Wednesday 16 November 2011

Something Like This.

How do you imagine this place?

There are no stairs.

But......... a single corridor, the paint grey, peeling, leads to a kitchen fresh with the smell of new paint that cannot hide the monster of a boiler that dominates the room.

Belching smoke and fire, an untamed beast.

Two angels live there; one is older than the other. A little wiser. One has a broken wing the other can not, yet, see her own – her eyes are too wide and look only forward, dazzled, perhaps entranced from the white light that reflects off the distant lake.

The mountains hide the lake but the light is everywhere, even in the corridor of musty grey paint.

Weeds grow in the garden, but the light is here too and though there are no windows in the walls of the house, the light penetrates.

On the floor of the corridor, stacked but not forgotten are the treasures the angels hoard, though they are not hoarders, the colours that feed them though they eat only fish.

Fish from the distant lake.

Fish radiant with the light.

The fish give the angels life, and strength and eases their fears.

They are afraid of the beast that smokes and fires in their kitchen.

They cannot leave; the colours bind them and the beast will not be tamed – it built the house so there is a peace, a peace held by the light.

One room is the source of the light, if you enter there you will go mad, or be blinded and yet rejoice in that blindness.

Only one of the angels can enter there.

Only one can see the faded rose.

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