rcbookworm
The bench his stage, Central Park his audience. His boot propped atop the armrest, he fiddled a beautiful tune to an empty and endless cavern.
"We must hurry," he said, as he closed the bus door behind him. "We've got a tight schedule, can't make any stops."
"But doesn't that ruin the point?" I said.
"Efficiency above all else," replied.
Slouched against the old rocking chair, Spunky stares back at me. His plastic black eyes tell stories I hope to never forget, his mangled fur the remains of hot days running through the sprinkler and messy spaghetti dinners, his tangled tag the evidence of my love.
Anywhere seems so limitless. Anywhere. but hopes rarely end in line with practicality and anywhere becomes a short list of 1) here 2) there. Where we could be and where we can be are two different things.
"Shhh..." he said. "Just look." I turned from the dark room, and blinked past blinding white light of the window.
"The skyline." It was so distant, so beautiful, so out of reach. I was mesmerized.
The door creaked open. A dimness spreading, infecting the black room. One moment, one glimpse. But boy did it make the difference. I could see my world. And all I wanted was to push open that door.
Rolling, rolling, rolling, off the table. Swirling, swirling, swirling, the colors of its world spinning as it turns. Beautiful and ordinary. Minuscule and so transfixing.
In my mind, there are artifacts. Lovingly, obsessively dusted, adorned, set behind glass frames. And in my darkest hours I stroll through the hallways of love days and make it hurt so much turning around that I promise I'll never return.
writing since 2011 · 14 entries · 13 days shown up
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rollingswirlingbeautifuldooranywheremuseummomentmindbehindloveopenblackroomwhitedimedozen