September 20, 2002


Words, I drench you with them. Over and over again till they shine, glitter and become nonsensical particles that crowd the skies which you swallow and breathe in bits and parts to spit back on to my face, attached with a note of irreverent disdain.

One day I shall set forth, retrace all my steps with brush and soap in hand, and scrub away at every single footprint I have left, every single word I have said, every single moment that I occupied and every single thing I have touched, till the sinews that hold the fingernails to my fingers rip, crack and tear and mark each and every footmark with the warm blood as a penance for you won't take away my soul and the marks just refuse to go.

Mild winter morning and a yawning sun, five strands of green grass under the shadow of a dancing wild flower, marked with the red pearls from a bleeding finger. I have been here before and it seems the distance will outlast the supply of blood.