Please forgive my absence. The real Zaedah (the dog, not the writer) has been sick with her second bout of cancer so kindly keep your fingers crossed for her upcoming surgery. I promise to resume reading the works I have missed from you all (yes, I owe you a few reviews, Ms. Smiley) . Meanwhile, may I offer this little nonsensical journey...
Still Life Eruption
She is a still life.
Comprised of haphazard pieces scattered on an unsteady surface, she is a common heap waiting to be painted. And ruthlessly judged for precision. The assembled parts serve no singular purpose; a lamp, plant, bowl and knickknack pulled from a cobwebbed shelf to huddle together for a moment of use. The work is slow in its irresolute movements. Not a master work, this life seems designed for practice, a way to sharpen someone else's skill. Another hand gripping the brush would do the effort more justice. As with any flawed exercise, the result will be discarded. She must be; blemishes pave the road to waste.
She is a knickknack.
Teeming with the patron saints of pity, her shelf resides in the middle ring of the seventh circle of hell. This is where the unraveled soul waits for death or notice, whichever dawns first. It seems that she'd belonged on a different shelf once, owned by one who would keep her upright. But she'd fallen out of favor, given away and forgotten. The glances grew fewer, her identity lost among so many wretched others and the amalgamation eclipsed peace. Time can be told by the chime of her fears, the gears stripped but forced to perform.
She is a clock.
The inner workings sag with each strike, the hands worn but still extending; reaching for purpose and finding the hollow tick of a life passing. She is the machine on the wall, the timepiece of all that is broken. It is her mechanism that marks the seconds, minutes and hours of her failings. The stroke of the pendulum is constant, the rhythm of wrong. And for all that her pale face hides, it is the dark engraving of her countenance that tell the seeker the sum of her. 'What time' is the question answered, but this query is not her own. And when picked up from the nail that binds her, she is limp.
She is a doll.
Limbs hang with the dead weight of years, incapable of resurrecting that supposition of spirit, that promise of peace. Where she is carried matters not, any destination toward light is welcomed regardless of the painful shine. And so often she is disappointed. The bright of contentment exists in a different sky, one hesitant to linger above her. But she is cradled to another, scattered parts gathered in their disarray. She resists.
He is a hammer.
Bits of her are claimed from the easel, the table, the wall, herself and the summation is beaten together to form some semblance of a person. As he breaks and reshapes her, he speaks of belonging and worth, the words hard to chew and impossible to swallow. Because she boasts a lack of hunger, he force feeds her and when the choking subsides, she is full. She sees and is seen. There is a rush in her limbs, her clockwork uncoils and shedding the knickknack's skin, she erupts from the bonds of the still life.
She is.