August 26, 2012 § Leave a comment
She’s hurried and she’s angry, the walkway is filled with grass and the air with waning heat. Summer will close soon and fall will come sliding in only to be overpowered by winter. Yes, she’s hurried and she’s angry without hours to pass in leisure. Of course, if she thought about it, she would shrug away the hours that may have been; knowing those hours would waste in ignominy.
What good could she do with a few hours when so many more rule? The summer has been fretful, wringing at its hands and shivering beneath its own heat. It seems to recall every moment she has so desperately tried to forget throughout every summer passed. The summer has lain in the misery of known perversions and lasting remorse. The hours have laughed at their own violent length and promised to grow with every passing thought — leaving the seconds silent without another to comfort the minutes.
She, Dana, pauses beneath the bus sign and glances down the street. Watching the bus approach she decides the last moment should be walked — yes, walked with the same obscurity as the life has been lived.
Ignoring the others at the stop, she slips through the small crowd and into the darkness of the alley. Summer will be ended soon. How she hated the impending threat of winter that fall sloshed about like some drunken tit at the all night bar.
She shivers at scarcely the thought and curses mildly beneath her breath. Still hurried and still angry, she cuts through another alley and across the street. She hears her name, but ignores the sound in favor of deafness. Footsteps follow her, as does the call to her name. Quickening as fast as she possibly can, without sprinting into a jog, she bends herself into another alley.
She spins then. Suspends in spot and glares into the light end of the alley. “If you had thought I heard you and I continued to move forward, why must you insist on forcing me to slow and stop? The obvious answer was glaringly bright and you chose to ignore it. Why is that choice made? The choice to ignore the needs or desires I harbor and hate but keep? Why must I be a blindness to the will of any other?”
“Dana, are you well?”
“I’m as well as I can be; now do me the courtesy of standing still as I go on my way. I’m not interested… not in chat, not in laughter. I’m not interested in the paltry speak of habitual life and I would much rather reach my destination in timely fashion than pause to giddy about with you or any other.”
Does it matter who calls to her? Possibly. It may slow her pace and lift her mood, but she’ll not pause to ascertain the outline or diagnose the voice. She’s hurried and she’s angry. Dana has a broken clock, a fractured wall, and while spring may usher in the year for the world, fall ushers in the death of comfort for Dana. Though she has weeks, the hours are whiling away. The end of summer will always be the end of a year for her and this summer, especially hateful, bores in scars almost physically.
So she turns. Her feet carry her away and the body behind stands still in hush. A new ache has been born while an old one continues.
The alleys wind one after the next, eventually they’ll lead to the edge of the city and she will follow the curve of the land into the darkness of nightfall and the cover of forestry. She’ll follow the land until she has nowhere further to walk. From there she will dive and she will fly until gravity pulls her down. For a moment, just a moment, she will have nothing weighing on her soul; still, like all things, when the weight is lifted it will return with a spiteful agenda. Dana will fall.