Orchestral Movements in the Dark

Not really sure what this is or where it came from, but half way through typing it up, I realized I may not be as agnostic as I previously considered myself to be.

An abstract of sewn together snippets of time, convalescing like tea in boiling water (or the cosmos), unfolds like subtle orchestral movements.

 

Without warning, and with the fluidity of a giant sea beast’s lumbering tentacle, a wisp of these undulating mists sweeps by in close proximity to me and engulfs me, sweeping me into the epicenter.

 

When I arrive, I discover there a sundrenched archipelago with white alabaster cliffs. I spend a while there climbing the cliffs and drinking the sea air in like medicine. From the peak of the cliffs I gaze out over waves that roll like the hills of the old country.

 

The alabaster, that bares the weight of the scorching sun throughout the day stores the heat into the night allowing me to sleep with no shelter, my only blanket constellations.

 

This, I decided, was the place I would be storing important things that need to be brought along with me when I graduate from life to wherever science tells me I wont be going. A stolen kiss in a rainy car park, the image of my mother being happy in her work, and a million other tiny gestures who’s only existence now is in my memory of them.

 

Adjusting the contrast, an impression seeps through the effervescence. After a few moments of soundless comprehension, I realize it is the outline of what has and always will be the burning in my chest, a porcelain ghost.

 

As soon as I understand that, the pitter-patter of imminent consciousness arises. It lands on the ground beside me and dilutes the colour. Drip, drop. Please let me stay here a few moments longer.

 

The outline becomes an amalgamation of a thousand or more days and nights, and for a fleeting glimpse, my blood feels different. As storms of consciousness crash ferociously overhead and wash the landscape away into waking life, I am tangled in the porcelain ghost under fresh linen sheets.

 

I try to capture every moment, as I know each time we meet again, you will become less clear.

 

I draw breath. Dawn air.