Either way, here's something I wrote and edited at the beginning of the summer to keep you entertained until I've processed all the things I've been writing without access to computers.
I see red.
Mottled, streaked. The sun behind my eyelids makes a strange
pattern.
I’m leaning on my hands, sitting
back on a rough picnic blanket, bathed in sunshine. We’re in the park, it’s crowded with families
and friends but we have our own island.
Twenty metres in front of me,
there are dancers in the rapture of classic 40s music. It would nice to be them.
Behind me, to my left, a group
with drums and tambourines, weaving intricate rhythms through the hubbub of
chatter and laughter. Next to them some
people with discs and pins and other circus trappings.
Footballs and frisbees fly and
roll around, the gentle thud as foot connects with ball and the ring of calls
to the other players cut through the air.
A breeze washes over me, a
welcome variety to the insistent caress of the sun.
I open my eyes.
There are five other inhabitants
of the island surrounded by grass. Three
well known, two less so. One is learning
tarot, reading the fate of another not here. Two gossip, two read, and then
there’s me.
The tarot reader talks of gains
and losses, apathy and faith. The cards
are hopeful, she thinks, head deep in a book that tells their meaning.
The gossips giggle over a
friend’s folly. Deep in discussion and
intensely interested in the other’s opinions and stranger’s situations. I don’t know them well, but their talk is a
portal to a parallel world of scandals and sweetness.
The readers are intent,
silent. They are building fortresses of
imagination around themselves, another universe that they will escape and
destroy as soon as they shut their books.
And I sit, and stretch, and see.
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