I want to write you a story, of the words that could pour like a fountain of unending constancy. The vague unraveling of sanity is the plague of society and is one of the only diseases that inevitably will find its end in communication. The depression of the mind, the slowing of the inner workings, the movement of electrical charge. The dull jump from one synapse to the next. The fallen and the wrath of the slumber in sadness. Can it be avoided, evaded or escaped? Can it be cured?
This is a story about a woman encapsulated.
She stands, her feet fixed to a lifted box. Unable to move. She's been placed on the pedestal by men and her creator. Her eyes directed towards the door constantly watching the spectators. She waits each day to see the growing crack between the doors as the light, the snow, the leaves, and the rain flutter in from the place she has heard the spectators call it, the outside. She lays monetary, unable to move, constantly thinking. As the spectators pace by, her mind paces. She wonders what they think of her architecture, her composition, the crooks made by her creator. She wonders what they experience outside of her home, outside of the walls, outside of the dusty rafters.
Every night the lights go out and her eyes scan the room, the paintings change the general composure of the room remains the same, she still stays planted.
She used to be jealous of those that were able to walk, to see the world from a spectrum of more than her simple peripheral shawl. But she got to a point were she began to see everything in monochromatics. Her eyes became expired to the beauty of the old, dark, semi-glossed and shoe scathed floor and the adjacent door outlined in sidelites composed of green glass recycled from old wine bottles
The internalized isolation that is beauty.
TO BE CONTINUED.
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