Life Between the Crosshairs

In the quiet darkness I wait for sound. For whispers, for words. The darkness confuses me, I am without orientation, senses or reality, as the world clamors beyond my sanctuary.  It feels just at the end of my fingertips, and I trace the blackness around me.

My hands slip over the fabric of the world, sliding over smooth, even places. These are happy times, memories preserved behind glass that has become dirtied. I pass over them, searching for the real, skipping over the textured linen and reading the snares, the pulls - the tatters.

Searching, sliding, cascading across the surface, frantic fingers search for the key. Scrabbling over the patchwork life until they stop, fingering the edges of a torn reality. I contemplate. In the quiet darkness I keep one thumb posed over the pulse of the beyond. And without decision, I pull.

As the strands let go, straining against my pressure, beams of light curl over the edges. Slivers of real, whispered sounds straining, ripping - my silence ruptured.  Peering, squinting - fighting the brightness of that around me, clanking and tinkling at first - growing louder and thicker until it is roaring over the tears and blowing the threads around me.

Punctured.

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