Amazing isn’t it, she thinks, how many thoughts pour through the mind every few minutes. Especially with rain. She’s listening to the rain now. All that sound unloading, so much in the chests of those fire black clouds. Must be liberating. Relieving such heavy pressure from crammed up bodies. Watching things expand from your tears. Life suckling at invisible teats. The atmosphere keeps challenging itself, she muses. Never knows what it desires. Can be many things to many or wipe out entire surfaces. Infrastructures be damned.
Now the stars are another matter. She imagines herself a red dwarf. No roots, no hooks, no sinkers. A ball of light (really a globe of gas, but she doesn’t want to bore with technicalities) burning through cycles until it is not anything anymore but a cool hole–red to blue to white. Does it all eventually settle out, she wonders. Like little stars here then gone. The work you do floats away. She pictures detailed lists fading as if penned with quill and iron gall ink. Animal skin vellum billowing like sheets clipped to endless spring clotheslines. It’s all quite cold and unchivalrous that way.
No one gets you down deep in the spot where you feel most alone. Why bother with these thoughts when they go disbelieved. Or are you not ever listening. Why would you, when I don’t listen to myself. This is what the little dwarf star thinks. Not me. Not ever. I’m simply losing my outer layers before shrinking and disappearing. She has all these quiet sentences laid across blue lines beneath candlelight. The power went out a few jolts ago. She is wearing a pillowcase like a colonial bonnet. Thinking she prefers time machines to breaking the speed of light in something reminiscent of a liquefied cellphone.
She slides open her bedroom window. The damp air circulates through the tenth-floor walkup. Taking all the pages she’s just written–the stars, the atmosphere, the soul–she extends her arms out the window and opens her hands. The loose leaf sheets float like ship sails in a storm, before the rain decides what shall become of her words.
created last year, mixed media on paper-thank you