Soul fragments, knitted over raindrops, poured against time.
An ash grey sky weighed over water, pushing it against the back of the earth. A boundless lake, or just a dark sea that had forgotten about life.
She had got there following the cracks which appeared on the glass floor of history. Her history, someone else’s, the world’s: it didn’t matter. Events had melted and so had the glances of those who had lived them.
Shreds of unspoken words had tangled in her tongue like a fur-ball. She moved her ears following the sounds swimming in the air: slow, sparkling, unaware fish.
Her eyes, though, stared at a point far away in the centuries, with such intensity they looked blind. Grey as the world that murmured to her mind, like the meek confusion spreading on her voice when she was on the verge of speaking. She always gave that up, eventually. She hammered her cloudy eyes in those begging her to talk and, softly, she shook her head. The only things deserving to be spoken out were the ones already existing in the tension of the atmosphere. They had a life of their own and no limit. They had never been bridled and would never dissolve.
Those things she had refused to say glimmered in the darkness of the universe, they warmed worlds up, they fed lives. They kept exploding and burning. But she kept quiet, listening to the sighing water, to the waves chasing each other: at a step from bliss, they were swallowed away again, in the immensity of time. Her lips curved in a feeble smile at the memory of the other creature’s voice. Without it, that universe would have had no light, those worlds no warmth and there would have been no life. Not in that shape.
Instinctively, she shook her head, once again. She felt rivulets of ice making their way on her skin. They became lava, they became light. She felt like she could reflect herself in the last breaths of the Sun: anguished, it sank, invoking help, in those silent waters.
Her world turned towards the night. Without detaching her eyes from that cold, dumb point, she bent down to the night. Without detaching from that still, cold something, she bent down to pick up an abandoned pebble. She tightened the grip, more and more. She had been there before. The place where something was about to break, and then it had broken.
Every time she had wondered what would have happened if she had decided to stop. If she had felt fear. If she had listened to the voice warning her she would never be able to go back. She felt a faint creak and then the liquid heat of blood starting to flow on her locked palm.
She would say nothing. Above all, she would not say what she most wanted to. She would not let rot at the contact with oxygen. She would not taint it with a voice she didn’t recognize as hers every time she happened to listen to it by chance.
Stubborn silence. That absence, that delicate, fundamental lack contained all the potential of creation. That tiniest discrepancy, that would have been so easy to fill up, was the only thing tempting her to feel trust. It was a vibrant void and she had a firm belief in the power of that vibration.
She knew the other creature would understand. That was why keeping quiet weighed on her soul like a leaded sphere. But that silence would not just enlighten the dark. It would swallow it and give it back its honor and heartbeat. It would give it back blood and dignity. That silence, stretched to the extreme like a violin string over the indifference of time, would create universes. And in those universes she would have lived forever, never fading, never fighting against an end. Without using the last remaining rays to beg a destiny that, maybe, she had never even really believed was real.
Bio: Reiroshu Eigenlicht is an artist from Venice. She writes poems, short stories and is currently working on two novels. She loves drawing and photography as well. You are welcome to see her on tumblr here.