Forged perfection: lap(su)s lazuli

by Charlotte E. Wilde

What is living if not death in reverse?

“Paroles suffoquées,” she said, or she would have if she could have spoken. I knew what she meant with the silence. What fluorescent vanity to try and quantify that which what we cannot know, to imagine our fleeting role in another’s passing life.

I hung up the phone then I cried, heaving, child-like forgotten sorrow so often controlled by adulthood into silent trickles. The  words that wouldn’t crystalize found themselves wrenched from me even as I wondered why anyone would make such a scene without an audience.

I took a photo. It wasn’t a beautiful photo but I don’t suppose it was was meant to be. I set the timer and crawled back onto the bed. The pose was familiar, if fabricated for the moment, but I saw the need to freeze this grief in time.

Out the window the sky began to decompose on my horizon and I went barefoot onto warm pavement as if the heat and smell could act as a heel click and Dorothy me home. I figured that rain was some form of paltry consolation prize, a participation trophy– you’ve failed again but your spirit hasn’t gone unnoticed.

I ran and it felt indefinite, ephemeral concrete. The fear of lightening strikes and my [ir]rational pushed me over the line into the much coveted blank space when feet hitting asphalt or gasping breath alone showed themselves as inadequate. Between the lines of the pavement I read a story: tiny weeds told me how life ends and starts again and nothing ever changes. We walk the same cyclical pattern, separating from itself only to come kissing back to its source.

I’ve been holding my breath for perfection for so long, I wonder about the time wasted seeking the sweet spot between too much and not enough. Some take for granted the staggering range of colors, others are too caught up in trying to graph some scientific understanding of the laws of light, but we’re all looking at the same painting.

I tried to imagined what you’d say. Maybe remind me how this blue was an accident, this perfection a forgery.

“Let’s frame it anyway, this is what we’ve got.”

 

 

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