Seeking that warm blanket of sound to roll and wrap myself into, as if I am a rolled up, dusty old carpet where decades of feet have treaded, and no one bothered to clean. It just became a dingy layer that was easier to remove than to care for. Rolled up in a pod sized padded cell.
That muffled sound, a song or a siren?
A straitjacket for the soul.
Emotionally fractured.
Blown to pieces.
One foot on each shrapnel.
Spinning out onto the sandy sea.
Being a millipede.
Hundreds of legs.
Small feet like anchors.
Stretching.
Treading.
Reaching.
Grasping.
Solid ground?
My head turning like the bulb of a beacon, in a stormy ocean, rotating its light out into the night, desperately seeking a shore.
A still horizon.
A safe passage.
But everything is moving, and it’s all blurry.
My milli pedes are tired and slipping.
Shrapnels moving farther away.
Sharp edges.
Cutting as they float.
Slicing as they hover.
Piercing as they drift.
We’re is the pull?
The current?
The magnetic draw to magically glue us back together again?
Kintsugi.
Gold or kryptonite?
Melt my shrapnels together with obsidian. The black volcanic glass that’s been fractured, crushed, grinded, mottled, purged, fired, melted, and hardened. Poetically steeped in its black cloak.
Because where is the pier? The one we accessed when there was a break in the wind? The conversations echoing between the grains of sand, and smoke from the wildfires swirling, like mosquitoes over the calm desert ocean.
The swell grew larger when the last ice melted.
Evaporated quickly by greed, hate, and heat.
And the windy waves.
Surging.
Swelling.
Sandblasting.
Eroding.
Leaving a smooth surface of a slightly lopsided sphere.
Drifting.
Aimlessly.
Until when?
Upon what?
Like Aniara but instead of the Mima, it’s me.
And instead of the dying spaceship, it’s my fractured life on this shattered earth.
Aimlessly drifting, seeking.
Without control.
Without means.
Adrift.
<<<<<>>>>>
Listening:
David Bowie - Life On Mars
