SAY "MAYBE"

It's dark outside... She can almost imagine the silhouette of the emerging row of houses being a mountain ridge, rising and falling darker than the cloudy night-sky beyond it. Her life picked up once more and deposited where the green and the blue hues build no imagery beyond the standardised replication of suburbia... If only.

She sits. Suspended - having shouted some words out the window and waiting for their echo to return to her. Believing echoes still exist - even here - even in this congested, infested, invested and largely pretentious gathering of rooftops.

"Create me! Create me!"

The words are gone from her but there has been no returning - at least not from the one place - so she wonders if maybe she aimed her voice too high? Or perhaps her voice is not breaching the chatter of night-duty roster traffic and helicopters flying the desperately dying to their only hope and the screeches of teenagers in lowered cars vying for jock-spot?

She sits nonetheless because this corner has been self-created and she painted herself into it - a few square feet of space and the door to anything beyond, too far to reach - on her own.

She drew some swirly lines with paint that refused to dry, sometime back when. "Paint should dry, all paint dries eventually, so this will too," she consoles herself now. The floor between her and the door keeps spreading; the swirling lines expanding, and the feeling of her chair moving further and further... the door a vanishing thing. No more real than the words she seeks salvation from - the greatest story ever told...

"What's it gonna be?"

She is feeling tiredness of spirit, too many circles drawn, too many cold nights and early mornings waking to frights unknown. And if it passes her? If this corner becomes fixed and she cannot ever remove herself and accept further new directions, new connections - what will become of her?

Rain hits the window panes. The cold invades and she awaits that one embrace, her siren song taking far, far too long. She recalls raging storms over the sea - back when - back when the need for warm embrace did not exist and tears were some forgotten things... discarded with the other refuse of past glories.

"There is nothing that I wouldn't do..."

How far she's come - she thinks - yet here she sits painted into this impossible to breach corner. Once, she would not do a thing - once she'd refuse to feel with no colours in her rainbow and no suspended moments awaiting foreign echoes. Had she been freer then?

She held no words then! Not until she arrived here and the sun sent her songs and the moon sent her dreams and lost in their melodies, night became day and day was a waste of time filled with the need for someone - where? Oh where was this bringer of songs and wherefrom the tunes he played on her?

"Oh I am kneeling before you Sir, for you retrieved the diamonds - those lost in my youth, scattered unknowingly because their worth Sir, their worth was not yet known to me! I simply sang, where now I am within, I live within the wondrous voice and I dance to whispers, awaiting echoes..."

"I am!" She cries this new word from her confounding corner but the desk - no - not even the chair hear her! They are but things - not Kings - not even frogs with some intention. She'd got it wrong perhaps, another misdirection; a deflection cornering her being and setting questions only: Where oh where?

"In your hand... In your hand..."

Everything rests there, within the once extended hand she'd caused to retract - she had done this by painting swirls instead of painting lines from her desk straight to the door. Oh she could have loved him better, and for this she sits suspended and for this she cries now for she has been released - yet there is no laughter in the never knowing why. Once again.

"One more time..."

No! The echo will return she knows her words will reach that far, that far! They will run to him, run to him and it will be he, calling her in the night as he turns in just the right way, maybe enough to hear her cry. Only the next hour to get though and the next after that - ignoring misconnections, wrong directions, flippant distractions - and - the distance to the door.

Only, she cannot hear the music playing these waiting hours! Lost in his tunes so long, she is now deafened to the real - she made him real yet he now speaks outside of their once shared melodies?

"Just walk out that door and see if I care."

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[Davidgeo]

"Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse"

Tommy Stearns Eliot

Editing is something you could stand on a macro scale.