How my hands tell a story | Wave
The place where it was was, most of the time, cold. At times, a rush of warmth would cut through it, waking it up from something other than sleepiness, but absence of self. There would be a comforting feeling wouldn't it be unknown. Ignorance made it doubt its own instincts.
Was it being carried by clouds, which, in dreams, bore it? Of course not.
It was hands, then. So soft that they would take its shape and... Actually, they could indeed be hands. But they should be too big for it to fit them. No.
Chimeras of such ordinance shall not be congruent to a mind already worn out by use, time, and disuse.
I can affirm, however, that it was horizontally positioned and, when its attention was numbed by hesitancy, it would feel itself sheltered by the party that conducted it – and it was not a trustable sheltering –, making it return to its state of wariness, yet of continuous ignorance.
The movement it analyzed pulled away abruptly to opposite sides to those considered natural and bearable, when it didn't corned it and forced it to curl up so much to the point of equal annoyance.
| I felt my corpse break into corpses |
Now, besides having to understand what was happening to it, it had to expend effort in attempt to reach the parts that from it ran. Its exertion was enough to tire it and not more than that.
But when the world calmed down, and so did it, they would float to where replacement seemed to be needed.
In this moment of lucidity, its journey became music. The maestro led its orchestra – and the "it", in "its", stands for my corpse.
Conducting the sound waves that always exist but are scantily organized, his hands pulled away from one another, like the abrupt movement that divided me, for then to reencounter in silence, like the one that corned me and curled me up.
| I saw my corpse transform in corpses |
In this journey,
in which clouds and hands carried my body
through conducted waves, brusque and brusquely kind,
while it tried to reach land,
while it tried to keep together the parts that seemed to make sense,
and remade when it got to where it should.
Now I get it. My new corpse, my new morphs. I was wave.
Text and drawing: Sarandë, Albania, September 2017
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