked my being like many small tough sponges and now lay limp each to the other. Though they remind me of good times I've had, resonant of romances, they do not contain beauty. Not like Celine's.
B
“Be splendid”, she whispers in my ear. “Be daring. Be darling. Be that which you cannot find with your eyes”. Her voice in my mind, her touch on my skin.
Morning clouds rush like gray and silver racers in the sky, streaking my perceptions like water poured on watercolors above me, smearing all that I can see or hope to see until I doubt everything. All around me becomes old and ragged and fragile.
“Be splendid in your armor of gilded flesh. Stand fresh in the rain. Spill it to the ground and in and through you. Be washed clean once again.”
C
Celine steps into my room, just inside the door and fresh from her bath and in nothing but a towel. She smiles at me and flashes it open to show me her pyramid of fine brown hair. This makes a light go off in my head that blinds me and makes me want to turn away. She does this almost every time she bathes. It's not that I don't want to look. It's that I want to look too much.
“Celine! Don't do that!” I shout at her, spilling my beads, turning my back to her. “Go away!” I pick up a comic book but the colors all look too strong and garish and somehow hurtful so I throw that under the bed. Stomach aches, head hurts. I don't know what to do with myself.
D
Dust and dreedle, doodles of dread. Donuts define destiny. Dry and dessicated. Don't!
E
Eh? Enough?
F
Fail. Words do.
All of my beads are plastic. Their colors are funny but faded and not very pretty, not like Celine's. Hers are the real thing. More than the real thing, they're ancient and from strange places and have qualities that make it hard for me to think of them as just beads. They're artifacts of older and different cultures. They speak of ancient peoples, ancient energies.
My beads reflect my history, my values, my likes and dislikes. They have soaked my being like many small tough sponges and now lay limp each to the other. Though they remind me of good times I've had, resonant of romances, they do not contain beauty. Not like Celine's.
B
“Be splendid”, she whispers in my ear. “Be daring. Be darling. Be that which you cannot find with your eyes”. Her voice in my mind, her touch on my skin.
Morning clouds rush like gray and silver racers in the sky, streaking my perceptions like water poured on watercolors above me, smearing all that I can see or hope to see until I doubt everything. All around me becomes old and ragged and fragile.
“Be splendid in your armor of gilded flesh. Stand fresh in the rain. Spill it to the ground and in and through you. Be washed clean once again.”
C
Celine steps into my room, just inside the door and fresh from her bath and in nothing but a towel. She smiles at me and flashes it open to show me her pyramid of fine brown hair. This makes a light go off in my head that blinds me and makes me want to turn away. She does this almost every time she bathes. It's not that I don't want to look. It's that I want to look too much.
“Celine! Don't do that!” I shout at her, spilling my beads, turning my back to her. “Go away!” I pick up a comic book but the colors all look too strong and garish and somehow hurtful so I throw that under the bed. Stomach aches, head hurts. I don't know what to do with myself.
D
Dust and dreedle, doodles of dread. Donuts define destiny. Dry and dessicated. Don't!
E
Eh? Enough?
F
Fail. Words do.
No comments:
Post a Comment