Vagabond bit 3

May 31st, 2013

Some days that pass as sand nights do, you’re so alone that you have no choice but look for a single thought. Or, if you consider thinking to be lonesome activity, for a line, not so much a words’ one, but an aural one. There must be one somewhere out, you assume. It can’t be that you are deserted and all one – if that were the case, you’d be with all gone ones, not knowing it. Having this as a sort of a beacon, you wander in the grey looking for a black or a white one to pulse out. So you can take its stead, cling yourself to it, have it sway you, even if violently – better in a pained chamber than the grey. You never pull up, mow the black or the white ones. You give yourself to it, give yourself up, let it have you, let it make you obsolete, a trashed one. At this line of miniscule proximity (as well as distance) you lay your bones so as to have the resonance pass through the tips of the nerves of the crossed body.
Something start flowing from the double wound, as you lose the memory grip of the day, the grey and the lone something that is neither white nor black.
You can’t name it, won’t spell it out, just have it bend you, stretch you out. You are becoming a line now, let the else one find, what colour it has become, what colour it will become.

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