Sometimes, it’s the little things that get us most. The cold air curling around the leaves in your yard that seems to stir inside you something much more powerful. Infinitely powerful. Or, you know, just watching the rain outside while you pause from reading a book or some sort of stuck busyness that you may find yourself in. And, just like that, all by yourself, you reach a new appreciation for the minuscule.
But it’s also true that these things hold more inside of them and a greater than they seem.
This is partly what is informing my writing piece, ‘infinitude of the minuscule’.
I wrote this straight out of my head–like every piece of writing I have and will put up on here–and it is also unedited and raw. Likewise, all my writing I put up on His Empty Space is.
INFINITUDE OF THE MINUSCULE
Translucent strands from the skin of her chest play against the tattered blue cardigan. She’s slumped in a car. It’s a frozen evening. Purple clouds scrambled and streaked, all hanging above this nocturnal car park. They’re lingering on the last fleet, praying for their orange brother in his stupor.
Ghostly masks plastered on the glacier widows. She peers into portals of the unknown. Her ambrette and hibiscus faintly puncture the stillness as she moves her neck and arches back into the chair, removing something. Where was she before?
Thin, silky hair tamed and flowing, just suspended above the shoulders as if an alluring veil. The fingers appear through the dark and a cream coat is drawn and the shutters of her eyes close as she opens the door.
Outside is obliteration. Her eyes alight from the red pulsing, the only hiding later of this new reality. Her nose is running. It’s running all over her pink skin and it is the only moving thing in this world. All other things have slowed down and there can be no restart lest the acceleration of their death.
The same water inside her and in every molecule and smallest piece will slowly curl up into a crystal of shrapnel. When there’s no other force against you but the inside crushing you out, who do you look to?
This cannot be an aim to escape that which is known and search those who are far from contact. The settling snow on her back peppers like a spray of fine metal–a frosty magnet to her emanating glow.
A weltered weed is strangled and spewing its life near a drain pipe up ahead, next to a rumbling shelter, echoing the thunder in the distance. She walks, dragging a bitten shoelace that trails lightly on the snowtop. She uproots the plant and delicately cradles it like her dead child.
The water pools again, hanging on her nose, wobbling above the dark universe of now. The same energy that lifts her along in the meandering ash is the one that also created it. It crystallises on the ground like every other inch of ice.
The trembling viscosity plays around in her head, making her dazed; she views the path through solar eyes that are almost dry. Blinks at the world and destroys it to black.
Black fades to beats of crimson and then awakening blue, all the way to a cordially yellow. She feels the ice pressed on her skull, chewing at the organic substance still left in the open. Cool shadows play over her until lengthened stripes divide the body.
A taste of damp ground in her mouth. She’s stretched near an array of broken branches and stale leaves; now is like them in form. Turning over, caving one side in, she looks around: all is grey, and the grey blocks out the purple brothers and sisters in the sky; their father is swallowed behind them; he’s gone now.
The single light that powers this world used to be captured and contained, but now it has no equal. Where does the fire go when the whole earth is burnt?
The landscape before her is a newborn sensorium. The drained colours play in the wind like mobiles from above and she is numbed in her snow cot as she stares up into the pivoting trunks of the nearby forest.
Gritty trunks seep the same muck that lingers and rolls on her tongue. Residue of smells and tastes beyond taste and beyond smell itself.
The rumbling is always there: it’s insider her, knowing that she’s lost something but doesn’t remember all of it. And the distant humming, like an ethereal locomotive that travels throughout her shell and passes into the cool calamity.
The forest breathes and shady ribcage shapes mingle in the dense overhangs. She walks alongside twigs and branches and bushes all torn and scruffier than her hair. Her left hip cracks as she walks and it is synchronised to her slow deep breath.
The pool mirrors her and she wonders who last saw what she sees now. Could they even reconcile her as human?
And there it is. Probably one of my largest writing posts so far.
As always, I hope you enjoy your stay here; I look forward to presenting you with more of my creations very shortly.
Thanks!
Tom. 🙂
His Empty Space 