.Words as fingertips lightly nudge feelings along, but it is no use, for there is only a bleakness, untouchable and jet, as black as the heart of ebony wood, hard and airless. Is this sorrow ? That which my wounds would not show to the scavengers with whom I spend my days, pecking at them, incessantly. I dress them again and again, but who will tend them when consciousness slips away and my still body continues in this state of despair.
Am I so different, that I would press softy on their wounds, holding blood and flesh together for as long as anyone could wait, until my own limbs fall and lose their strength? What am I that I would do things that others would not seem to even consider, let alone acknowledge in the light of day?
They swarm as soon as I lift the mesh and dare to see the damage that could not be repaired, even if there was time in this space. I am within this singularity, away from any thought of future, only present and past enfold around me in a circuit of annuity.
Thinking about a space without air, where would that be and why would anyone be there? What form would I take, if I could take flight? And where could I go to? Space, an airless place did not frighten me in its vastness, but this place, wounded as I feel, is horrifying.
Perhaps, as an astronaut, I could look again from a distance at the smallness of our existence and see myself reflected in it.