Marble dance

22. march 2017 at 17:57 | Gréti |  The short ones
Floors. Wooden floors and wooden doors and wooden chairs and wooden halls, wooden marbles in the corners. Don´t go near them.
Scattered children of little black holes. If they come around... If they come, don´t greet them.
I wonder.
Little by little the air gets thicker.
I still wonder.
What might be their purpose?
Just look. Look at her. Look. The marble. A scooped out eye, lonely observator in the light of the day and in the vivid shadows of night, widely opened. Look. It looks, too. It is looking. Looking at me. Looking at you. Observing. Watching. Closer.

Don´t go near it.
Don´t touch it.
Stay away.
It is not safe.
Brutality measured in fake smiles.
I wonder.
It is absurd, isn´t it, Marley? The world is still spinning. And the eyes are, too, around and around and around, rolling and scrolling through the list of you, the list of me. I am not a blank paper. Neither of us is. And they read. Blind eyes.
The wooden marbles dance on the wooden floor, spin and squiggle. Hypnotize. They chatter, boiling in explosions of laughter. A looong roooll.
Raw. It sounds raw, doesn´t it, Marley? But what am I to do with it?
They came, once. Once, it was one. One marble, one small cocoon hanging from the wooden ceiling by a thread. White silk it was, Wrapped like a baby in it´s sheets. Tick-tack. Tick-tack. It rocked from side to side, from the left to the right. Calmly.
I watched it tick and tack. But one day, the pattern broke. The cocoon bursted, snowflakes sprinkling down the air.
I watched it tick ´till it swang me to sleep. And then I dreamt about myriads of moths breaking free from bursting metal crates, their wings rubbing against each other, creaking like old cat´s voice in larynx, meeeow, shuffling like cards swallowed by a gambler, shfff.
A rattle knocked on the drum of my ear. I came to, awakening from a dream, suddenly snapping out, fog and sweat blending my sight, swirls of whiteness whirling in my pupils. I listened to the whispering wind behind the wooden doors. But there were none.
No wooden doors, no wooden floors and wooden halls and wooden chairs, only a wooden knock, every now and then filling in the swirl with a swift sound. Knock-knock. Knock.
Knock. Knock.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I stopped counting. A storm of rattling raging around me.
They were bouncing off the wooden floors, apparently. Wooden marbles multiplying when hitting the ground, Marley.
Fierce jabber. As if nobody was watching, Marley. As if all were deaf, Marley. I was deaf, apparently. Mute, Marley. Non-existent, Marley. For them, Marley.
You see, it is difficult. Was difficult. A wooden box with wooden knocks. It is lonely. Was lonely.
I gave up.
I wonder why. I wonder why they still gaze at me. Stare. Patter. I gave up. What else do they need?
I sink into the wooden rocking chair and watch the marbles dance, the construction underneath me creaking. Rotten.
I watch the wooden world rot slowly. It devours itself.

15th November 2016

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