Soft Light Sheath, Part One

White Wall 

Soft light sheath pours over
 Insidious rises and recesses;
 Swiftly, I am absorbed into its
 Hypnotic crevices. The wall is an Oxymoron: sturdy enough to
 Hold up the others, yet frail
 Against angry fists. It divides,
 Creates rooms and passages.
 It waits with me, understanding
 Weary frustrations dipped
 In time. The wall stands unchanged
 Through movement it patiently
 Remains despite revolving minutes
 And colors. Speaking through echo,
 Its chamber-like stance wisely
 Reduces diatribe into mere murmur.

To be quiet was to absorb all that was going on around me. I was safe in my corner or distant chair. The walls were my friends. They contained the stories, like the ones I wanted to hear. Walking into a crowded room is daunting to me. I am essentially shy and I have to try hard to strike up conversation with people I have never met. I will garner all of my energy and force myself to be “on” and engaging. It wipes me out, I collapse at home. Those reserves are empty and I have nothing more to offer until the solace refills me once again.

People are interesting creatures. I look at them as if they were on a movie screen, especially the ones who live unexpected lives and say things I have never heard. Those are the best times. I stand with the walls, enthralled by the scene playing out in front of us. It is as if I have ceased existing in the perceived world and found that liminal, in-between space. I learn and think. I honor the humanity in front of me; the decisions and circumstances. I don’t stand there in judgement. It’s often nice to just let it be.

I fall home. My bed swallows me whole. I daydream and relive everything. I hear my own voice in the conversations that I dared not participate. Like a script I carefully place words and set the scene. Hands, voices, gestures, legs – they all appear in my ethereal film. The world is less complex; less scary. I create the landscape in which I live.

Pen and paper on the table. I write my silent voice. Fear and anger are woven throughout the prose. The kind that swirl around in my head like a fury. Pen and paper listen intently. They would never let me down. Like quiet walls forming a corner, I am held closely. I am free to create the world; give color to the colorless. Time and time again, I choose words and phrases as if they were air. When I have no more to say, I close my eyes until the darkness ends. I hum and listen for my breath. My heart pounds and lets me know I am still.

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