...Deep into the divinity, where the wind knows no path. Where the sun is pushed back, by the outspread fingers of the tree tops, as if reaching towards the heavens, only to refuse its radiant light. This is the quietness of my heart.
Here imagined...the wayward girl, makes her way along the aging iron fence. An upward reaching creation of dark spirals, a periphery between the obscure and the believable.
This palpable skin, her beginning and her end.
Sliding two fingers around the decaying rod, this separation is realized, as you come to the knowledge that you, are looking through her from the other side...
R�pression dans le commencement
A beginning to containment that is no more than embodiment. The belly of the underbrush...from the tangles of blackened thorns, to the delicate curves of the flower. It all unfolds here into the body. Her finger tips, the player in which the strings are fixed.
Here it all stands, here it all unravels. Each path unfolding one upon an other, until the heart is reached.
A lone tower, carved out of the hard stones of confessions. Of truths. Of Secrets.
Here she sleeps, her empty bed.
The keeper.
"Well, that's lovely dear...but I asked you to write a nonfiction piece." Her aged hands, handing the paper back, carelessly.
"Didn't I?" I reply curiously.
