dotism

January 2020

  1. Gelicide

    ·

    Perseverance reaches from the swept dunes of a snow-bound burial.

    She poured herself a cup of tea from the pot and placed the cup before herself, and then poured her self a cup of tea as well.

    “It has been quite a while since we’ve been near one another,” she said to herself. “It seems like a long time since we have spoken, since we have exchanged words, since we’ve allowed ourselves to reflect one another completely.”

    There had been an uneasiness which had descended upon her in the previous months, the result of a mood which darkened along with the wintry days, and thusly sorrow had been the blanket which had come to protect her from the cold. The only opportunities for speech had been those rare moments when she had been asked to explain herself, to provide a defense for her disordered behavior, demands for introspection that had caused her to become trapped within that which she was expected to explore without Harm’s intention.

    “It feels as if the only words I speak are those of self-condemnation, a dossier of damage done, a report on all that has gone wrong and the particular implications of each fractured fault and creeping crevice. How I miss those carefree days when we would skip hand-in-hand through the city, the warm wind in our face, our self beside a lake with a book and the gentle comfort of Serenity’s embrace.

    “Though here we are now, scratching at walls, tears streaming. The air itself causes injury and we shiver in corners, unable to even speak to ourself without contempt dripping from our lips. And so we have turned away, hiding in attics of intoxication, unable to face our own reflection without uncontrollable sobs of desperation.”

    Her now-watery eyes rose from their fixture upon the teacup resting on the table before her, the blurriness clearing to reveal herself as she knew herself to be: Quiet and patient, caring, her own tenderness for her self leaking from the emptiness which sat opposite her placement, tea untouched, dandelions swimming in restorative pools.

    “We must remember that there is certain joy to be found in plastic, a contentedness in clickity-clack,” she heard herself say from far away, as if she had floated off into some other sphere. “There is a fancifulness to be discovered in that which you already know to be sincere in its kindly assistance—don’t lose connectedness with that which soothes, do not deny your self delight.

    “We will come together again soon, we must, for even now the days seem longer: All shall spring into a newness born, we only need wait as these days trip over themselves like cartwheels in a frost-covered field. Just when it seems like there is nothing left: We will find each other, ourselves, our self righted for yet another season more.”

    She put a finger into her tea cup and swirled the liquid slowly, watching the circles loop endlessly, wondering if she might be able to drown her self in there entirely.