Heptadecagon

Others left early, he continued to watch , marveling at the sight of the rays peeking between the thin wisps of the rain cloud. Storms had always bothered him deep within, where the drops of water hurled themselves against his soul, marking him for life. But today, with the mix of sun and rain, somehow, he felt more alive than he had in weeks. As the last of the rain melted away he turned and caught a glimpse of the rainbow he'd hoped to see. Life is good, he thought. Finally.

Slim line-- more than a scratch but not much more hovering on the smooth layer of an otherwise unmarred surface-- speaks the tale  that only she can tell. For years, it lay there, unwanted, unnoticed, but waiting. Wanting, really, ready to spill its secrets to the first person to minister to her. Years passed and not one being dared to observe what lay beyond the shallow line. And with time, her energy turned inward, compressed her core, and pushed outward, like an exploding supernova. Instead of healing and erasing that single line, she's left with nothing but a litany of cracks and a compromised structure.

My first stop was the doctor of philosophy. Without a word, I dropped to my knees, head bent and eyes closed. I could feel his gaze on me as he accessed my small form. quickly, too quickly, a reply came. I am sorry: I cannot help you. Deflated, not defeated, I departed. The parish priest was next. This time, I lay prostrate at his feet, face covered, eyes shut. His mediation and prayer, earnest, heartfelt, did nothing. I quietly left his dominion. Humans failing, I chose next the wind. High upon the mountaintop, free, blowing, I asked her. Face upturned, hair flailing helplessly I felt the touch of her hand, soft, cold, wet, against my cheek. yet soon, too soon, it was gone. And I knew she could do nothing. The same can be said of the river. Winding, deep, treacherous, her tendrils reached out to me. Gently patting my hanging head as I gazed into her mirroring pools. Her waves tried to console me, her waters tried to warm me. I departed as the tide reced...

Words. A barrage of letters, all connected into dainty necklaces that manage to deliver agonizing news. A thud against his barrel chest, like the newspaper thwacks against the cement stoop in the darkness of the morning hours. I watch as he cracks open from top to bottom down his sternum, and then side to side. A large ravine stares at me, dares me to do something, to fix him and his broken body. But I realize that there's nothing  that will help him now. That words will never be enough to mend the gaping hole. But that's all I have now to offer him, and all he can trust. He hopes to unjumble the letters and weave together a blanket of words that relieve and soothe and heal. Words that tell a story.   Photos found at http://www.mnn.com/lifestyle/arts-culture/stories/why-your-brain-can-read-jumbled-letters; http://news.discovery.com/earth/odd-cause-of-gaping-siberian-holes-possibly-found-1...

Stretching her fingers, she tries to reach the other side of her wants. She views them there, clinging, like vines that dance across the distressed cement siding of her former home. Lovely, and yet suffocating. These wants, they mimic and taunt and she questions when, and if, she will be able to touch them. And whether or not a single glance will quench her fierce thirst. for all the desires she does not possess. These wants, they serve a grand purpose and distract her from the here, the now. They tether her to the past instead of propelling her forward to the place she needs to be to succeed, to grow, to flourish. She never thinks about why  her fingers stray off the mark. And she should think. She should.

Go to her , I want to say, go to her . Peel off the gossamer layers of shame and guilt and madness, Confess your sins, and place them before her, carefully, willfully, let her inspect them, these things that have  desiccated you. Have her thread her fingers between the crevices and then, she can decide whether or not to judge you. I have no answers , I want to say I have no answers . but I know how much the past can adhere and wrench the vitality out of everything, such that it jeopardizes the present, the future. But you will feel  clean, pure, rejuvenated and more content than ever if you go to her.