desertsnowman

Sometimes, not always, moments that spark an idea in the child mind, get lost in life. Decades pass, then the smell yellow. In the room that marked the moment and linseed in the air. The windows are clearer than remembered—stairs, shorter. A floor never swept around the pathway walked. The air, rich of sisal and cigarettes—eyes almost burning again. The view of a tree and a swing; feeling the air through the hair, trusting the rope will hold. Moments that spark an idea. Memories thought forgotten. A linseed spark; sometimes, the yellow, is you.

We've been walking for days now—the sun once leading, now following—the cold. The nights reduce our numbers. We're still here. Unwelcomed, unwanted. It's colder tonight.

I'm sceptical–always have been–but this is a bit much. I don't want to bring the group down, so I agree to join in, shelving reservations. It's ok to go out for an hour or two. Besides, I get away for a bit, to find me. We gathered in a field, odd, but they all are–working hard to go with it. Sitting in a circle, elbow to elbow–too close, but I'm here now. Many words fly overhead, still here waiting, eyes shut. The air gets cold, metallic. Opening eyes reveals the same darkness as before– moments later, eyes adjust. The room, dark. Lit only by an overhead lamp, highlighting a bloodied object–a torso on a child's chair–curious. A wide, voided space; no doors, no windows. A table to the left–simple, flat–hosting the dismembered parts of the guest. Blood, ankle deep, drowning the floor, quivering. Dancing to a resonance deep below our world. Whatever brought this, knows who we are–knows us deeper than we know ourselves. Archaic. Ancient. I'm smiling. Appreciative of the power, knowing my place. I look to my conspirers–emulating expression–devoid of etiquette, looking for support. Unable to find a hand in the panic, I pull away. I'm alone, but I home.