I recall, looking at my own lap, that characters costumed in purple will die. This is what Year 12 English taught me. By accident, I am also wearing purple. A much darker shade than your roses, though.
I see the gaping space and silence and know it must be yours. How fitting. What I really want to do, from minutes 2-6, is stand up and announce all your secrets (which in part, I suppose, are now mine). So that they will know, and be confronted with it alongside your awesomeness. How can they deny what they are seeing right in front of them? It seems like the perfect delusional plan. Then. Then they will HAVE to accept.
Oh no, we don't fit in here. But you fit there, so seamlessly. Not when you are un-still. Not with your fingernails clawing at your death-silks. But absolutely when your left hand is scribing the air up around your face. Yes, you fit where the assertion bulges through your profile neck and jaw. The shape is correct, with your listening back and eyes closing as if per script. There are parts which are yours, and you. Borrowed parts. Parts from elsewhere, also.
Nearly dropped into sleep, I see there is still mud on my shoes.
There is a choreography of violin bows spiking the air above your head. The conductor tries to turn her head towards you, but can never quite. Everyone is looking at you and is blind.
No comments:
Post a Comment