where the writers are
Unfinished


There were crumbs on the plate, more than crumbs. I threw them away. The nail varnish on my toes is chipped; the wild violet is now a bruise. The mirror has been half-cleaned and looks like a distorted image of itself. I snipped off the bottoms of my loose slacks since it is so warm in here and did not hem the edges; threads hang loose like roots of trees dried and dying. The shelf has been half dusted, so the glass reflects the pieces on them differently – the ceramic poses beautifully and the fisherman in wood appears to be looking for catch in some desert. The paper flies. I rush to catch it, thinking that I might lose my thoughts along with it. I grip it like a seasoned pro and I look at its scrunched, hunched form and straighten it. It is blank. A blank sheet flew away from the many pages I keep. The words were there enclosed in other pages. Like cages they seemed now when I thought about this blank sheet that flew and got scrunched in my palm and meant so much.


Fragments mean a lot…I do not want completion, I do not want closure. I want bricks to show through walls to know how they got built. I want the pauses to finish my sentences and half-open eyes to dream real tears.

I want to remain unfinished.

Comments
4 Comment count
Comment Bubble Tip

I admire lucidly imagistic

sequences of thought like yours.

There's more hope for the whole in 'unfinished'.

'Existence is a series of footnotes to a vast, obscure, unfinished masterpiece.' Vladimir Nabokov.

It depends where you fit the frame.

Comment Bubble Tip

Sometimes, it is difficult

Sometimes, it is difficult for the frame to fit anywhere, too. So it goes into the basement and is dusted and brought out anew. I guess that is the point of 'unfinished'. Renewal.

Thanks, Rosy, appreciate your comment and Nabokov is apt here.

~F

Comment Bubble Tip

Unfinished is perfect ~f -

Unfinished is perfect ~f - your words are like jagged pieces of life that reach into my soul-m

Comment Bubble Tip

M, I feel that the

M, I feel that the unfinsihed is perfect too. No stratification, just the possibility of a continuum. Like words that reside in other souls, even if for a brief while.

Thank you...

~F