Monday, 3 September 2012

How to sit still.

I promise myself that I am going to learn to sit still.

Tell my brain to close the sluice valves; stop the heave and ho of the oars.

Stop the cells blaming each other for firing and bring back the boiling oil from the crest of the surrounding wall.

Cut away the world with pinking shears and perch in my garret. Caw like the lovestruck dove in the bellfry tower waiting for all the homing pigeons to come home.

There are so many mouthfulls of air in these surrounding streets and sometimes it feels as if I’ll never run out. Sometimes I wonder if there’s even a reason to fret at all.

The week begins and the floor is scattered with paperwork like love letters pasting the floor in the soldiers barracks.

I could toss die all day and never come up with double sixes, and that’s fine. There’s no gold star from the universe for a girl with ticked boxes in her columns.

So: breathe in and out from the air that sits and waits by your window.

Close your eyes. Stare at the warm orange of your inner eyelids.

Sit still and stop talking, Jane.

Breathe in and


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