The girl stands silently in front of the door. She shifts her feet, clenching and unclenching the pale hands by her sides. The sun shines through the window too her right. The colour is drained from all it touches. The girl moves in a world grey and colourless. She raises her hand and reaches slowly for the doorknob. She pauses. Her hand hovers over the battered brass globe. It teeters, suspended by an invisible string of fear. She is overcome by weakness and her hand drops back to her side. She knows what lies behind the dark wooden door before her. Another life. Another time. Another girl. Dust.
The door before her hides its secrets well. Bland, brown, unpainted laminate of a time long past. Immovable, impenetrable, silent. It stands as sentinel to a treasure long lost to the world of men. Yet its tongue longs to loosen under it's burden. Clues to its guardianship strive to seep through tiny cracks and flaking board. Only the girl knows the truth of what lies within. Potential. Hope. Dreams. Dust.
She closes her eyes. The handle before her sings. Its siren song calls her and she places her trembling hand upon its icy surface. She shudders. Echoes of another time race up her slender arm, chilling her. It stops her breath. She struggles to recover her equilibrium whilst the world around her spins and heaves. The violence of the storm threatens to overwhelm her. Then. Silence. Short ragged breathes break from her throat. Her heart beats raggedly, then slows to a semblance of normalcy. The world behind the door pulses. Pride. Effort. Excellence. Dust.
She is in union with the world behind the door. All is revealed to her minds eye. She sees into a world occupied by another. Dust motes float listlessly through the small shaft of sunlight, broken through a fallen corner of curtain. A world suspended in an impenetrable drop of golden amber. Preserved for all eternity. A museum piece behind a red rope. Untouchable. To be viewed and loved and mourned. Joy. Peace. Love. Dust.
She runs her eyes over the contents of the room. Each piece preserved in a vacuumed second of time when the world ceased to be. Each piece reveals something of the nature of the girl who once lived there. The long desk near the wall holds the cipher to the life of the girl now lost. The textbooks placed in perilous piles on the edge of the desk. A jar of broken pencils and empty pens. Papers in haphazard piles that only the creator can understand. A tattered copy of Anna Karenina peeks out from between the reams. A green chipped incense holder. A pile of magnetic marbles. A paper bag from Raffles. An old tobacco tin of paper clips. Each a representation of the one long gone. Life. Work. Passion. Dust.
The girl at the door awakens from the dream. She senses the wisps of caramel, gold and sepia that strive to reach her. She is too far away. They fall back defeated, to wait for she who will never come. A tear rolls down her cheek. She knows she will never open the door. She knows she will never reach the world on the other side. It is forever denied her. The girl who lived in the world behind the door no longer exists. Only the girl in the world without colour breathes now. Sadness, Longing. Emptiness. Dust.
The girl takes her hand from the door and feels the wrench within her soul. She can bear no more. Something is broken. Her shoulders slump. She turns from the door. She lives within the pale, bleached world of grey. Memories of the golden world and the girl who lived there, begin to fade once more. The girl by the door is covered in ash and dust.
Ash and Dust.
Sadness. Longing. Emptiness. Dust.
Life. Work. Passion. Dust.
Joy. Peace. Love. Dust.
Pride. Effort. Excellence. Dust.
Potential. Hope. Dreams. Dust.
Another life. Another time. Another girl. Dust.
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
Posted by Michelle Roger at 14:27
Labels: Dust, Dysautonomia, Loss
All who are lovely enough to comment should be showered with cup cakes, glitter and macarons. I promise to use my spoon bending mind powers to try and get that happening for all who are lovely enough to share their words. Those who go the extra step to share posts should really get a free unicorn. Or at least the gift of finding the shortest and quickest line at the supermarket on a regular basis. xx
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You put a lot into this, didn't you? It shows. Lovely piece - I'll read this more than once.ReplyDelete
MLS -thanks so much. I tossed up about putting it on. I didn't know if anyone would quite get where and what I was aiming for.ReplyDelete
I understand this very well. I had just begun work on my doctorate when I crashed. Its 15 years on and I am giving away most of the books. I know now it will never happen. I can't connect the thoughts anymore. I can't leap into that place where my mind sings with ideas and draws new patterns and shapes to make something more.ReplyDelete
Its my biggest, saddest loss. The world of ideas, and the mind that could enter there; gone. And, of course, those who may have shared that with me are gone too.
There are good things and small pleasures, but I have yet to find anything to thrill my core and give me a centre the way being clever did. I like my life, but I do miss who I was.