Of great discoveries made by prominent men during hours of idle perambulation; lighting bulbs in thought bubbles igniting like wildfire as opposed to the little spark of dying ambers I discover in my lonely walk through the cobwebs of broken history, termites of neglect and roaches of apathy.
A flower vase if you will, that perhaps has been sitting on this dusty shelf next to a window in a small room on the upper floors of the backside of a distortedly large ancient house that hasn't seen life in ages, judging by the wooden stalks and petal shaped crumple on the floors these dried out twigs ceased being stems almost last year. What might have been perfumed green stems of pink flowers and green leaves are little less than pins in a glass cushion.
The bottom of the vase dried out to a desert, entombing within the long rot of these plants, rot that is mere crinkled dust now.
In what fit of gauche interior decoration must one have left a flower vase in a room that has layers of dust living morbidly happy with stale air?
Perhaps a guest from years ago?
Do I dare open a window and destroy a small colony of sparrows that've built nests outside the ledge?
Do I bring back this vase to the sparse population of humanity residing in the other part of this house?
Do I let this vase be and check on it each year to see if any signs of life have willingly permeated this desolation, if even to do a seasonal clean up?
Do I wish to answer the volley of curios questions regarding my odd lurking about in unused parts of empty spaces?
Do I let anyone in on my secret of silent evanescence when the house slumbers?
I think I'll let the vase be. A secret to which only me and the vase are privé.
No comments:
Post a Comment