We are the humans of this planet. We are individuals whether you are willing to see; to acknowledge it or not. Paint us with the same brush master art critic, paint away. Your eyes are keenly bright yet your mind blind to colour? Do you not notice the different shade, the dance of hue; the subtle light of soft whispers echoing?

 

Filing life? Each life tossed – with purpose, deliberately – suspended in order, the critic’s thirst for control. Every colour has its place; each face erased and replaced with… labels that say it all. At least then, we will know how to behave. At least those who may learn what instructions – the demands - labels command of us.

Do with me as you will. It is neither here nor there. Your vision is shrunken; the restriction upon your sight cut shorter as every moment passes, as with every life you toss. Master critic, would that you might allow a little; so that you may live the rainbow…

"But it’s so cold and I need to sleep”

 

"*** ****** * *** **** **”

 

“But I want to stay here in the dark and just curl up and stop”

 

“** *** ******* * ** *** * *****”

 

“But why?”

 

“******* ** ***** * *** ***** * ** *** * **”

 

“But…”

 

Pause…..

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The clock’s constant sound was, though annoying … reassuring – not that anything seemed real anyway. Is there a clock here?

 

I can’t believe how slow time moves when numb all over.  Her eyes hurt, not physically but coldly, numbly…

 

“What the hey? I wouldn’t move if I were free from these bounds anyway.” Her thoughts were defiant – filled with raw emotion.

 

“*** ** ***** * *** **** ****** * ******* * ** ***”

 

The voice… did it come from inside her head or out? Ohh Geez, who’d know! Who’d be bothered to find out? Forget it! I wonder what they’re trying to say. I wonder what I’m thinking. Am I thinking…?

 

“How long is a 24 hour period anyway?”

 

“Too long!”

 

Ahh! Noooooo! Get off me! GET OFF!

 

Another injection and as the cold fluid crept up her arm, the warm gentle dark lovingly enveloped her once more…

The darkness around her was tangible. It pressed in on her as she slowly drifted down the cold empty corridor toward … something. I have seen pins dance to the tune of a magnet, drawn to the power of lack; they dance and spin as the magnet steals their power only to create more need to fill the ravenous vacuum of will.

Below freezing temperatures, light linen night gown, no shoes, thick darkness that squeezed passed her a step at a time, mind empty, eyes glassed over: the only sign of life – a wispy mist of exhale…

There seemed no reason, no answer to the myriad of the ‘why’. Only an absent motion of purpose deeply buried as if dead: secretly lying dormant for a time beyond measure. Fear immunisation = life. It’s in our blood tampering with every element of the cellular structure. A moment by moment trek to it’s lair for feeding time, every time, all the time. Would that there’d be no recharge from the earth, but that’s the cycle of life isn’t it? The pin has power to feed the need of powerlessness, so the gaping mouths of the hungry draw it’s life blood and the need is never filled.

She stopped, bent down with sightless eyes - her pale numb fingers purposely picking up a steel pin from the cold slate floor. With ferocious hope, believing the promise, she pinned the hem of her garment freeing her feet from the obstacle her hem had become - only to rise and continued on toward the great 'something' dimly shimmering up ahead in the land called "Forever far"

Through the fog; the numb groggy haze, an itch on the side of her nose tortured her peaceful moment. It wasn’t till the drug began to wear off and she attempted to scratch it that she realised she couldn’t move her hands. Each attempt failed, and there seemed no reason why. It felt as thought her eyes were glued shut but with a little bit of effort they pried open then instantly slammed shut. Pain shot through her head exploding from the shock of lights bearing down into her face.

Eyes shut tight, head hands and legs rendered useless and the heat of the lights – tongue sticky, thick, stuck to the roof of her mouth – so thirsty. Some one leaned over her. She could hear their breathing.

“Water…? Please…?” She was begging – desparate – did that hoarse whisper come from her? “Hello…? Please…”

A damp towel wiped her forehead and down one side then gently down the other side of her face. Isn’t it amazing just how big all the little things become when in need? She felt loved in the most intimate way by that one gesture. Wet fingers wiped across her lips and she sucked at them hungrily. They disappeared and then returned dripping water into her dry sticky mouth. The hand had suddenly become the only hope she had, making the person to which it was attached, the most important person of her life.

“Please…? Thank you… Thank you…” The hoarse sound kept coming with out effort but pitiably filled with passion of the need.

“Shhhh….”

That sound came from outside her – from another person. It helped her understand perspective. It helped her understand which sound came from her throat and which sound didn’t.

“Please? More?” a deliberate sound this time – one she thought about before she spoke it – a sound made with understanding.

As the liquid was offered tenderly – its moisture, its relief – she began to hear the breathing and enjoy the scent of the body that touched, building within her the promise of hope…