So, one day I sat down to write and suddenly had the idea of turning a poem into a prose piece. This is what happened:
I’ve been sitting here for much too long. I feel myself teetering between the waking world and someplace else, somewhere beyond the hazy edge of consciousness. A peripheral blur of colour snatches my attention. I see her.
The girl is making her way into the coffee shop. She pushes open the door, her movement a pleading gesture. Every part of her screams out such timidity that it’s a wonder to me how she pulls herself out of bed in the morning, puts on shoes, steps into the world and exists.
The girl is making her way into the coffee shop. She pushes open the door, her movement a pleading gesture. Every part of her screams out such timidity that it’s a wonder to me how she pulls herself out of bed in the morning, puts on shoes, steps into the world and exists.
My gaze glides up to her eyes. Those hazel orbs dance an agitated dance, not daring to stay one place too long. She searches without finding. (Who doesn’t?) Then, our eyes meet.
She takes a breathe and starts her way hesitantly towards me. Her feet carry her closer. Each step is taken cautiously. I notice her heels barely strike ground. As she nears me, an arm comes up. I see her taking aim, her fingers on an invisible trigger. She shoots me an accusing look. That one glare communicates more to me than I think I will ever know.
“The entire world dances a collective waltz on tiptoes.”
At this point, I am only imagining and assuming. It’s all perception. My mind, my eyes, my being, every part of me has joined in the mayhem. I dance on the edge of the page, out of step and out of line.
I have no need for eyes any longer in this world of agitated dancers.
She takes a breathe and starts her way hesitantly towards me. Her feet carry her closer. Each step is taken cautiously. I notice her heels barely strike ground. As she nears me, an arm comes up. I see her taking aim, her fingers on an invisible trigger. She shoots me an accusing look. That one glare communicates more to me than I think I will ever know.
“The entire world dances a collective waltz on tiptoes.”
At this point, I am only imagining and assuming. It’s all perception. My mind, my eyes, my being, every part of me has joined in the mayhem. I dance on the edge of the page, out of step and out of line.
I have no need for eyes any longer in this world of agitated dancers.
