More reflections, echoing from the concrete in an empty city…
Imagine a city without people. Without rushing. Without traffic. Without the smell of coffee. Without the sound of buskers threading on the wind.
What patterns would we find, in that place? What noise would disturb it, what flashes of colour would drive it?
Time is my canvas, and my brush is the light. The longer the time, the lighter each stroke of the brush becomes.
With a slow enough line, we all start to fade and blur.
With a slow enough line, we all start to disappear.
I have found myself snagged on the world of green.
I left a small thread of me there, caught on the edge of the wilderness,
Somewhere between the mountains and the forest.
And now I can still feel it
Every now and then I catch myself on a memory
And the thread, stretched tight to where I am now,
Hums and sings, and the sound calls me away to the other place
Where I belong.
We stitch our lines across the sky, dividing it into tiny patches, blocking out the blue with our glass and concrete.
We draw the buildings tight, firming the sutures.
And just like that, it all disappears. Day and night. Light and dark. Sun and rain. And still we pull the threads tighter and tighter.
Waiting for our wounds to heal.
We’re all made of this:
trembling, tender, delicate, alert,
and strong –
We’re all made of this
it’s just the shape that changes between us.