Even Solitaries Fleet Away
Perhaps tears are excess fuel from a carbon-based primitive tank in this silicon world – as Jeanette Winterson would assert. Although this time, it does not protest. It endures compromise and let itself be seduced by it. These little tanks embrace the lot which are far from the body and mind’s comprehension. But once filled to its capacity, it rids of the overabundant utterly.
A seemingly fathomless tank yet to make it full requires no effort from man. It brims over even the littlest notions of tenderness and warm feelings. Even so, she cannot decipher which among the many causes the leak ofttimes.
A borrowed blanket faintly mantles a portion of her figure. Second thoughts and a synthetic chill permeates through the night. Suddenly the room is painted blue.
She identifies the spell of weeping as both a curse and a gift. It is a gift for to sense so much of the world is the essence of being alive. It is what drives humans to create and to make a mark. But uncertainties come along uninvited, offering company. They linger in the most somber corners and pester her spirit’s dwelling. The unsought guests are poor navigators for they inevitably blur vision.
As the vision blurs, her cheeks welcome a familiar string of warmth escaping from a pair of brown mortal orbs. It plummets genuinely and feels summery on the skin. The sequence of droplets trickling down her cheeks bear a resemblance to a sun-drenced river’s flowing through April. Both outflow to and fro its genesis.
She keeps her hands pinned far from the weary visage as gravity pulls the string down to her floral pillowcase. She does not wish to wipe them off – at least not anymore. She then lets little puddles of oblivion stain her skin and grasps the enduring sense of belongingness.
Beyond the walls, the wee stars glister as the moon gleams and floods the surface of the world. She and the hours of darkness shared a thought, “not a thing lasts long so might as well latch on to the little remaining ones. Tomorrow you will awake to find the walls afresh and white again.”
The mortal pair of orbs is now hidden. The familiar strings gone.
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