I’m so excited by the diversity of photographs I’m being sent for the #writeme30 project. Already I have a gorgeous mixture of the heartfelt and hilarious. I’m terrified and excited to begin responding to them over the next 365 days.
I ummed and ahhhed about where to start and in the end for this first post I decided to begin with one of the images given to me by my creative and life partner (and new husband) Nic Tubb. I was also undecided about whether to share the photo first or the response first and have decided to put the photo at the end – particularly for this response as although the response was inspired by the photo – the response has absolutely no bearing or relevance to the content/subject of the photo. Make of it what you will!
*this one is also a short one, because hey, it’s my birthday and I need an early night!
Hunted.
This hunter stalks me. Moves me. Sinks its claws deeply. Too deeply. I am woven into the fabric of my fears. Patterned with dreams I cannot shake.
She wakes again. Drenched in sweat. Hair dripping with the fear she can never name. The red light of her alarm clock flickers. The power has gone out at some point, resetting the time to twelve AM. She tumbles from the bed. Groggy, lost in shapeless shadows. Twelve AM. Again. Again, it’s twelve AM.
The tyres slide. Against gravel. Against dirt. Too late. Too late. She brakes. Swerves. Travels. The metal crunches in her ears as the world twists and writhes. Twists and writhes and comes undone. With the sounds of your screaming. The tyres slide. Against gravel. Against dirt. Against skin. Against memory. The clock is frozen. Twelve AM.
She pads to the toilet. Urine hot against her inner thighs. Cold porcelain pressed into legs that have forgotten how to be still. She washes her hands. Slowly. Methodically. Dries them. Pads to the kitchen, turning on every light as she goes. Sinking. Sinking. Sinking. Sinking into the only friend she has left. It burns and burns and burns. Until her insides don’t know where her edges end.
The light slices her skin. Attacking her eyelids. Bringing her unwilling into another day. The kitchen is a mess. Bottles, food, dishes. The left overs of another night forgotten in the glare of this morning. This morning that she has to face. Bright eyed. Fresh. With clean clothes and cleaner thoughts. Without you. Without you.
The sirens. They speak to her in tongues. Wail their unequal harmony into the silence left behind as the car comes to a still. She feels nothing. No pain. No fear. Nothing. Only this vague uneasiness. This disquiet. This disquiet, which will haunt her tomorrow. On soft padded feet.
And you.
You are still.
Silent.
Gone, already.
Twelve AM. The clock is forever frozen. Twelve AM.
You are welcome here. In this space I sit inside, beyond the darkness. Just reach out. Just reach out. You are not alone. I miss you.
The Photo:
Photo Credit: Nic Tubb
What is #writeme30 ? All the info here.
creating art in the desert 