Feeling

In these hands, they say, you can do anything - hold the roughness of labour and stone, work the dirt into earth to bear life, hold the edge of a knife till blood runs down your arm...
...but in these hands you can't feel the bruises which gnaw at heartstrings and numb the mind. These hands can't reach them or feel them swelling and pulsating. And in the whole time we spend trying to look for a bandage which can't even wrap around or stem a flow of black blood onto the floor, we forget that there are other hands to help us through because the darkness is so thick we can only feel that and nothing else.

Vignette #9

It's well after my bedtime and I don't know what time it is anymore

I don't know what time is anymore.

I can feel the rain soaking through my coat and into my shirt underneath. It didn't feel like there was much protecting me from the elements. I can just about make out the headlight of cars coming in my direction before they speed off past me. I know that a small slip on the slippery pavement could mean me falling in front of one of these cars.

These cars are going quite fast.

Talking Tales

It's when it rains, we stay inside, hidden away from sight. All we have are the four walls for our voices to echo and bounce off into each other. At times, we would tell stories around a metaphorical campfire and talk about the untravelled grounds of our lives and how we would one day travel down them. At other times, we would let the stories tell themselves over spilled coffee and crumbs from this morning's stale toasts - these stories are often told in silence without many words if any at all.

Eventually the rain withdraws and we go back out again to enjoy the rare bit of sunlight and part ways, even for awhile, to seek more stories than the ones we tell each other. And when it rains again, we come back indoors and share the stories we gained on our journeys.