by Stephanie on July 6, 2007

I like the sound of being alone. The buzz of the fridge. The hum of the central heating. The rain on the tin roof. My breathing. I like the way the space feels. The edges of my body tingle.

The way I licked the honeypot tonight – finishing one jar and starting another – the sharp contast from fruit and oats to rich, smoky leatherwood – I wanted to do that with my life. But it doesn’t work. Threads lace together, people hang on, that newsletter keeps sending updates. Mail stacks up in my kitchen. I write muses on the back of envelopes. Half-finished jars sit discarded in the cupboard. If I threw them out, I would think of it as a waste.

Sometimes all I want to do is move. I want the ground to pulse and the waves to crash and the sky to spin and the earth to groan and shriek and gasp, but then the noise fades and I sink back into myself again. I climb the tower and weave my tapestry, watching the world through a mirror. Things feel, but they’re on the other side of something – a membrane, a layer of living tissue – pliant, soft. In the warmest room I can taste the cold. It’s on the edges of the visible. It is the edges.

Things happen here, in this space – the world happens here – but you won’t see it.

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