Sane Is A Dirty Word

Saturday, July 26, 2008

Monday, January 15, 2007

Monday, January 8, 2007

:: DUST ::

Julia: Norfolk, Virginia, United States; There's a fire fed by feeling. It dwells in the hard to reach places that were previously alien from my body. It's like scooping into the flesh of ripened fruit, juice dribbling down my skin as i take it to mouth. There's a moth fluttering inside my stomach. Dust--it is from inside me. Shaken off by its wings. The dust inside me has released, dropped off and out to dissolve in the air. Dust is heavy not light. It carries with it the weight of age. It settles on sills and holds the secrets of the people that dwell within houses, apartments, rooms. It knows the angers, the fears, the elations and intoxications of individuals. They lift their voices and the dust drops, they laugh and the dust flits softly over the surfaces. They cry, and the dust bleeds onto wood, into wood, penetrates glass. Dust can grow as thick as soil. Thick enough to plant seeds in. Thick enough to dig through and sift and reveal the history of an existence. I dig through my stomach and come up gasping for air. I feel like I have wiped off the surface, shaken off my shoulders to reveal cream and heart and pitt and voice.

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