of lows ...

Mar 22, 2008 - 16:41 PM PST

Uncannily impervious is how she would describe it. Strangely, terrifyingly unchanging, that one little part of her, that one little piece so lovingly molded that not even time, the strongest of enemies, could shake into unbeing.
There is so much that she yearns to say. It’s the digging part that bothers her: the part where she has to dig up the dirt to find what is buried beneath. For years she has waited patiently for this dirt to gather, and it’s been a process … no … a ritual, performed lovingly, with a saddened passion perhaps, but lovingly nonetheless.
A pile of time, heavy at times, seemingly lighter at others. It rests on that little part of her which is uncannily the same: that little part of her which was there before the dirt began to gather, indeed, before there was any need for any dirt to gather. Before there was any need to hide anything, to be hidden.
Digging hurts. It’s strenuous. Something inside her aches; maybe it’s her chest, because of the cold that’s been bothering her for the better part of the week. Maybe it’s that other word, the one we shouldn’t mention, because it’s a cliché. The one responsible for the gathering of the dirt: the one which propels, sustains, the fragile one, so tough to quench, but so easily broken.
Is this what they mean, those writers, when they say bitter, but sweet? This gentle ache, this tug of the soul, is that what inspires them to write?
Is it abusing the soul, or is it fortifying it? She is in no position to tell. There is no sun that is rising or setting, no poetic movement to compare with. A clock ticking in the background, darkness beyond the window. The clean dishes ready to be put away, the stillness of the room. A faded light in a corner; the cat asleep on the sofa.
There is nothing. Nothing except that ache, that soundless, stubborn ache that fills everywhere with echoes. Uncannily impervious, is how she would describe it. It hasn’t changed one bit, not since the dirt started to gather.