I think, just as an exercise, I'm going to try to take my current entirity, my situation right now, and chalk it up to imagery. I'll just try to illustrate my now, and see whether the resulting picture helps me understand.
I feel like a blind girl. I'm just sitting on the wooden chair, in the middle of the room.
I'm told not to move. Otherwise, I don't know where I am, and I would get lost. The room is completely foreign to me. I don't know anything about it, what's in it, if there are windows, if there's light. I hear no sounds in my room. I smell no smells. I just sit, until the chair feels like part of me, and I'm not even aware if it anymore. To remember where I am, I just feel the veins of wood, and count the splinters with my fingers, or run my foot down my other leg. I just sit there, and feel, and that is my world. My world is nothing.
And then she comes into my room. And she talks to me. And her voice is more than just words. Her voice is a reminder that there's something outside of myself. Her voice is my senses making out a landscape. Her voice is the world making itself known.
She talks to me, and I talk back. She speaks of outside my room, of colors, of shapes, of sounds, of a life where one walks and meets new people and finds new things. I listen to every word. She tells me about her life, and I ease her nervousness, her doubts.
She leaves every once in a while, to see more of her surroundings, to find more stories to tell me. I sit in my chair, quiet and empty, waiting for the world to come back and my darkness to brighten.
She comes back. I don't know how much later. I measure time in her visits.
She let's me sit across her lap, and her hand supports me, behind my head. Her fingers feel like miracles. they feel like a sensory overload. They feel like warmth, and cool, and outside. They feel like the only thing I know. Because unlike touching the chair, it's something outside of myself, and it's new, and it's alive.
I smell a smile of her breath. I embrace her warmth. I find comfort in her weight, and I feel a niche to fit in. Her words and voice create vivid life. Her lips are my air. It brings a warmth that nothing else has. It stirrs feelings that were never awoken when I was alone. Its the only beauty and art I am ever aware of.
The only thing in my world is her. I know nothing else. My world has shrunk down to just her.
One day she leaves. I wait for her to come back.
She does not come back.
I just sit, waiting. I realize she is not coming to talk to me anymore. I have nothing left.
I think. While all I had was her, she had an entire Earth to explore. She would sit next to me in my transparent room and talk all the while seeing out the window, viewing the sunshine and the trees, seeing the birds and knowing their calls in her memory. And while to me, she was my entire world, to her, I was just an anchor, a dull little distraction, a blind girl in a chair. Needy, lonely.
But my room was boring, and she was doing all the work, creating my world, while all I did was listen and love.
So she left.
That is all I can come up with. I do not know her world. I do not know how she lives when she isn't beside me. How could I? Nothing like that exists, not to me.
there is the feeling of helplessness in knowing I can not find her, I do not know where she is. I knwo I love her. I need to find my world.
I lower myself out of the chair, slowly, painfully slowly, my legs shaking, my arms gripping tightly to the chairs side, and I sit on the floor beside it. I am assaulted by a space I do not know. There is air around me, air that I am not familiar with, air that frightens me and makes my chest constrict. I turn back and grip the chair leg at a height that astounds me, unable to let go of my only particle of familiarity. I can not give chase. I can not leave.
I sit on the floor, think of how my darling's face feels, how her voice sounds, recounting my world as memories, so that when I sleep and dream of her I wake up but don't know I am conscious. I am lost. I feel the splinters of the chair leg embed themselves into my fingers.
I feel like a blind girl. I'm just sitting on the wooden chair, in the middle of the room.
I'm told not to move. Otherwise, I don't know where I am, and I would get lost. The room is completely foreign to me. I don't know anything about it, what's in it, if there are windows, if there's light. I hear no sounds in my room. I smell no smells. I just sit, until the chair feels like part of me, and I'm not even aware if it anymore. To remember where I am, I just feel the veins of wood, and count the splinters with my fingers, or run my foot down my other leg. I just sit there, and feel, and that is my world. My world is nothing.
And then she comes into my room. And she talks to me. And her voice is more than just words. Her voice is a reminder that there's something outside of myself. Her voice is my senses making out a landscape. Her voice is the world making itself known.
She talks to me, and I talk back. She speaks of outside my room, of colors, of shapes, of sounds, of a life where one walks and meets new people and finds new things. I listen to every word. She tells me about her life, and I ease her nervousness, her doubts.
She leaves every once in a while, to see more of her surroundings, to find more stories to tell me. I sit in my chair, quiet and empty, waiting for the world to come back and my darkness to brighten.
She comes back. I don't know how much later. I measure time in her visits.
She let's me sit across her lap, and her hand supports me, behind my head. Her fingers feel like miracles. they feel like a sensory overload. They feel like warmth, and cool, and outside. They feel like the only thing I know. Because unlike touching the chair, it's something outside of myself, and it's new, and it's alive.
I smell a smile of her breath. I embrace her warmth. I find comfort in her weight, and I feel a niche to fit in. Her words and voice create vivid life. Her lips are my air. It brings a warmth that nothing else has. It stirrs feelings that were never awoken when I was alone. Its the only beauty and art I am ever aware of.
The only thing in my world is her. I know nothing else. My world has shrunk down to just her.
One day she leaves. I wait for her to come back.
She does not come back.
I just sit, waiting. I realize she is not coming to talk to me anymore. I have nothing left.
I think. While all I had was her, she had an entire Earth to explore. She would sit next to me in my transparent room and talk all the while seeing out the window, viewing the sunshine and the trees, seeing the birds and knowing their calls in her memory. And while to me, she was my entire world, to her, I was just an anchor, a dull little distraction, a blind girl in a chair. Needy, lonely.
But my room was boring, and she was doing all the work, creating my world, while all I did was listen and love.
So she left.
That is all I can come up with. I do not know her world. I do not know how she lives when she isn't beside me. How could I? Nothing like that exists, not to me.
there is the feeling of helplessness in knowing I can not find her, I do not know where she is. I knwo I love her. I need to find my world.
I lower myself out of the chair, slowly, painfully slowly, my legs shaking, my arms gripping tightly to the chairs side, and I sit on the floor beside it. I am assaulted by a space I do not know. There is air around me, air that I am not familiar with, air that frightens me and makes my chest constrict. I turn back and grip the chair leg at a height that astounds me, unable to let go of my only particle of familiarity. I can not give chase. I can not leave.
I sit on the floor, think of how my darling's face feels, how her voice sounds, recounting my world as memories, so that when I sleep and dream of her I wake up but don't know I am conscious. I am lost. I feel the splinters of the chair leg embed themselves into my fingers.
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