02/06/2006
I read the writing as I opened the book. Thick and heavy as it was and covered with dust, I separated the pages of it's revelation. Smelling of old ink and thick paper, my fingers traced the rough broken bindings of it's cover.
And there it wrote so cleverly as I watched the ink born each word as it spoke it's thought for me,,, and then read, "For I was without concious love and he could see nothing in me."
Then a blur to hide itself from my reading as if this message was all I was to receive from the tale told in this ancient memoir.
Nothing more and nothing less, beneath the candlelit glow of understanding. I close my eyes and take in the scent of the vision, embracing the moldy smell of many years past in this abandoned place, abandoned yet visited by myself many times of late to receive it's aged wisdom and find that part of myself that longs to die along with all that has died here so long ago.
Hiding, she is here, waiting for death to take her and write it's memoir of her tragedies in it's full tattered book that lay upon the shaky table.
I close the book with all it's musty odor and make my way back out the creaky screen door, across the wooden planks of the rotting porch, down the withering steps to travel barefoot back across the thick grass that is so cool and plush beneath my step. Through the woods I reluctantly make my departure, knowing that my heart wishes to remain here for just a time... "just a while", I tell myself. I would love to lay here in the grassy heaven for only a while and take in the beauty of it's solitude.
But I know I will return here again soon,,, however it be not soon enough.
And there it wrote so cleverly as I watched the ink born each word as it spoke it's thought for me,,, and then read, "For I was without concious love and he could see nothing in me."
Then a blur to hide itself from my reading as if this message was all I was to receive from the tale told in this ancient memoir.
Nothing more and nothing less, beneath the candlelit glow of understanding. I close my eyes and take in the scent of the vision, embracing the moldy smell of many years past in this abandoned place, abandoned yet visited by myself many times of late to receive it's aged wisdom and find that part of myself that longs to die along with all that has died here so long ago.
Hiding, she is here, waiting for death to take her and write it's memoir of her tragedies in it's full tattered book that lay upon the shaky table.
I close the book with all it's musty odor and make my way back out the creaky screen door, across the wooden planks of the rotting porch, down the withering steps to travel barefoot back across the thick grass that is so cool and plush beneath my step. Through the woods I reluctantly make my departure, knowing that my heart wishes to remain here for just a time... "just a while", I tell myself. I would love to lay here in the grassy heaven for only a while and take in the beauty of it's solitude.
But I know I will return here again soon,,, however it be not soon enough.
