THE WAITING ROOM
“Another
failed sacrifice,” intoned
that now familiar voice. I could see the furry shape in front of
myself, shielded by the mists. I could feel a vague sense of shame
for having returned to this room so swiftly.
“A
father and a partner. I would have thought you would have been happy
with the chance you had been given.”
I could definitely sense something else at work behind its calm
words.
“You
should have seen what was at work behind the situations you placed
yourself within.” I could
definitely detect a new edge to the voice. Mmmmm. “I told
you previously that everything has a story. You have not been heeding
this.” Mmmmm, I certainly had
not, forgot about that, caught in the moment each time. I could feel
judgement again.
“What
are you?” I blurted out, out of the blue. I had no idea why I asked
it, nor where these words came from.
“I
am a different story to you. I am the one that is here in this room
and does not have to make the choice of going through that door one
more time, or staying put, learning to be at ease with the endings of
stories past.”
Is
that all it came down to? Being content with how my story ended? But
don't we write our own stories? Could I not rewrite it in a much
better way? Of course it wasn't just about my story, but about
Sarah's as well. And Josh's. Illiterate worm. I could do this. I
would do this, it was the correct thing to do.
“I
see that you have made your decision. It does not come as a surprise
to me. I wish you the best of luck, and that I hope you can do what
is best for all.”
The
yellow eyes were staring straight at me, with all the fervour of a
crowd. They were inside of me, probing my thoughts, a thousand hands
feeling out what I was thinking. It wasn't just this furry thing in
front of me, it felt like the hands of history were doing this,
appraising me like an omniscient auditor. I couldn't hold its gaze. I
flew for the door, eager for the trial to be over.
* * *
I, AT THE CENTRE OF THE AIR.
Hanging,
suspended within structures crystalline
Waiting.
I am hungry.
Waiting.
Taut,
silent, hungry
At
the corner of the infinite periphery astride air
Waiting.
I am hungry.
Waiting.
Forming
a path
From
abyss to abyss, hungry and patient weaver
Of
text whilst waiting
Waiting.
For
characters to come
Enter
this story, add their words to the ghostly structure
Floating
in the void
Waiting.
Hungry
for a conclusion
For
the lines to quiver and tremble at approaching agency
Eager
for an end to such
Waiting.
The
woven strands shake
Sending
orders to issue forth, intercept, retrieve, absorb
Surround
in words
Wrapped
and captive
Until
the subject is the one
Waiting.
The
strands deceive
The
structure is hewn and falls softly to a silent rest
So
silent silence skirts the periphery and scales the real
Alien
superstructure the strands of fate adhere to
No
longer able to wait patiently when impatience has torn
The
woven fabric of the wait, a story built and finished
By
one unable to read
As
a weaver reads vibrations
In
the text, in the patterns and the strands of the asking
This
agent could not read and was afraid of what he knew not
So
from the periphery an exodus to alienation and further
Away
from pursuit and heavy judgement from above
Amidst
broken frames of fallen structure, to be rebuilt anew
In
a different, freer land
Away
from this illiterate
And
this land that had proven to be barren since text-birth
So
I, at the centre of the air, ascend contrary to gravity
And
stand instead upon the inverse surface, reversed horizon
Eyes
appraising the foundations for which the woven path
May be retrod
once more, after the vibrations have departed
I
feel the illiterate beneath
Sending
tremors into the ether
Trembling
and anxious, and I have this mad compulsion
An
instinctive blurting, far from erudite, irrational
And
I must weave downwards, descend, fall, go down
Dropping
like a weight enacting gravity's ritual towards
This
illiterate, as though I have a story to weave for them
And
the impatient illiterate
Can
no longer be kept
Waiting.
The
new crystalline silk
Liquid
weave unwavering
Permits
my going down, the woven text suffers for it
This
is not part of a natural structure but an alien one
Feeling
forced upon myself, bent over backwards
And
enveloped fast within my own ghostly coccoon
Though
I can see through spectral structure I am stuck
And
compelled onwards
Tied
to descending hungrily
The
vibrations in the air are fearful and terrible
Though
the agent has perceived the intent behind the weave
Followed
the pattern of the structure and traced the lines
Of
silken glass connecting one story to another
And
the illiterate has fallen, gone down far faster than gravity
His
structure has toppled
Fall
finally ending all this
Waiting.
My
hungry impatient waiting
And
now the threads tell me
That
this illiterate has fallen from its ladder through fear
At
seeing a fellow weaver go down to it against its will
And
in trying to evade fell too far, too much and too hard
And
the tremors send cracks through the air shaking the lines
And
make a noise that summons the illiterate's partner
And
she, for she is a she, a she that would consume the story
And
would envelope the male for that is as she is want to do
And
she comes and sees I at the centre of the air
And
she encases me within a glass coccoon of her own
And
I know that she is a story teller as well
And
I know that the structure she is imposing is a story
That
I have heard before
And
her tears are ones that I have heard before
In
another story entirely
And
the tears to my silken structure
And
the tears for her fallen partner
I
feel them as shiverings of the same story
And
I am caught in the middle of this snare
And
before I am thrown to a cold, wet end
I
wonder why this has been chosen as the end
Of
our stories.
