She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door.
An antiquated view, each blinking lash—a kaleidoscopic spectrum of sodden, cathartic tears. A disinterested shift in perspective. The precipitation seemed like a good idea.
Liquid slowly sloshed from the Styrofoam abyss wrapped inside her tiny, frail hands. She should learn to be more environmentally conscious. As the evening fought the good fight, the sun made it’s stealthy appearance. Seventy.
Thoughts made their way into her mind and exited feverishly from her fingertips. She was aloof. Prosaic rooms. Cleanse. All is well, she promised herself. Perhaps if not for the miscalculation, this could have been revolutionary for the familiar pattern.
For just a moment, the smooth breathe of voyeurism landed coldly upon her neck. Shiver. Well, probably not. She thought. She had never been to this place before, but she felt attached to it. Something about the trees. Something about the city.
Once again, a place to rest her head in a sentence she’d regret. Words, words, words. They seemed to weave themselves in and out of the textile of her mind; in the plans she had crafted.
Things seemed to have to fall apart to be together. Symbiotic. Turbulence brought on kinetosis. She had become the dissenter of dissolution. Scribbled dark marks & dashes. Fill in the blanks.
Thoughts. The bright, bloody hue of bricks. The bright red pen on the paper. Her lips were a darker red than she remembered. Then her cheeks. Red was symbology.
It was more about growing up than growing older. Maybe more about growing older than growing wise. Mistaken for mistakes. Re-track your steps, she mumbled…her frigid breath’s smoky entrance into the air, the only trace of any speech at all. Pure intentions, it seemed she had them. At first. At least?
Whatever happened then had predicated now. Opportunities, Peace, Happiness. Patience. Words would always materialize. Blank pages filled up the spaces in her mind. Everything was illuminated; all things go. The unknown was an uncomfortable pocket in the tattered jeans where she had tucked her deepest contemplations. Embrace the impermanence. She put one foot forward.
The wind nearly knocked her off her feet. Erase and begin again. Forward motion. Always moving. She could not shake the feeling that she was not alone.
She crumpled up the pieces of paper in her mind and developed a feverish relationship with backspace. It felt so fragile to touch. Hearing it, folding it. Somehow, the theme was still legible. Sitting there, she wondered why what seemed fate [to become] seemed unreachable, in a parallel universe unfamiliar to her own.
Read the same page backwards. But she felt more inclined (this time) to keep turning. Thesaurus. It all meant something different; it was all the same.
She tucked her blonde hair neatly behind her left ear. She pondered punctuation. She wanted to end every sentence with an ellipsis. Sometimes your soul can lift itself out for a sabbatical. Sometimes chapters are not the book. Sometimes you have to walk in one direction until you can’t.
Dark markings swirled on the paper. Words floated from her notebook into the damp puddle below as she departed.
He stood up to close the window.
He happened to be particularly intrigued by the amount of time the woman had spent alone. She seemed a bit troubled. He walked out of his room and stumbled down the winding staircase in his shabby flat. In this shabby city. In his shabby life. He walked towards the words.
This would change him, change them, forever.