"Why is it that we end up talking about our writing more than we write?" she asked through a cut lip. The cup she was holding was chipped slightly on the edge and the white exposed ceramic was stained lightly with blood. She refused to throw this cup away, considering it to be a 'memento of carelessness'. "Why buy new and nice things only to have them broken by others?" she asked once. She took a sip from the other side of the cup and looked at her listener as if this were all part of a ritual, at once absurd and meaningful. Every movement was ritual, every act aside from the biologically necessary (or at least that which has been 'proven' to be), was religious in the sense that it involved a leap of logic and faith. Why write at all? Yet even the monologue has held its ground and will not leave. It's folded in on itself like a vaulted ceiling in a temple in the sky.
The trees seemed to breathe, slowly and rhythmically. She looked up as if to speak to the branches, then returned her gaze to her listener and waited.
Keine Kommentare:
Kommentar veröffentlichen