Sometimes I am untouchable, even when your stone face stares up at me and you drop your words like flat rocks on water. You aim at my heart but miss, miss again. Subconsciously you see yourself missing, see me not moving yet dodging every throw. The thing is, I can whisk myself away to a place you cannot visit. I watch you in your square room while I am dancing over here like a round thing, grass under my feet.
The antidote is in these words, and the knowledge that one day the stopper will be pulled on all the things you are trying so hard to hold in. You stack your definitions like a tower of socks before the great eternal funnel, because if you let them go, let them pass, you know you will be washed away with them. Everything - all those lies knitted into in your perfectly framed life- crumpling like trees in a mudslide.
The pain, when it comes, will be immense. There is no reason to pretend it won’t be. This is the plaster you have left to fester on your skin rather than face the task of pulling it off. Death pulls everything off, and I think deep down you know this. This is why you cannot touch me - because I recognize this terrible fear in your eyes - the fear of eventual disuse and annihilation.
Imagine standing and having unseen hands grab hold of your skin and strip you like a willow. It will be like this, when it comes. The best thing any of us can do up to that point is to wiggle around, get to know ourselves so well that we become loose, so the process is less painful or even strangely pleasurable. I think of you on that day, fearful as a child, your skin clinging tight around you like scar tissue over an old wound. Oh it will hurt, so much. I know it will.
It’s strange to watch you, looking at me like I am some kind of dirt you wish you could scrape off your shoe, and know I can do nothing. I can’t even warn you, because it would be like throwing a rubber ball against concrete. So I just stay untouchable, move over here and wiggle myself a little. Get loose, ready for freedom.
The hill at Snurrom
10 hours ago