Water on the Keys

December 27, 2009
Dear Self,

When the world stops, in those few moments when all is left but air and time, you learn that it was the world that kept you spinning. All you have is an hour, one single empty hour before the world starts back up again, and in that space the tight cord collapses, the bobbin unravels, and the needle breaks. It runs dry, this empty hour. Like the breath you hold when your castle of cards is complete, it lays more waste on the soul than any delicate task you have ensured. This castle tumbles ever gentling into your time-worn, paper cut hands.

You are cold when you write this. Your hands are warmed by only the press of key after key, one mountain after another. God moves mountains, right? You laugh, because even though you know He does, you feel like you are the only one pushing. He will. Don't you know this? He always has before.

This is the part where you reach the rain. The wind has blown brittle creatures on you all the while, those crumbling, sharp paper flowers all painted with browns and reds. They used to glow with shades of orange and yellow, but that day passed too quickly. They have stained in death and undress their mothers like a sinful child. The rain tries to clothe them, but water can only run, like you. Transparent with emotion and cold to touch, raindrops sprinkle on the keyboard. The screen glistens with iridescent stars. The sight shocks you.

The wind blows. Inaction causes you strife. Fountain water tells you the clock is ticking, but your clock has died. Has it only been twenty minutes? You want the rain to fall and wash away your work in an electronic avalanche, but it only grows colder and colder.

Time has no avail when the bobbin's running empty. Each stitch is a single piece of thread, poking, poking, wasting thread away. Pull the cloth and the work will melt like unwanted snowflakes in July. Unwanted. You wrote a poem about that earlier didn't you? No one read it, but that is alright. If they had read it, truly understood the tight cord beneath the jumble, they would have scorned you in your anger and loneliness.

The tight cord has gone slack and nothing's left but where to cut.

The hour tells you that time is ever closing. There will be an ending to the tale and a new project must begin with a broken needle that will not right itself. Silly broken needle. Silly you. Because, I know, that you will always choose the broken one over a replacement as much as it will not work. For this, I love you, but I must chastise you.

Your broken needle will not make another dream again. Water on the keys won't make the cold go away. The mountains your mind will make will only be harder and harder to push. When the clock strikes sixty minutes, you will have no conclusion and nothing more to say.

So cry.

Sincerely,
Your Friend





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