“From the eyes of an angel, the black one, there are no more wings to look at. It is even when the sun is out or the moon is full, that the light does not come to her. In the darkness, in her own, there is only the recognition of a sheer blackness that submits to her for marriage.” This, a woman writes upon a page as old as the oak it was taken from, and as old as the woman’s soul who writes it.
She falls into the open space of the page. A woman, a writer, and a denier of a simple word. Whatever kisses still stain her cheeks, have been due to a period in appetite.
Suzanne Thompson sits apart from the moon, though it is before herself. Her dress is stained with the worn aspect of nighttime passion. Still does the betterment of some fairy-tale get the better of her focus. So deep does her grief go, that it lurks near all empty corners of her heart. A grief that fills a lifetime of loneliness, leaning on no one except the wall. Loving no one, except a world that called her to love what she will.
A woman, and so much a woman who will listen to the anyone, when the no one speaks to her. A heart, a woman’s heart, when filled in the blankness, cannot possibly listen to a genuine word, where many speak their faces to her.
Though, a genuine word is now being written. Suzanne has allowed her mind to dive into the page, like some ivory ocean. She stirs the froth with her pain, and drives hurricanes with all ongoing grief. Loneliness despairs her for one last time, before the moon dries out of its coloring.
Fill the page with what you hold near to you, even if its but the air, for that is the author’s wit. Will a writer love the air they breathe? They will say the same words to it, “What would I do without it?” Suzanne has done the same, to her face filled with loneliness.
To what she remembers, to what she recalls, is spilled forth in the next moment, and spoken aloud from parted red lips, “Find me, God, in the next sorry year, for my life will be wrapped in the cradle of a noose, without so much as a tear. I am in love with death, for I was never in love with life.”
Depression is her companion, as the only friend to offer the clarity needed for a woman’s feet to move. To dance upon the notes of bewilderment, is no life to the woman who craves liberation.
Life held no gentle word for her breath, though it is death that will smother her to a realm of peace.