wordzly

The world of words, reading and writing

The Clocks (Part 2)

This is what you want

And you have told yourself

This is what I want

           who I am

And they adore you

They say it with flowers

or a card,

at least…

But what do they want?

You                                                     are still unsure

If

You are living the dream

This is what you want,                        you remind yourself

EVERY DAY

One night Delia thought she could not see the dawn. And when at last the nighttime lifted and sunlight slipped through she saw that she was wrong. That shining shard tempts her hand. Her grasping fingers tip and topple all the bottles off the shelf into the sea. She finds what she was searching for as her hand produces a fine-tipped brush. Maybe she will try again. Her eyes are closed and they do not hear the sounds around her. The ticking of the clock. Seconds would not pass if she did not count them. The brush is placed upon a page and Delia sings for her daisy’s return. It struggles forward against the beat of the clock. Hush! She does not want to hear you! She pauses to breath as life continues. Life continues without her. Does Delia continue without Life? If Life does not need Delia, then does she need Delia?

Curiouser and curiouser…

The clock is asking her the time and as the midnight sunset whispers secrets to her, she watches the tide swell around her feet. If she is to go swimming then she cannot have so much extra baggage. Her books go, and the critics, and the fans and hardcover editions. Left alone, Delia contemplates.

There is time and always time

You do not know

You do not know

That time is always time

The time is always

That time is only time

That time is always and only time

And time again

You are told

There is always time

To change

Tick             tick          tick         tick      tick

Chime!

Delia looks down and, surprised, notices the clock resting in her hand. One moment to reflect and then she acts. With vigour previously unpossessed she throws the clock. its weight carves through space, striking the static ambience of the air. The world is standing still and Delia wonders if the clock will ever stop. It does. There is a reverberation of silence as it unites with the mirror. Both break in delightful poeticism. Life resumes as icy particles of the mirror rain down. The clock is no longer moving. It is broken and from it pours and inky blackness. Time? No. Words. Or something stronger…

Delia regards the clock. There is time on her fingers.

Delia: What do you have to say for yourself?

Clock: (silence)

Delia: Then I win

Delia begins to write:

I am climbing out from pools of darkness. Finally I sit not to write but to create. Moulding mellow blurs in a sinking caress like clouds of careless autonomy. Autonomy is intoxicating. It revives my senses, awakening something inside of me that lets run an impenetrable stream of consciousness that unites with forceful resonance. My body is my canvas: splashing, streaking divulging ecstasy. In one single moment there is the invitation to thought. Eclectic collections that confound and compound, compressed into a single second. And behind all this lingers a familiar sensation hovering just outside the realm of consciousness.

Delia adds one final thought:

The subtle smell of Rosemary.

                                                                                                                                   

Postscript:

Clocks can see nothing apart from the present

Mirrors aren’t a reflection of who you are, but when you are (who you are)

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