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8.3.16
the job part 4.
a yellow and amorphous pattern begins, unsure itself if it is light, breeze, or both.
a pattern of shrieks and chatters becomes louder as i become awake. my eyelids flutter open like the wings of waking birds. the world, from my cliff, is pale and infinite. everything is new, wet, energetic and keen from it's storm.
i make my way from the cliff's edge and dig my hands to the dirt. i notice berries and fallen bark, things scuttling in the collage of the forest floor. a colder, sharper air arrives: the leaves rustle and pique, my skin creates bumps and peaks - we all notice.
i move through the trees. singing green greets me. i am the light, the light is me. i feel my way along what i have built. cool stones against my body, rough and heavy.
the things that live are all awake. they call to each other as the light grows.
a bird flaps in the twigs above, sending specks of dust down to me. a gift. the bird glides to the forest's feet. the bird, delicate and simple. it carries something in it's sharp mouth. the bird, blinking it's glassy eyes, tilting it's velvet head, struggles with the thing.
the bird sees me watching. soon, the bird drops the thing. turning it's head sideways, it blinks at the thing, uncontrollably twitching and adjusting its head to see.
the thing is from before - the bird considers it still. the thing: parts of red flimsy translucence, folded pieces of metal, a small tube, a plastic wheel, a flint . this small, useless and trite fragment of all the things that were before. as i look at the thing, a thing that could have been used to create flames more stinging and vicious than the sun, it offends me. my stomach turns, i feel embarrassed, jarred to see it's contrived, broken body in my forest. it does not live. it never did.
i snatch the pieces of lighter from the floor, as the bird flees in skittish terror. filled with disgust i take the pieces of plastic in my fist and begin to climb. i grab at the stones i have placed, the walls that grew through me. my feet find places that they know are there. one hand pulls me skywards. i come to a floor, an opening; a gap in the bricks. i force my body in the tower, scraping my skin and corners against the skin and corners of the rock. i take the shattered thing, thrust it into the dark crevice i find at the end of my arm. i look behind me at the morning growing. i drop the ugly, unnatural shards from my dirty hand.
i listen to hear them finish their fall, but they never do.
whispered by killa b at 11:33 PM |
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