the descriptive injury

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
na.

Submitted: April 08, 2012

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Submitted: April 08, 2012

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someone asked her what she was looking at

as she stood in front of the large picture window in

the kitchen

in the abode where she presently resided---

the question came aloud from another room,

as if the questioner was busy themselves & only in

passing

did they see the girl standing

with eyes focused,

arms at her sides,

as if in a private state of wonder

(& why a private state of wonder seems to be ample

food for the

popular & public, pedantically preposterous, who

prey upon the

rest of us---we’ll never know) &

so without hesitation they rambled out their comment,

not sticking around a moment for an answer &

as if that itself was not an answer to such a question,

the girl standing in front of the window

neglected to say anything, instead,

taking an extra moment to enjoy what it was that she

had been privately concerned with,

whatever images appeared out there

that her own sense of sensory perception

was devouring, free of the babble

swirling all around,

incessantly---

 

it would have been an injury to them both

to attempt a description,

to bring what it was that compelled the girl to silence

(if she had not chose silence beforehand---one

outside can never be sure)

to formulate an image, to dispel some kind of physical

qualities verbally

which to the person outside

might have made some impression upon them,

because that unique allurement of which the girl did

focus

could never truly be brought into any kind of

distinction for the rest of us,

in fact to try would only taint it & do a disservice to

the whole of the

event---

rather, even a more considerate onlooker, who

stopped when crossing into the other room, in order

to ask the girl about her moment in awe,

would only force a quick death to what was

happening,

like waking up from a dream involving the two,

neither can make the other understand

anything but the attempt at understanding,

for what is to be understood

exists solely on its own---right out there in the focus,

or it lies dead in our savage

description---

 

and when the questioner came back after a few

minutes,

unsatisfied with the absence of any answer

(as so many of us impatient imbeciles are),

after turning, the girl spoke a few phrases

which to the questioner seemed only nonsense at

best,

as if she’d been spoken to in a language that she

didn’t know---

what had been said was simply a description also,

one that felt only like another installment,

a domino in the falling, predictable effect,

wherein one person tries to get at the heart of the

matter,

while the other tries to help them &

a million conversations begin, part ways &

begin again,

constantly picking up the baton & then dropping it,

be it like the boredom of rereading a “choose your

own adventure” book,

or a fresh new mistake

found when the collision of the selves within

mess up the overall stability of the

whole.


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