2005-04-10
The Signpost

Ink ink ink. Ink which flowed like a river. Ink in which I'd quickly drown you. Ink in which you'd be drowned. I'd drown myself with you. We'd choke our last breath in a sputter of black ink. And be all the happier for it. I know I would smile as the letters choked down my throat.

But it doesn't rain like it used to. The ink dries. Fades. Stains washed away with the mundane.

It doesn't flow. My pen is exchanged for a blunt knife with which I notch holes in sticks. Counting days.

Never speaking. Counting days til freedom. Freedom from this. Freedom for that. Freedom. Freedom.

Dreaming always. Dreaming in the day. Moving through the kitchen, banging into doors, dreaming. Hardly sleeping for feverish daytime dreams. But when sleep penetrates, then dreaming at night. Warm and soft and sweet.

Waiting there. Always hanging back. At the signpost. Where dreams and the living meet.

before & & after