“I would mostly like it if you were to tiptoe quietly and spring up on me. Just don’t be too good to be true. And where did that strain of cynicism come from? How did it slip through the cracks unnoticed?” Thoughts mingled with the lines of her pen. Carbon Monoxide exhaling beneath the radar of detection. She was resting so she breathed deep.
“Now, bed ridden wondering what’s to become of me. I don’t fit in the lines, the boxes, the sizes, the context. I slip in and out of your standards of consciousness. I play out like a psalm of David. Lamentations giving way to exultations of sights yet unseen. “
She sometimes tires of wearing the crown of thorns on her brow. The scarlet letters branded her heart with rejection. She has tried covering them, masking them, and even removing them with songs or control under disguise. But all has fallen. Tools broken. Plans disappointed. She weeps in silence. In the privacy of her little room. In her place. She knows well the fetal position she can’t seem to outgrow and the rocking and the lonesome sway. The deadpan melancholy of a comfortable bed in which she sleeps alone. The days that begin as they always have, with night. Her dark eyes glisten with thousands of stars… hope twinkling… bated breath for the sound of the dawn. She dwells here in this city of almost... of something on the verge, and yet still barren. A city built by sorrow that seizes it's inhabitants with violent force. It is a city that many people pretend to have seen. But, they’ve only seen it from afar. And on this particular street, upon the fault-line of destiny and fate, she dwells. It is a street many people claim to have driven down, but rarely a car drives by it. It's not the sort of place to cruise through on a Sunday afternoon. You won't find it on a map and your gps will detour. It's some sort of hidden place, almost a bermuda triangle... You know it because you're meant to know. And herein lies the despair. Is the outcome for good? Or is the outcome for ruin?
Here, you'll find her... in a room that no one dares to enter. Letters ripped open in exuberant haste, now litter the floor… now, lining the trash, now decaying in the junk yard. The promises and words of hope contained therein proven to be just as sure and meaningful as the bio-degrading paper upon which they were written. And she is marked with an indelible ink that will not be erased. A mark of hope. A promise of love from a hand that can’t be seen, only felt. Like invisible feathers spread over her body, in between her shaking and the source of the quakes and the elemental furies. It’s all she has to go on. And go she does. Like a runner in a marathon… she does not let up. She does not let on. And even when she does, who but the person who has marked her… who would see?
Displaced creature with a golden heart. A shimmering diamond still held in the mines of coal. A beating heart still waiting to be seen… to be heard… to be held.
She sings. She waits. She sings over the heads bent throughout that city. Hope descends. They sing along. But they never even know it’s her song…