dotism

Pessundated

A thin, solitary leaf bends across a wooden footbridge.

Along a path, the wind rushes then retreats; reeds sway rhythmically, suddenly. There was nothing spectacular, nor had there been; an emptiness of notion, for once. And then, a poisoning. Raindrops fell sporadically, threateningly; a grimness descended slowly, the path now felt long and tired.

Why had such sour clamorousness risen above the calmness of a silence, to what end had it required such a starting interruption? The hours became broken then, moments crafted from the remnants, each a shard into what had been a mended mind.

There had a been a path before it and it continued afterwards, though it was not the same. Merrily along, it had wandered with a subdued innocence, humming, then damaged by the bitterness of an intrusion—a stranger, a strangeness, a strangulation.

It shall always feel unwelcome, that involvement, that malefaction. Like a puerile pebble tossed to shatter the stillness of a pond: it punctures then reverberates in waves, progressing through an entirety until each molecule has been moved by it.

A path once meandered without intention, but now it runs straight with purpose, like an arrow into the heart of all it meets. The wind brushes gently against the rippling water, putting everything back into its place. A softness, a return to absence, a quieted mood.