Faith is the evidence of things unseen and the substance of things hoped for~ Hebrews 11:1

The issue of time seduces her.

A frayed notebook, always a pen's nip away, houses many of her disjointed musings. Scrawled in an inconsitent script, words like "infinite" and "elusive" and "management" dress the faintly lined pages in a precocious outerlayer.

Perhaps it was simply in her magnetic nature to think, of everything and anything and how everything and anything are so intrinsically intertwined. That is why she finds herself spending hours at a time (there it is again, such a tease) writing in this notebook, on a mildly unpleasant pillow in her tiny alcove. The window there overlooks the garden and there she can pretend to watch the flowers bloom and die and repeat their geometric cycle over an unnatural course of time.

What is it about time that sticks to our fairly simple, everyday language? Reading everything's she written, it alarms her that her time count hits the hundreds.

She never knew, all of her wonderings stopped abruptly short if she couldn't answer this question. It was a question drenched in the allure that first possessed her, powdered in ghostly white mystery. To the professionals, it was the literary vomit of a wannabe writer. To the layman, it was a question to be contemplated and thrown away, like an empty candy wrapper. To her, it was the world in a worded nutshell.

But the honest truth about people is that we often search for things in incompetent and bloody curiosity, so that when we find an undefined "it", "it" turns out to be something far from welcoming to the conscious mind.

She found her answers.

And then she screamed.

Labels: Prose