Thursday, September 14, 2006

untitled

It’s so windy out and the terror is upon us all that the world will swallow us whole. Oh I want to live cried the person and the person stuffed his mouth with ice and water and tried to drown just so the person could swim away.

And the terror was windy and the gales blew the person into the hands of everyone and the person cried and wanted to be alone but there was nothing and that nothing was worse than alone.

And the nothing struck the face of the person and the person stroked the soft red stinging cheeks until they were pale and fearful again and then the wind struck again and it was like this that the wind blew away the pain and everything until the person was naked and alone in the wind and dark and doing nothing but looking at hands and legs and sharing no more tears with anything.

-Everything is so alone. And I am so afraid.
-What is there now but the wind and dark and the beating of my heart.
-And where will I go and will there be anything or anyone to pick me up.

And the striking of the face calmed the person down to realize the utter sighs and lows of everything and even that the death with its face full of smiles and grins and its bony hands reached out and would touch and touch. And it touched and the person shuddered and then the person shook.

And the shaking was so much and it hurt and the body lapsed over and over again until a spear was thrown at the person’s chest and the blood poured and spilled forth.

And the blood stained the ground and there still something and it banished nothing and made the wind sigh and go away for a second until it came back stronger and blew the blood to the corner of the place and the place was lost and red and now had color and was no longer black.

And the black was lost in a corner so it was now with a friend and the color spoke of drizzling rain and life and the swirls of other colors and the person clutched their chest and heaved in and out struggling to keep eyes open.

But nothing could keep eyes open the end came and the person was finally ready for death and the nothing and it soaked it all up and the black was gone and replaced with.
















white.

---

"he killed himself with a double-barreled shotgun because a writer's life depends on doing the writing. when that stops, the writer does too." --Frederick Busch on Hemingway Without Guilt

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