muse impromptu

If Only

So wouldn't you--
Oh, I see it too; now that's a cloud for you

     Endless parades of dim, hazy figures, insubstantial as shadows, approach (do they beckon?) and vanish into that same swirling current--

You have had days to consider--
Want to walk under the cherry trees with me?

     I am building. What-- Hot sun. It is too hot; I reach up to mop my brow, to fan my sweating face with my hat: see, even though I hate hats, I know they're good for me, because I won't get sunburned, and that way everyone watching (who's watching?) will know that I mean business, and I wouldn't be here on this too-hot blazing day building--

We have a new process we want you to consider; a revolutionary technique--
What to say, what to say; I can do this, I know I can

     No! This cardboard is really sticky, and the glue just came right out. Now the prettiest piece of paper, the best blue available, is stuck in the space I had set aside for the pale yellow, and now I don't want to finish, because it's no use, and I should just go back inside, because it's just too hot--please, tell me how do I wash my hands, because they have little pieces of paper stuck to them, and the glue makes them so hard to clean properly. No, I don't want this one put with the others; I don't like it enough to "consider it suitable for framing."

What is a dream to you, anyway--
Do you think that if the world got cold enough, that just maybe the stars would be brighter?

     There's someone new now. But I can't always tell whether or not that's true, because these days it seems like everyone holds a surprise for me, and that maybe once things no longer seem surprising, the rabbit would come out of a basket instead; wouldn't that be pleasantly different?

     My watch is blue, too, and when I look at the hand sweeping around its blue face, sometimes it looks like the sky is moving, when I really look hard enough. But I don't feel all right; I feel broken and funny inside, the way that a spring might feel bad if he couldn't stretch anymore. I guess I took my hat off too soon, for too long. I should put it on, but I don't know where I set it down--oh, you have one all ready for me? Thank you; you knew already what I needed. Endless rings of misted shapes, receding into the not too far distance; they are . . . clapping, but I'm not sure why (it seems I should know, but I don't).

Now then, as you can see, the first thing to observe is--
She looks like a blue flower that the sun has covered in dew and glitters

     Once, I can remember--well, I think I can remember, but I may get mixed up on part of it, but you know how that is---I had scissors, and when I cut my finger and my hand I was so surprised by how red they were, and I think everyone else was surprised too, because from how they rushed around me I don't think they had ever seen anything that red either; it was something different for them too. I was picked up and carried around, and I think--well, I think I think--that it took a while before everyone was calm, and there were no new surprises; it had been a week since I had last asked if anything new had happened, but I couldn't remember anything that happened the week before, because they told me that different things vanish with time, and so for my birthday I was given a watch, a blue watch.

We were surprised, but remember we took preparatory measures here in line seven--
Sometimes I can reach out and just barely feel the smallest breeze on my fingertips

     The hat itches. I think that is the problem with this hat, and with all hats; they're made of straw, so they don't last as long as I want them to, but when I have them they always keep me from getting sunburned--but I like the sun, not the sunburn, but the hats keep everything from my head, so I guess I shouldn't complain because they do help, even when sometimes I want to just look at the sun for a few moments, but I guess even though I have to wear one all the time, I can't forget what the sun looks like. It's been a while, though, since I was sunburned, and sometimes I think (a certainty? Maybe I could--) that some days I don't even need a hat in spite of what I hear about sunburns; I could just go outside and build and only worry about the blue paper getting sunburned.

In the surrounding region, note the increased flow from removal--
She seems distant, as if she is worried, even though last time she managed to say that

     There was a smile. I liked her smile. She doesn't smile as much now I don't think, but I can't really be sure. Sometimes when she looks away I think she wasn't smiling; I think it's because she is still new. But I painted her a picture of the sky with the best blue I could find. Once I didn't want to wear my hat, but she put it back on my head and said that I needed it. She said that she used to wear hats too, but didn't have to for years now. I showed her my watch too, and I think that she thought it was a nice color. The shapes in the distance have been getting closer (getting farther?) lately, but I can't remember. I think there might be some watching me work, but they don't do anything about the heat. At least I don't get as dirty as I used to. But I wish there was more to see and do. I'm going to do flowers next. I think she might like them.

The levels are borderline, but we feel it's a success--
I'm used to the bright and the people, and she knows it too

Pages

In the end, she left me behind. I had been her only trusted companion in recent years, but she decided that I reminded her too much of the past and that I couldn't be part of the present or future she desired.

Within my pages were her secret thoughts, hopes and dreams; she told me everything she couldn't and wouldn't tell others. She had few friends, and only I could reach out to her and comfort her as I did. Sometimes she filled page after page with crabbed handwriting after a long day at school; my pages would be damp from her tight grip and tears. Sometimes she'd take her pen and sketch the faces of people she'd met, people she dreamed about, or any of the myriad worlds she saw in her mind's eye. Only I was given the privilege of knowing her thoughts, her love and hate, her longing.

Our relationship began almost four years ago. Her adoptive parents had taken me from the shelf at the store and placed me on her desk one afternoon. When my girl came home that night, she was surprised to see me and a little suspicious. However, she fingered my rough black cover longingly and riffled through my pages just to feel the crisp paper under her fingertips. I was a chance gift, and she loved me for it; she loved me because I could be there for her in a way that her family could not.

She wrote her first entry about a boy she'd met at school; she didn't like him because he talked too much. His name was written down but has since become so smeared that even I can't remember what it is. The next day she wrote a short fairy tale, full of princesses, dark elves, castles, and magic. This was the first time I had seen her ability to record her daydreams with such vivid detail. She was like that in nearly all of her entries. She was very quiet around other people, but she saw everything. She just sucked up the words and actions of those around her, and those that touched her life went into my pages.

She carried me with her wherever she went; I was tucked into a special pocket in her shoulder bag, and when she didn't have her bag with her, I would be kept close inside her warm, dark coat. Sometimes I even went under her pillow at night, safe from any prying eyes. I would lie quietly under her head late at night and reflect on her entries from that day. Sometimes she would place me on her desk so that when she woke up the next morning, she could write down her dreams and nightmares, then close my rough leather over them, safely sealing them away.

As time went on, some of my pages became stained, and my cover began to show its age. But I never complained. My girl loved me and wouldn't have ever thought about replacing me. I always had pages for her.

But one day she wrote the last entry. She had made some new friends, and they had managed to get her to talk about things that only I had known about. She cried in her remembrance of it and then said that her dark shadows were gone. The clouds and gloom that had followed her throughout her life had blown away; she was a different person. She no longer needed me; I was a relic of a past life. I didn't complain. She set me down on her desk after writing the entry and opened the window. My pages rustled restlessly in the summer breeze. I wanted her to write in me always, to keep pages of art and poetry within my secure grasp. But the words and images within me would only hold her back, and she needed most to live freely, unbound by the past.