The First Day
Three strands have been intertwined to pull in different directions. They are red, green and blue and now lie there, knotted.
Earlier, I lay on my back by the poolside—I did not want to swim. Reflected on the still water was the skylight, patterned with unswept leaves and the fainting shadow of the trees.
Later, I awoke, not knowing I had been asleep.
Now, this daze has turned into night, as heavy rain patters outside.
The Grassy Hill
What happened was that a Tear was held in an Eye for thirty minutes exactly. It was waiting to be released at the right moment, when the top of the Grassy Hill was reached, as the sun set, over the trees and ponds. All of this, by the way, was in the hopes of a moment of Great Catharsis.
Sadly, what occurred instead was something different: a violation of privacy, a cruel stanching—a sunset robbery, if you will—by the hand of those cheery people walking their well-groomed dogs. From the start, it had been an impossible feat: Great Catharsis had left the scene long before that point in time.
In a moment like this, a key question is raised: “Must this be how depletion piles-on?” And, in many ways, it is.
For it is true: the Grassy Hill stood as it should. But, in recent times, it has been shown that, the Held-Back Tear, tends to cumulatively build. So much so in fact, that, in some cases, when it is dreary and silent, it may dully drop.
And plop, on top of an umbrella—trudging through, in the dark, when Cruel Fog envelopes the gaping inconsequence ahead.
So, this is why there is a longing for the Grassy Hill to be empty—or for Tears to roll-down, hot.
But, before that, must come the snow. It must first turn to black ice on roads sidelined with sleet, frost must bite branches of crackling trees and hills must be muddied with slush. That rattling pane must whistle, all the way through. Only after that, may it pour, down, onto a different plane.
Then, a ‘ding’.
Which interrupts repose in the sleepy cabin. Slowly, seats and trays are repositioned and blinds raised. Could this watery sun, finally, hold a new day? When repetition dissipates over frosty hills, snowy and swerving, Clear Skies are bound to lie ahead. Zero chance of overcast—if the prediction is right. But, tomorrow will also be cold, according to the same forecast. In here, however, the knowledge of warmth fortunately stretches out—into centuries of sleep.
Arrested by this restfulness, thus, the Cycle may end as it begun—terribly—no longer able to stand the cruelty of it all.
And so, encased in sleepiness, and drowned by direness, another hour passes, tosses over once more and sinks, slowly. That is, of course, into time, not sleep. Because the hour is ungodly—that’s for sure. The gold-light was turned off at some point—though, when exactly, is hard to know— a woollen blanket was pulled over that Eye, the one that held the Tear, long ago.
Until, a warm itch spreads—stretches—and scratches away yesterday’s cold.
Then is when, outside the window, the low sun went into a high blaze. And, yoked by inevitability, it cracked, spilt-over, on top of the Grassy Hill. And so, as was excepted, the grass grew greener and the flowers bloomed yellow. Dew gathered on the blades, and smelt strongly in the clear mornings.
Days expanded into silence.