Fiction felt a little lost on her these days. The peaks were weak and the endings were unfulfilling. Yes she could pick them up and put them down without having lost all sense of the story line. She could tend to her children, put on the washing or get sucked into the monotony of everyday without losing her place. There are perks to today’s fiction. In these times of busyness, short attention spans and tiny bursts of consecutive minutes, today’s fiction is just enough to make you say, ‘Yes, I read’. But she was lacking. No longer the girl that could sit around all day, head down in a world of other peoples imaginations. Now a woman who wanted to fill those tiny quiet moments with truths, wisdoms, inspiration; She herself, was becoming a whole new genre.
She felt as if she needed to pace.
Pace around the large square patch of shaded grass that she called her front yard.
She needed to walk heel to toe barefoot and feel the sea breeze wafting onto her skin.
She wanted it to blow away the old tapes in her head: fill them with salt until they could no longer wind but instead rust and fall.
She wanted the pacing to steady her heartbeat but not as much as she wanted it to fix something.
That something was too big and perhaps the problem was that she’d been pacing far too long.
She needed to run.
She needed to run so fast that the fear in her shadow would be lost in her tracks, kicked up in the dust.
She needed to run so fast that the goal couldn’t escape her or be at the edge of her fingertips.
It needed to be in her hand.
She needed to hold its tangible proof of her worthy existence.
She stopped pacing.
Looking out toward an ocean that made the world seem far too big for someone so small.
Yet it whispered on white wash, that in fact the world was too small for someone who wants to be so big.
She was stuck in the best kind of way. At the corner end of the café counter, the warmth of the coffee machine complementing the cool water she sipped. The smell of fresh macadamia muffins and vegetable frittata straight out the oven wafted around her morning and she relaxed her shoulders. The rain fell from the sky, forcing her to look out the window and calculate just how wet she would get if she tried to walk to the car. Dare she leave? She rested her hand on the mighty movements of limbs rolling around in her overconfident belly, the rise and fall of her fingers as each one felt the full force of a tiny human. Leaning back into her cushioned chair she sat, still and quiet.
Dare she leave, when she was stuck in the best kind of way?
It wasn’t that she necessarily missed wine; the coursing of red and white courage poising through her blood stream, making waves of excited energy or smoothing her out like a saxophone player with three day growth and a cheeky grin.
No. She’d hardly thought about it all really.
She walked through halls of paintings leaning against walls. The casualty of their placement gave her permission to run her fingers along the canvas, feel the lumps of paint, the strokes of another person’s vision. Pausing to circle images with her fingertips and stare into the eyes of the muse, she relaxed her shoulders and thought perhaps she too should try leaning against the wall, rather than hanging herself.
I wish I could bottle this feeling of calm; a peaceful escape from the pattern. Shrink me down and let me lay against the curved walls like a genie in a lamp.Tears well in waiting: for it to be over, for the haze to spread and the melancholy to rise. Let me lay against the curved walls of this calm, I will not take up space but rather be taken up; nestled in silence and awe at the feeling of your blissful, untainted existence that flows through my core.
She whistled to the world but it never echoed back.
The sounds of her surrounds fell silent, stealing her call.
She paused: checking for signals, sounds, vibrations.
The dust of hush allowed her just enough silence to hear herself.
She cupped her ears.
The thunder of her thoughts rolled deep into her belly.
She would never be alone, if she could hear herself think.