The beauty of editing.
Cutting, pulling – no, ripping
– your old sentence structures, thinking, apart at the seams.
Your own flesh and blood,
Stripping it down to the bones.
To know that you can easily rebuild words into something better. To let go.
Emotionally, we’re at
The ends of the earth
The silence carries over
Despite distance or hour.
The past stumbles through my dreams
And sits on my chest1.
Pray for relief that is rain,
And sleep like a handkerchief.
1Fun fact: the ‘mare’ in ‘nightmare’ refers to an evil spirit that, well, sits on people’s chests while they are sleeping.
We’ve been sat in silence for around an hour. Not actual silence, obviously – we’re on a train – but that specific breed of not talking that loiters aggressively on public transport, enabled by digital cocooning, fear of rejection, and an overzealous adherence to that childhood motto, ‘don’t talk to strangers’.
However, my own cocoon has seen better days. I’ve forgotten my headphones, grown bored of my e-reader and consumed more coffee than food, and frankly I’m struggling. It’s time to break the rules and TALK TO A STRANGER.
Source: Filling the Silence: How I Learned Chinese from a Stranger on the Train to Penzance
Used to not seeing you for so long,
Why do you suddenly reappear,
Lounging back in your chair, sprawled
Like a Greek god, head thrown back in laughter;
Arm outstretched, fingertips carelessly brushing
the sleeves of those who come like adoring subjects.
Sudden anger. Who are they to you, could they know more about you
1st Aug ’16