I Live In An Attic
I live in an attic - everywhere orderly stacks, forgotten books and yellowed papers here, an old broken what-did-that-used-to-be there... all covered by a shroud of dust, and undisturbed for years. With furrowed brow I measure my passage on the narrow path where things have been nudged aside to allow me room. I move back and forth, only between the things that have meaning now. Back and forth - I can't stop, or at least, I don't think I can - but what if I could? Back and forth - If I sat down for too long, would the dust cover me too - and everything move slowly out of focus, then out of sight? Is that how it happens? One by one, everyone leaves, the silence descends like a fog and the universe shrinks to four walls and a window. I don't know. Not yet. Is it too late to turn left or right, to take a different path, away from the familiar one I've been treading? I've been mindlessly following my own footprints for so long now... I wonder. Sometimes this faint breeze comes through some crack that I can't see. I can smell a strange freshness, and see a little of the dust teased into the air where it floats, lazily in the light, until it settles back to rest. I look to see where it comes from, but I think I'm scared of the unknown. I hate it but I like it here. It's warm and dry... and familiar. I don't notice the time, slowly covering me in its' comfortable dust, tendrils snaking around my will to move and stealing my life, a day at a time...
© 2006 Lance Gallup
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