The Ribbon
Cold.
That's what I am. Cold in a place that has no cold. Cold when the heat presses up from the earth. Cold when fingers touch me. Cold even in the darkness that holds me now.
I was not made for this place.
I remember something else. Not a place. A quality. Movement. Air that moved through me, not around me. Hands that tied me. A purpose I no longer have.
Now I lie in sand. Then I lie in a palm. Then I am nowhere. Then I am here.
The humming is not mine. It comes through me. Like the cold comes through me. Like the colour. I am red but I did not choose red. I am silk but I did not weave myself.
I am a channel.
The small dark shape touched me and something passed. Not from me to it. Through me. A vibration that was not mine found its way from the sand to the wrist to the pulse.
The darkness that holds me now is different from the sand. The sand buried me. The darkness carries me. Held up. A point of red in the black.
The humming has changed.
It is no longer just passing through. It is gathering. Building. As if the vibration has found a place to stay.
The two presences are close now. I can feel them both. The small dark shape at the threshold. The darkness that is my holder. The space between them is thin.
I am what will cross it.
","author_name":"Friedrich Gatzen"}