local 606

the girl makes contact

[the match-sized tribal figurines made of string, and wire. colorful. south or central america. did i leave them in a pocket before the wash? i feel i did. this makes me feel…..guilt. sadness. frustration.]

she has a day that is sad. nothing sad happens, but she is sad. she knows it is chemicals, and reminds herself of this by way of detailed q & a’s in her mind, confirming the things that would imply: no, there is nothing bad happening right now. though, in the process of these q & a’s, because of the inventory involved, she finds she has stirred her river of thinking, to churn up all manner of horrible things, that usually are as just shadows, sleeping on the dark belly of the bed. they are now liberated to move about, making contact in cascades. [urgent sylph, dropping down from the sky.]

this then, makes her now, anxious, as well as sad. then, she feels a well-nigh legitimate reason to have been sad in the first place—having gone looking for the “why”, in this account, and having found many of them, in fact [i’ll hold myself].

it’s a sunday. it is daytime, and she is running her hands over, and over, the comforting texture of her bedspread. this is when she hears. the heater is on so it must be—she is thinking, here. she did hear a car a bit earlier, but this is different. [this is, what? they are chimes. real chimes. singing.]

not tinnitus. no, she knows that. [well, that’s inside, wholly. one feels it completely, as one would naturally feel something resident inside of them. this is something. just, something else.]

so, it has her, and she cannot move for it, yet she is all but close, [the plains of red-dirt planet sprawl, again].

she turns into herself, the teeth-pulling, warping inside, very far away. the sound is not from there. inside of her, but rather: [it sounds like a church on a hill. but the chimes, they are not yet lovely to me. they are alien melodies, and unpredictable–i may never learn them.]

there is a weight in the sound [from the extra-dimensional church on the hill! the bells, there].

it is not an unpleasant weight. but the din is eerie, and as she is still stopped, falling through her own winding bowl of intestines, she just listens for a time. [it’s been a while?]

she listens, to the notes, happening, and she just cannot explain. she cannot move, and she cannot explain. then, an: [i will let everyone down].

and there she hovers, locking into a cosmic pocket that offers her the brief and objective state. and what she does with it, well, she looks down at her self—at the own foreign top of her head—coolly. she says: how could you (or, in another version) who are you. and: why.

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This entry was published on November 21, 2016 at 1:15 pm. It’s filed under Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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