4 Apr 2006

The scenes are set like oil paintings in my mind’s eye, that slowly pan away and leave the darkness. I have the vision of an old woman’s face, whom I have never met, whose visage I imagine are the amalgam of many grandmothers I have heard stories about. She is dressed in a velvet maroon, black except where the light reflects the redness. I do not know why the setting is Victorian like this; I do not know why the things I picture do not move. It is not life, I conclude, and I wonder why I think on these things, which have no bearing on my being. The scenes pass through, as if they are on their way toward something else, and I was merely a transient station that was not meant to hold them. I do not think I will consider them any more than this. Fleeting, like a notion that you can do nothing about, and do not really even wonder about it.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

No Comments »

No comments yet.

RSS feed for comments on this post.

Leave a comment

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.