dotism

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  1. Summotion

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    The wispiness of those grasping at the wind.

    It had been a rainy day and those troublesome thoughts had been swirling in her mind for months; like angry bees, they swarmed and stung, thousands of sharp pangs snapping against the inside of her head like weaponized rubber bands. She winced when they pinched and she could not help but exclaim: “How foolish I am, have been, and shall be; my idiocy seems never to find its limits as it grows ever more large. Am I doomed to regret everything that is done by me when I am not perfectly still and silent? Must I be locked up like a lunatic, forbidden access to anything but the shrieking squeaks of a rusted, corroded mind?”

    As the raindrops continued to fall, she watched the rippled circles form and expand in a puddle outside her window. They appeared randomly, flowing out from dotted points of impact, soon joining one another, overlapping and combining, together becoming a pattern beautiful, circles within circles, the puddle animated with the interconnectedness of newfound friendships, the unification of liquid lives which had so recently been solitary selves, dropping from the the clouds which had been damning the day since sunrise.

    She crawled on her hands and knees until she was under the table entirely, her pockets filled with pencil stubs and scraps of paper. Once she felt hidden away completely, her self removed from all of that which had pretended to know her, she began to make notes of warning and commiseration for her future self: “It will never work, successfulness as we deem it will never be met with. It is best we remain in shadows, tucked away for our own protection, secluded and alone. We shall not be allowed to become one of those coalescing circles within their puddle, it shall not be permitted, for we fell from an improper cloud–if it was a cloud, at all. There is room for us beneath the stairs with the unwanted, unneeded things, and there we can trace our own patterns in the dust. Be them shapeless or imaginary, at least they are ours, and with that we can remain intact.”

    Still the rain fell and the puddle accepted each drop with glee, circles expanding from within circles until all became one. She welled and a tear fell from her eye and into her tea, a single circle expanding until absorbed by the circumference of the cup. Eventually she rose to close the curtains, as a gently-whispered sigh escaped slowly from between her barely-parted lips.

  2. Ichthyarchy

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    Whilst in hiding, one grows within shadows.

    Her tiny boat was as big as her former room, this small vessel with pale paint peeling from its hull, itself bobbing gently within the expanse of an endless sea. She had been adrift for months, perhaps years, and time was not all that she had lost. With this emptiness enveloping her like a warm blanket in darkest winter, she put her hand over the side of the boat, her fingertips tenderly touching the icy water as if playing along the keyboard of Silence’s piano.

    The perplexity of the situation became apparent whenever she attempted to paddle herself towards some unseen shore, for as soon as an oar touched the surface of the sea: the water roiled and roared, waves suddenly rearing themselves furiously from the stillness until walls of angry swells surrounded her completely—with foaming viciousness piquing from each crest. The moment an oar was removed from the water, all returned to placidity, and so she had learned to simply sit and contemplate her condition—with loneliness her only friend. And so she persisted to drift, as merrily as could be, herself little more than a spurned speck silhouetted against a starless sky—with its horizon dividing nothingness from itself for all eternities to come.