She collected dust.  Not in the way that she was sitting still and using her own body to store the dust, but she had a lot of small, empty jars and she would always bring some with her when she went somewhere new.  Some people collect rubber ducks, bottle caps or lost loves; she collected dust.  Her favourite kind was the dust from behind hotel beds, because that dust were usually as old as the walls of the place.

She never labelled the bottles; just put them up on a shelf somewhere and looked at them before going to bed.

Shadows have a will of their own, you know.  They are capable of independent movements.  They try to do that only when you are not looking or when you are out walking on a cloudy day when their edges are not very well defined.

They can not talk to you, but they try to influence your decisions in small ways.  Shadows can fall in love too, you know.  Shadows talk to other shadows in the sounds your feet make when they move over a surface.  They meet and then they want to meet again, and they pull you along silently.

You are confusing a could-have-been with a would-have-been. They are not the same, you know. No living thing knows the future and most living creatures forget almost their entire pasts. We cannot undo choices once made; nothing could have been different. We did what we did and we do what we do.

A friend said; “All we are is what we were. There is no yet-to-be.” And what we are is ever moving; a tiny bubble of being, of existence moving ever forward, turning could-have-beens into never-weres and would-not-bes.

(for a dead rat)

where do rats go when they die
and where does that thing go -
that thing deep inside them?
not the green, wobbly bit
but the thing behind their eyes?
that part of them that knows that
they are separate from the shadows
outside of the candle light?

is there a Big Rat underground
ruling endless tunnels of night?
is there a Big Rat underground
with a burrow where all rats go?

after the ears have grown pale
and the pink nose twitch no more
is there a Big Rat underground
with a burrow where all rats go?

There was something wrong with the walls, and she could see it clearly. She could see it clearly - something was clearly wrong! - but she could not put her finger on it. The walls were rough and in a soothing, light-blue shade in this room without a door in which she had just awakened. There was no ceiling, just a deep night winter black sky, with a naked lightbulb illuminating the walls, casting no shadows.

Shadows! The walls had no shadows despite their uneven, coarse paint.
“The walls are not real,” she said aloud and passed straight through it as she left.

“You are one of us by deed, not by name.”

It’s sad when one forget the names of old friends. I remember the love and affection I used to feel towards them, how we used to play together, explore strange and new and lost worlds together. The stories we shared, the stories we told. The stories we lost.
The secret names, the secret history, the secrets in general which we shared. The things I confessed to them, the things I told them, voice breaking, crying.

But I have forgotten their names now. I found my old toys and remembered the love and affection, but could no longer remember their names.

bouncing around in my lair, running back and forth, back and forth, kept inside the tiny cage outlined by these walls, unable to stretch out my leaps, unable to gain any speed, running in place, getting nowhere…

up in the sofa, down from the sofa, diving down on the mattress, rolling up, down on the floor, out into the kitchen, back into the livingroom; five leaps forward and a sudden stop; spin around; five leaps and a sudden stop; spin around; repeat my chase in patterns of five..

run in place, then leap; pretend that the chase is longer, that the mat under my paws is a mat of soft moss or a forest trail; pretend that the white-painted ceiling is a cloudy sky coloured orange by the lightbulb that is my sun..

pounce upon imaginary prey, press the sharpness of claw into the soft belly of a soft-toy; growl and tear; pretend that the fur is real, pretend that the wound is real, pretend that it matters..

run, run in my tiny enclosure, pretend that the motions are free and unrestrained; keep the real forest deep in the heart; remember the scent of the morning air; run in patterns of five; find prey and pounce, pounce, pounce; leap and dive and run; run in patterns of five; keep the fire burning; keep myself alive..

the cage all around, the cage still closed; pretend anyway that the cage is not there; never forget the freedom once known, never forget the feeling of the unrestrained life, no matter how bitter its taste in the muzzled mouth; never forget, because one day…

one day the door will open; one day the cage will disintegrate and all the playful pouncing, all the pretended chases will come to an end, their lessons taught; all the bitterness of being caged and walled in will fade away in a leap and a pounce and a dash for real freedom that will finally be within reach.

-

so I run; I run in my patterns of five; I pounce on imagined prey; I keep the fire glowing and I let the hope keep me alive; I have replaced my “if only”s with a determined “one day”; one day the door will open; one day I will be free; one day my claws will find their real use and my paws will feel soft moss again.

-

until then; a life lived in patterns of five and a fire that keeps me alive.

and just like flint, tiny sparks form if one just hit at you the right way

just a tiny spark bright against the inner darkness

usually finding nothing to burn swiftly fading off into nothing

-

and yet sometimes i hit at you trying to chip that cool grey surface

trying to bare that razorsharp darkness beneath

to hit at it to chip at it to send sparks flying up into the air

falling down to the summerdry ground and praying for a wildfire

(trigger warning. you should probably not read this…)

the stone drill core hit the side of his head he should not have turned his back to her when she was feeling like that he fell forward she screamed as she let herself fall forward to land over him swinging the heavy stone cylinder down again pretty red splatter as it hit again he tried to turn around she hit his elbow she hit again her hands covered in blood as she grabbed his hair and pulled his head back and bashed in his face and then the rest of him