9,305.
between broken dreams and the end of time and two other overblown moments, there�s a wisp of a thought that you can�t control, and pauses you in abrupt beginnings. but because it�s a wisp, a whisper instead, and a sentimental notion of dread, it�s as fleeting as time and the essence of change and it�s gone on into the next.
but in pieces and sparks the thought haunts you inside.. a darkly unintelligible meandering. it bubbles up with it�s inopportunity, in a conversation about life and numbers. a head turns your way and your hand looks to your temples as if there was pain behind your eyes. and the fraud of your actions betray you to the crowd, ushering yourself from the light. but by now sad notions overtake just as quickly as they pass, and you�ve suppressed intimations for the last of all times before the next and the next and the end.
and when there�s no more excuse and no lasting distractions and you fail to rest or fight, then you examine your inkling that lies under pale skin while you lay in the cold peace of night. it was the day, you realize, the number of the day, and the fast approaching subsequence. in and of itself, the number was nothing, it was nine thousand, three hundred and five. that was the day, like the one before, but one in addition for score. but the ice and the needle was behind that all, in a void and an ending and loss. for that length of your days was ticking along, when in a searing incision, hers halts.
it was five days ago, at eleven thousand or ten, when she would remain on that count, on that mark. suspended like a pinnacle, in a ballerina�s pose, atop a lofty height in the city. and the dark of alone and the cold of silent surrounds her number on high, like the statue that will tarnish if nobody looks, and i keep to myself with my whisper.
so it was, in the while, between endings and beginnings, in the rush of a birth and a death. it was there when i counted and when i forgot, between peace and unease, the ennui. it�s as dreams coming true, landing a job, making the grade, it�s under love and hatred and trying to trust. what it was, that dark thought in the back my soul, in my warm life-giving blood, was the guilt of my existence, of each passing day i ticked up on the meter when she deserved them and could no longer add up. and it was two more overblown thoughts that would wisp, and a fourth dark notion inside, and they would tally themselves until a gentle return, to the crowd and the light and the now.
Posted by heydomsar
2005-11-11
go back | random brainstorm | go forth
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