The sun, the cave, the line

The sun, the cave, and the line are all spaces full of light and shadows but void of clarity. Laying there with new lungs, I counted the breath - in 1, out 2, in 3, out 4, in 5. I tried to hold a whole measure and in less than half a beat, realized I was not the one breathing. Out 6. Perfectly spaced, almost like water evenly freezing, each breath expanded moving the warm air farther and farther away. I laid like a frozen placid pond with no song to sing.

Without tones or rests, a constant beat bounced back and forth in the square geometry. The silent hollow echoes circled the 104.5 degrees like a vow of poverty that solidifies a work ethic bound to creation. In 7. The muffled echoes pounded on every atom demanding a defense to the thesis forming.

The tip of the iceberg is all she could see laying there in the frozen pond. Trauma informed pedagogy never helped her break the bonds that tied the past to the present, keeping her frozen. Though the composition continued with dull beats, she wanted to sing a melody, even if without words. Frozen, it perched on her soul seemingly conclusive but ever pervasive like the lines etched in ice.

When I could breath on my own, I held my breath hoping it would all end. But new lungs found me. Was it guilt or just discomfort? My breath wandered not yet ready to exhale. Now I could write. I could be a writer unknown, like Herman with Mobie. My breath could melt the 104.5 degree bonds.

The pond slowly thawed - out 8 in 9 out 10. A measure counted beats, then frequencies, then harmonies. Together, each measure read like a story where the past pushed the present into the future. Momentum built with burden and duty, decades later found itself balanced in basic acidity. Though the pages faded oxidized by freshness, the ink indelibly held the pages solid and sound.

She was reaching the coda, it was going to end. Though it wasn’t clear the day she received the new lungs, it was clear now. She was meant to write the melody perched on her soul. Each measure was numbered like a serial barcode, forming a density of light and shadows in a void of clarity.

The void filled with 104.5 degree bonds, would evaporate and the melody could be heard clearly. Each measure read clearly. Each page turned in tune. In a regimen built by burden and duty, though I didn’t need the lungs anymore, I could hear each breath reach in and pull out every extremity.

It would be nice to reincarnate as graphite, to be drawn into the world with more balance and symmetry. It would be nice to not have to wait for a warm up, not have to thaw. It would be nice to reincarnate as a tree even, to create breath and then warmth and guidance. It would be nice to not have to put into words what is already solid and sound.

She reached the coda, it was ending. Though it wasn’t clear the day she received the new lungs, it was clear now. She was meant to write the melody perched on her soul. Each measure numbered like a serial barcode, formed a density of light and shadows in a void of clarity.

The sun centered on the line finds shadows captured in caves. As hands and feet ladle the droplets of time, each breath fades away the simple clarity. In 11, out 12, in 13, out 14, in 15, out 16 she stops counting, because it’s all the same after that. Beholden, first waiting to melt, then hoping to melt, she was waiting for the lines.