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DAGGERS AND SHIELDS
crescendo sun...and a
kerb, and a hustle of streetness, Jack was wide, wider, to these bolts
of bygones and torrents of ageless filters. Two people strutted their
careless publicity. Crowded and alone, they peeled their living lament
of mutual animosity to a captive queue. Pouting, a dagger, he released
his vulgar blow of hurting, blurting words. His autograph in vowels, a
signature of somebody lost, signature of thwarted goodness. Her shield,
a silence of terror. Jack left the battle to keep a hand on his own
shedding layers. Calls from the dreamwaves were neutered by his dumb
determination to follow this unfettered trail. Below the waterline, the
moments were being reborn for him. He let them rise to his surface. Tiny
daggers and esoteric shields, moulding an unlikely definition. Only Jack
was going to spread his fate over these calls from the source. Oh, these
journeys, thought Jack. Smiling and crying. Why must I bowl these
treasures of truths back to my centre? Is all the world as I see it? Is
it as certain and familiar and tideless as this? He thought that Ginny
would notice the colours of the faceless walls more than he. Those
houses where those people lived those lives that only seemed to whisper
so loudly. whispering all their lives in daggers and crying beneath
shields. And I am both dagger and shield, thought jack. Made and unmade.
Fecund and sterile. And I am becoming bought, and fabricated, and frail
with these tuneless airs. The humid trace was more apparent as he first
touched his own hand, then glimpsed his ghost in the centre of a
universe. That was me, thought Jack. Can I still be so alive to my
decay? what useless thoughts, Jack concluded. He was accusing. Himself.
Of being busy with himself, being first nothing, then nothings soul.
Then, or was it there, or even, there, then and after, the snapping
lines of connection exploited his dis connection. 'where am I in this'?
demanded Jack. where is 'this'? For only I can care for my vacuous
indulgence. But it is my life. It keeps me alive. I am so undefined now.
I have let go too much. I have loaned my words, and it feels my lease
has expired. Now, now, now...and on it went......what have I been made
into? What have I become in this tilting rhapsody of perpetual release?
These scented daggers in a lonely man were certain with their target.
Jack walked on in his dangerous wilderness. First a tune of dying
friendship ripped the vessels of containment. I am here, no, here,
really here, reasoned Jack to his friend, just listen once more. Wait
for me, just once more, implored Jack, and the heavy breathlessness of
one soon not to be, responded. Make me not laugh, was the instruction,
and Jack incongruously obeyed his departing friends wish. I will play
all music for you, and play your release, I will make pictures of our
youth, i will replay our trifling words of unloaded days, I will distil
substance in a lightness. Wait for me...please. Jack took these wordless
emotions with him for this grave. To make a soft step into the final
room. But Jack was neither strong nor weak. He was empty. He re-entered
the swirling cauldron of Ginnys dialogue, and he felt scared to share,
for he now feared Ginnys motives too in his fatigue, in his distress, in
his exhaustion. He had no more room. Those daggers of her defence, her
tiny daggers of misjudgement burnt Jack dearly. She revealed that her
course of real and true love was to let Jack go. This was her measure,
and Jack searched for one last shield. Accused of aborting, he cradled
his inner belief, and bemoaned his companions' conclusions. He saw
Ginnys happiness being crushed by his own attempts to hold on. Now he
must think again....in some place, in somewhere that wont spill, back
and into himself. Or else, he would surely drown. Under the weight of
daggers and shields. |
