Dark blue swirls around the sink in spiral s's and leaning y's. The clock reads 6:53pm. "Plastic Passion" fades in and out of sound's grasp as Lucy dunks her head in and out of the lukewarm water. The faucet is starting to run cold.
Things are shifting inside of me, feelings moving to one side, or another, and some things I think I'm just letting go of. I swore that this would be a year of change for me. I said it like a mantra, like a wish, like a promise to myself. It was different than a resolution, bigger, more true, because I kept it to myself, tucking it away. I may have said it now andagain, but the words were kept vague, grey-tinted, blurry. I did not even know myself what all the changes would be. I didn't want to know. I did not want to make lists that might sit there as a reminder, as expectation, as disappointment. No, I wanted it to be more natural than that. I wanted to see what change could be, what change might come.
Just like the films :: Flash Writing
Time ticks by slowly, then all at once, speeding by, disappearing into a blur. I want to smash it, the time on the wall, leave nothing but shards of minutes and moments on the hard wood floor. I've had enough of it, enough of time, enough of its reminder of just how long we have been gone. Oh and the calendar, with its slick pages of dreamy photographs, and all those tidy boxes to check off and count, I'd like to rip it to shreds. Tear each page haphazardly, ignoring the perforations, scarring my fingertips in paper cuts in the process. The sting distracts me, turns my attention away briefly, giving me tiny drops of blood to focus on instead of the memory of your face.
You wander the alley reading poetry from the walls. Every word bleeds into the next, choking you, tears cutting through the cold exterior that you’ve been wearing for weeks now. Memories in the scratches and painted colors, coming alive, pulling you back into the past familiar, the broken heart recollections, the songs you once sang. I watch you from the end of the line, at the gate, in the shadows of all the barbed wire.
Patterns shift and change :: Flash Writing
The Sound of your voice :: Flash Writing