fragment on a scrap piece of paper (5/06):
Truth was once a canvas of faceted, pristine crystal which transcended heaven, encompassed hell and was firmly rooted in between, fixed in the annals of our reality.
One day, a great hammer rose and descended, striking against its roots; once, twice, thrice. The number three has hence since become the magic number of wishes, chances, choices in this newly wrought, shattered and shredded reality.
Truth became shards, painful things with wicked points and jagged edges. Blood easily flowed, tears shed plentifully and blindness was the common affliction when caught in its glare. Truth fell in great pieces, some crumbled and disintegrated into dust which has since permeated our atmosphere and lingers on unused, untouched things, in corners and most easily on velvet and silken surfaces.
One day, a great hammer rose and descended, striking against its roots; once, twice, thrice. The number three has hence since become the magic number of wishes, chances, choices in this newly wrought, shattered and shredded reality.
Truth became shards, painful things with wicked points and jagged edges. Blood easily flowed, tears shed plentifully and blindness was the common affliction when caught in its glare. Truth fell in great pieces, some crumbled and disintegrated into dust which has since permeated our atmosphere and lingers on unused, untouched things, in corners and most easily on velvet and silken surfaces.
We breathe it in and sneeze, unable to accept or assimilate it in its entirety. Our eyes blink and water, shedding tears and we sniffle when we get too close. And others shuffle a little away or flinch, and respond with a sympathetic : “Bless you”.
No comments:
Post a Comment