They sat the campfire for the longest time before Kyra spoke. Read to us Trev. Let us know not of word but of song. Standing with eyes but for Em, he opened his notebook and began to read. Those that were there said later, perhaps it was the night, perhaps the flicking fire upon his face, but as the words rolled forth, something changed and the Trevor they knew was from that moment, but memory.
from the notebook of Trev, a reading:
The house is quiet but for my thoughts. The sky, grey, and the feeling the same, the world colorless without her. I cannot explain this stark dichotomy. Sledgehammer blunt. All or nothing. Light or dark. And what pounds is a longing within my chest to hold and be held, to again luxuriate in her arms as in a warm bath, for that is how it feels, this peace, of a calmness such that comes after a storm, when the air is clean and crisp and the grass bejeweled of recent rain.
I want to walk in the light of her eyes and to know what it is to be looked upon as she looks, as salve and succor to my pains. And there too is reaching without asking, as two old trees our hands branch toward the other and fingers twine a firm warmth beyond my ability to explain. So I look, and perhaps think upon it too much, for I know it is not the holding or lacing or twining for no other hand would do what her hand does, would reach effortlessly into the heart's uncharted terrain and walk therein so freely, as if home, as if always home it was. No it is not the holding and this is why the eye seems so limited, for how to explain what is seen is not what is witnessed or experienced or known? The tongue seems lost, in retreat of a force known within and this, I say, is how it is, this audible click of a puzzle of two, fitting within as the view without.
How to say how one lives in the other, where thought is synchronized simultaneously and where two hearts beat but one is heard, where to separate is to take what is one and make it two and therein lies the pain as surely as there is pain in the breaking of souls grown together. And breathing changes, for how can it not when the life of one is the life of the other and where there is but one, nothing is as it was, nothing the same, a bleeding I would say, a bleeding out of hue, of color as if the very heart itself in protest or melancholy pumps less.
She is somewhere, this very moment. And her beauty is seen by eyes not my own, the lilt of her voice heard beyond my walls upon ears I know, know not the melody of joy I cannot live without. And I praise fate while cursing the same as every clock an enemy, every tick a reminder that the day once lived is lived never more. So I sigh or more so it seems, something within me sighs and I feel it, my soul. I feel it within me as I have never felt before. And this is where they come, these sighs. And they come like waves upon the thought, of a clock ticking, of her sight unseen, her touch unfelt, her whisper lost on the miles for even a stone's throw is too far as too the hour too short.
I am in the hands of something greater than myself. And there is life in me as if reborn to the world for that is how it is. Nothing looks the same, sounds the same, tastes the same. And all my years are but nothing against this tide of her and I feel as helpless as the shore to resist what is coming.
12 comments:
I will be back for this post, but I could not wait, could not leave without saying that the very last sentence of this post was Mag-ni-fi-cent!!
I will keep the tea fresh and the grind ready for brew with waters pure and cups off-white, you know the ones, with a slight lip. Wear something light and clingy and bring your mooning eyes empty for the filling, your lips ready for the parting, your legs warm for the wrapping. I'll be waiting. :-)
Bless your heart, Poppet, thank you for keeping the tea warm for, sigh, so long, x
...but as the words rolled forth, something changed... I suspect, without knowing, that even if I were to study language, literature, the art of writing for 50 years, I would still want to describe this type of snippet (as it stands bracketed by the remainder) as phenonemon, as something beyond anything that can be parted or quartered, deciphered. I think of descriptions you have given over time, the wood of the porch of the Valla house on several occasions and there was one of the recent 1944 chapters that brought out so many elements of who Virgil was, for with such ability perhaps one could have spoken of the reasons why the above instantly becomes as rooted, as endeared, as inherent as wood touched by a family of hands, as a man come from a place his father and his father before him had come. Perhaps it is not only the words themselves, the warmth of the scene set, campfire and flickering light across his features, and most importantly Trev, precisely as the words are telling us, amid, Kyra, Rog, Yul..., those with whom he left Hyneria behind, boarded Bravo, and now for the first time they are seeing him not as who he was, but who he has become...in any case, so that I might hope to get to the rest of this post, this one sentence warms my belly, sets my heart glowing and makes me want to wrap my arms around the entire world. :-D How's that for the power of writing.
I have always loved language greatly. With you, I can truly indulge. Heights beyond anything one could have imagined. A perfect example of such is when you make use of a familiar expression as in the case of All or nothing, which in these surroundings seems now for the first time to show its full potential, the scope of its impact. The words never before demanded so much. (brb)
beautiful as always ;-) oh yeah.. surprise!!!! made it to your post!!! I like what you've done with this place... i don't show up for a while and you redecorate ;-) Hope all is well in your world!!! hugs and a kiss on the cheek from me to you ;-)
Liane, so good to see you again. Welcome back. And as always, thanks for the very kind words. Much appreciated. xoxo :-)
My dear Autumn, how you make me smile is something I hope I never have to live without. :-)
You know, one day, I might actually believe for myself the things you say. ;-) Until then, I will continue to imagine I might know of who you write. Forever grateful. Love . . . Poppet
It makes me smile in turn, when you write so for though I have written many times of how well you write, I've never been able to capture just how well. One would need your abilities to describe adequately. :-)
what pounds is a longing within my chest to hold and be held, Here is a sentence that could have been tapped in morse code over the heart by a lovers fingertips, from hands braided held between bodies close and the message within would be no more compelling that hearing Trev speak of Emily. How thoroughly beautiful and inclusive!
longing is one of my many favourite words, one cannot say this word and have any breath remaining, it lives and breathes, every appearance echoes every purpose it ever served and so when it, to top it off so to speak, is used particularly well as you have done here, the impact is total. Standing alone (for to read on, it becomes more personal to Trev) this sentence is owned by all.
As always, all I want to do is declare undying love for every sentence, every paragraph. I love the second paragraph (I want to walk..., everything about it, flow, language, subject and the reasons be found here, the essense; ... for no other hand would do what her hand does. Exquisite!!!
the breaking of souls grown together Oh my. Words. Lovable words never more so than filtered through your mind, bled through your pen, how you do create the most exquisite combinations...everything, it all, within your words. If all other literature was lost, if every poem were gone, every song, every play, every piece of art except this, such a state of affairs would not last long, this sentence would inspire and create and fill. Divine.
The final two paragraphs, poppet, are equally divine. So much so, the more I read, the less I am able to even think about commenting. She is somewhere, this very moment. And her beauty is seen by eyes not my own... There is just one step left, so expressive are your words, so penetrating, a great step I know. I know. But the only way that one could feel your words more deeply would be to live them.
It is an awesome experience to read you.
Downright scary how the emotion within the words pervades so thoroughly every corner of the reader's being.
Fabulous, fabulous, magical post!
(sorry for the delay)
love and hugs
My dear Autumn, thank you for your generous comments. Always, always so deeply appreciated. :-)
I could have written forever on this post.
Love you. Hope you are in the midst of a lovely week, x
thanks for the post..nice..
custom wood furniture
Post a Comment