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15 July 2016 @ 03:41 pm
a candle for seeker, pt. 3  
lotuses into the distance, stepping out into the water. seeker looks on from the water's edge, hands clasped, eyes finding no sure place to rest. today, seeker was intended to examine her wounds. today, seeker intended to have her wounds examined, but the day had another intention entirely so seeker looks out over the water from the water's edge, hands clasped, eyes glancing, anticipating, anticipating, anticipating: what?

on the water the pink blossoms seem to be moving, cluster to tangle, gathering and isolating, but she suspects this is a conspiracy of slight movements augmented by her expectations. the green mat of leaf, like where she'd exercise at the gym. the spiking center of louts, a woman's skirts obscenely upended, opening in upheaval, showing what was not necessarily intended to be seen.

instead of righting the matter, instead of making the scene submit to comfortable associations: a lotus's jewel, the meditator's courtyard, someplace to be for every place in being, seeker lights a flame at every flower's center and lofts skyward in offering toward the old white moon. stars and stars and stars and stars. a star field of lotuses, taking shapes and coding messages seeker hasn't yet learned to speak. from the edge of the water seeker guesses the ages of things. lotuses of the season, waters of eternity. ten thousand year stones in her pocket, smoothed to circles over the course of her lifetime.




there is seeker herself, at the water's edge, considering the ages of things. seeker is in her late thirties but she has also recently broke the seal of forty.

seeker is a hundred years old and she is not yet even nine.

seeker is a sixteen year old wander, barefoot and lost to a rhythm in her head.

seeker is twenty and alone in a strange new city, where the walking bridge brags a mortality rate and gas station owners ambition to be farms by virtue of a small lot of corn just off the pumps.

seeker hasn't even started to cultivate her life to such variables before she is twenty-two and needs to move back to her mother's house, where when last she resided things had arrived at a point where it became necessary to live among corn-farming gas stations.

seeker is ever an infant, gazing at the world as seeing it for the first time.

seeker is weary of the world, bent over herself and muttering, barely a scruff of white hair atop the shiny globe of her exposed scalp.

seeker is every age in one moment, because age does not matter to seeker so much, only those limitations her body and the law put on her activities.

seeker woke while it was still dark, her lover stirring as she climbed out of bed. he stirred then rolled on his back and fell back asleep with his mouth open, calling out to something unnameable and with a sigh, redacting it before that unnameable something got too close. seeker leans over him for a moment, pressing her lips to the damp considerations twitching through his brow even in sleep. seeker thinks. seeker seeks out other thinkers. she kisses her dear thinker’s forehead and holds until he turns away, quieting his breath and curling up on his side. we have such simple mechanisms in love, seeker thinks, and quietly leaves the room.

seeker goes out onto the balcony to look out over her latest strange city. here, no one is hiring and the awful hardness of strangers occasionally fills the sky with helicopters. here, a highway jaunt is to be expected in even a five minute commute and most of the time when she does drive, it's to the hospital. seeker is still seeker, though, eternally unaltered and worn smooth with daily tidal trauma; learning to walk and die in the same movement. in the distance a cluster of broadcast towers signal, blinking slow, pulsing long, casting small shadows even where seekers stands, miles away. there's something out there, she knows. there's something out there calling. there's something i need to find, she knows, the fire igniting her lotus.

she wonders what it could be.


 
 
music: chelsea wolfe - iron moon