This stream is the coldest my hands have ever touched. If there is a bottom to its shallowness, I can’t find it. The water seems so damned clear, too clear. I think I should be able to see, but I can’t. It must be the water’s rush against the rocks that makes it to see even the reflection of the sky.
This stream leads to a river. I can feel it. Its mouth is trapped behind the forest. I swear if I touch that mouth it would sear my hands. But, I don’t know this to be true. It’s good I keep numbed, unable to feel the pebbles disturbed below.
I read the movement of the water. I can understand only so much of it before it gets lost. Perhaps, the writer is confused and has lost the sense of its direction. That’s an easy thing to do with something that is so cold and full of stones.
Sometimes I think I’m asleep. The stream has that affect. But, I know I’m awake. Movement catalogued, as if all is perpetually still and nothing lost track of. The story keeps me sane.
Bits of me join the stream. At times, I think I am part of the stream, both of us searching for the mouth. I never feel like the bits are lost. They are always reading, always reading.
|vishnupria on Plazmic|
|Walk, Love, Sparkle on Crows|
|Elan Mudrow on Plazmic|
|namelessneed on Plazmic|
|Johnny Crabcakes on Plazmic|