White space
Free-written poetry, survival through moments of depression and the hope of escape as life resumes.
The white-space.
Pain just seemed to happen to her she felt nothing. It was part of the process, part of the cycle,
Just something to endure.
Where words failed and help too distant.
When the fear overwhelms and invades all senses,
Just an excruciating need to scream with every muscle in her body contracting and contorting her to the floor; not in pain; in necessity.
The physical unexpected folding and falling was senseless to her. Her body turning in on itself as if trying to push the scream to the surface. Her mouth grasping at the air forming the movements, shapes and expressions needed to achieve a small expression of what was happening to her but not a sound would be made.
Curled up on the floor, grabbing hold of anything close by,
A ledge,
The carpet,
Her own skin.
Anything to enable her body to further express the struggle.
None of it a conscious effort.
A subconscious attempt to communicate.
To the loneliness surrounding her or to herself?
Fantasies of shards of glass, the glass that fed the fire and ferocity of the questions.
Why? What now? What’s the point?
Her hand.
The glass.
An escape.
Imagining the shards as they scrape and slice, the image is poetical.
The track running behind the blade of the mirror, gliding as a Red Sea simmers and shimmers behind.
The red; reluctant.
No pain.
In the fantasy; No tears, Fearless.
Not a fantasy of the poetical.
Not the cinematic beauty
The vain hope of release. Of escape.
In reality; No pain. No tears. Fearless.
No release. No escape.
More questions, more turbulent criticisms. If there’s no pain. Why?
The conflict inside as she considers the reality.
The conflict inside as it happens.
A voice shouting and sobbing from deep within. Ashamed. Distant.
“It won’t make a difference” she repeats and repeats.
The words in affective.
Repeated aloud.
Insufficient and verbose.
Falling into deafness.
Faded and weak.
Then a jolt.
Like lightening in her chest. A. Sudden desire to…
To what. To nothing. Somehow something shifts.
It fades.
The white space lifts.
Like it never was.
The white space.
Life. Resumed.
josi3dee View All →
I’ve been an avid reader and scribbler for years but only recently started thinking about publishing my work.
I’ve always enjoyed writing and have, since 2008, been producing scripts for theatre as my main focus of writing, but always scribbling poems, songs and short stories for fun, and/or catharsis. I’m also a keen sketcher and sketchnoter.
Scribbles of an insomniac 