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Knifes and forks colliding
Preparing the dishes, soaking my hands in the hot water. Up again. Too hot. Think of something important, something clever. All I can think of i blue. What is that? Nothing deep, nothing smart. Just a colour. Blue. Of all the brilliant words we humans invented, blue is the word I can think of?
I would love to be the next Shakespeare, or Keats. Letting my pen capture the feelings pulsating in my fingertips. Writing sonetts and prayers. But all I got is blue. It keeps coming back, won't get out of my head.
The water still pouring from the tap, drowning every bit of food left on the plates. Like the storm on the seas, the stream sweeps off the last bits of rice. Knifes and forks colliding. Like the shipwrecks they are, threating to cut me open.
Blue sings my mind like an infinite loop trying to tell me something. Frustrated with the lack of greatness in my ways I look down, the plates is in war with the pots and pans. The hot steel's threatening the poor china. But it's rather a voluntary surrender than a hostile takeover. The glasses keeps their distance, and in their transparent way of being, keeping the secret of their whereabout.
The words are lost on me, and all I can see in front of me is a warfare more dangerous than the one in my closet. There have the shirts and trousers lost their way, and now relent on the good grace of the socks. I've tried to hold peace, but the panties and the bras just won't get along and is bringing everyone with them.
Why can't i be the next Woolf. Speaking of my bodyparts or something less ordinary, why is it that blue with all it's meaning is left with my mind now when the dishes are clean and the water tuned out.
Nice write
Enjoyed.