Friday, October 16, 2009

the way they were.

What did the river do to you, she asked. He answered that it made him dark, dark with all the colors of his reflection. There were places to go always, but he never could stop wondering why his image had gone black, why all the colors met and liked each other and mixed and stayed that way. It made him so angry he remembered his flimsy notebook with the pages torn out. He opened it in front of her and wrote a lullaby. Write, she told him, do not compose. If not compose, he answered, then why use words? Words break, the way surfaces do, she explained. They break like oceans, like papers, like hands. Do not compose. Compose with your eyes and write your words to match your face with the river. Make them black and bright. I will play in them. Child, child, child, he managed in the February moonlight, you stun me.
Deep purple, you could be, then, she cried. His eyes wrote: Thick purple, do not turn from me. You may harm me, let it be so. Violet confusion of serenity and rage, swallow your flowers and paintings and shirts. Artifice as the moon you are, paint me a picture to identify me.

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