dotism

First Vacivity

A bench tries to hide in shadows as the brightness creeps in, exposing all.

And therein lies what must be deemed most crucial, that mistaken moment, those misused minutes. There was a period when purposefulness may have been implemented, though it had already seemed too late then, as if all trains had departed leaving her alone at the station, without even a scribble of instruction, her own name now a memory threatening to be found missing along with everything else.

The problems began when she separated from what surrounded her, herself becoming something of a forgotten fragment as she slowly drifted away from the center which bonded all that she had known. The odd thing was that she had not moved from where she had been, she had made no decision to flee, initially. The world shifted itself without her, it would seem, though to her it felt like she had been pushed, that something wished her gone, and so she found herself floating away by a force not her own.

Although once her separation had become complete, once she had felt herself severed entirely, she began to help herself along the way. Thus she became more distant, more removed, and seemed to be working only towards this ambition, herself drifting further and further away at a velocity ever-increasing. Once she became cognizant of just how far she had travelled, how far off the world now seemed, it dawned on her how difficult it might be to ever return—if so wished—and she found herself stranded completely, gasping for air, choking on the thinness of possibilities.

She crossed her legs into a lap with her elbows at her knees and dropped her head into cupped hands, trying to make sense of it, all instruments proving themselves worthless, this realm unnavigable in its sparseness. She softly taps a code into her forehead with fingertips depleted of sensation, the space now constricting and causing her to choke as her sightless eyes roll back and towards the sky, the sickened Nothingness exhorting for something more as she struggles to decipher its diseased desire, a hunger deprived, a last thread strained to the point of split, and she whispers faintly before fainting: “Tomorrow shall find itself differently than this one before it”.

The morning is never as pleasant as it pretends to be. The sun sneaks in from between curtains, falling onto motionlessness, the day dancing its demands into her mind as she grasps herself in gripped stillness until it can no longer be denied. The emptiness remains and she wanders in circles, patterned into the floorboards, cyclically meandering without meaning. A wish insists for a brightened spot upon the horizon—any indication of an arrival—the chance for these fragments to find themselves attached to a purpose or possibility. That she might be pulled back towards worthiness! That she might find herself rejoined, reminded, and carefully washed ashore once more! The thought of it is too much for her to bear and instead she throws herself into the disappearance, an evaporation, the myth of her Self but mist, with any remaining idea of her now absorbed by the immensity which she had left unexplored.

The shadow of a tree consoles three pipes as they vent nothingness to a division.