I started to write.
The air around me was still and the past progressed from my finger-tips like taffy.
Outside the sky was glaring blue. I watched high up as the clouds scudded past like stupid children, bumbling along on an unknown current oblivious to the implications of their movement and participation. Their cow-white presence is as innocuous as the breeze is empty.
I wasn’t convinced by the premise: I pursed my lips and rolled my eyes a lot.
The intention was absurd. Past pain cannot be exorcised through expression. Words cannot contain the entirety of physicality, nor can they pick up a brick and hurl it at somebodies head.
People move too stealthily and physicality is too kaleidoscopic. There are too many revolving dimensions; my words would need to invoke a whirlpool and suck the reader down into a headache, into a dark throbbing hell.
Can this black worm ever be wretched up through the rigorous application of language?
I watch the clouds some more, note their airy unintention and their lazy weight.
Words float and wind in the order they were placed but also in the order the reader’s eye weaves them internally- words are a set of doors through which a person lets themselves.
Perhaps I can slam a door abruptly behind a startled stranger; lull them into a slip-knot and then knock a table from beneath their feet.
Perhaps I can calm the incessant questioning (can words exorcise old demons can they dilute old pain old shame old rage can they stop the shadows dancing leave the fire alone can I leave all this behind and move forwards as I want to can I)
My lip curls again and the hackles raise across the back of my neck as I consider such blind stupid questions again.
I need resolutions and peace. Maybe words can help with that.
I pause again- who my reader be? I try to imagine and immediately a shadowy space materialises in front of me, I blink and look back at the screen and the words.