Wild horses

horse1
“It’s time to write”, she said quietly, almost absent-mindedly, while her lower head was hiding behind a steaming cup of close to overflowing tea.
She wasn’t finished, and so he waited patiently, nibbling on a brownie crumb.
“Not like before. Not the dashes of thoughts, feelings, documentations of life or what I see life to be. Not the little prayers of gratitude, the longing for hope, asking to be seen, heard, and maybe remembered. Not the trying to figure out why I’m here, we are here. It’s useless. It’s a waste of time. A cruel trickery making myself believe that I actually have something to say, know something, love something.”
She still wasn’t looking at him. She never did in these moments. Her world was too busy to handle without having to deal with his, or anybody else’s for that matter.
He didn’t mind. He knew one word, gesture of need and she’d snap out of it, she’d come running forgetting all about her world, just so that she could rescue another’s.
That’s what made her beautiful. That’s what made her beauty a high price to pay.
“Something new. And I don’t care whether it’s new to the world, or has been done a million times before. That’s not important anymore. It will be new to me. And it will be my own. Fully. Untainted, uncensored, unread. It won’t matter how it comes out. Just that it does, like a wild horse. Then, maybe, someday, a story will emerge, a story that needs telling. But how can one tell a story, before one has mastered it, tamed it? And maybe, maybe letting it run free is what really makes one happy.”
She took another sip of the top of her cup, her eyes locked in the distance.
He could see tears filling up, but she didn’t let them fall, instead she forced a smile.
And so they sat there, quietly.

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~ by spasmicallyperfect on March 8, 2009.

One Response to “Wild horses”

  1. I really love this, Suz.
    It’s always a fight with the soul with this writing thing, isn’t it?
    This piece of writing is evocative in so many damn creative ways, I can’t tell you.
    Wish I’d written it.
    (in my version the horses would have been smoking cigars) šŸ˜‰
    ~m

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