Diary of an unborn writer #27

She gave me peace, you said, and it shocked the listener accustomed to tales of love and emotion coursing through breastplates and armour sworn to protect suddenly melting away. This way, you said, I have no feeling for her, only knowing - a devil to detect.

Silence.

And a barrage of projections aimed to make your situation clear. This was the disaster clarity that sweeps all event s aside and makes plain the world dies on its axis each day. Breathes a cacophony, then dies. We the breathtakers cough, laugh and dance and get destroyed. Blessing to rise again if we'd only be granted the gift. Tight times rhyme and ride and you're passing like thick spaghetti through a cheese grater - the edges getting worn (see 16.09.09) and humanity found laughing at your sides even I pass beyond its reach.

The whole time the mad man kept quiet until silence popped, Earth breathed a tremendous exhale and he flew a precision dart through the gap, the trap that man had made. Damn near didn't make it but the song he sang came out in purple wisps and some stopped to listen and admire the haircut.

Tepid fools.

The picture basked and sang with him. It was a Balinese woman with lips and headress of an African, Orange and supposedly reflecting sun. It was a dry day but a tidy one and the mirror mentioned in passing that he wasn't looking too formulaic. Rather like a tree, but Guided Man said his way was unknown to even him so he'd better put up with the lesions on his face. He simply had no choice and Grace, darling, would surely show the way.

It just might be that this coffee time conversation ran a little wild. He was glad to write like this. It gave him the impression that in the ordered mass of efficient things some edges were still a little woolly, he wouldn't bandy in the shallows of the explainable but could express the inexpressible depths the ordered failed to trespass.

Damn Few, he thought

Damn few of us and the others so ready to lay blame.