a smudge


On the underside of the shelf, directly above my face, I see a pattern, faintly revealed. The secret mapping of some hitherto uncharted but enchanting place.

I think back to a time when Time stood still; when boy-me could spend an age picking out a face from a wallpaper-smudge or a demon from a cloudy sky. Somewhere along the way, that particular affliction became less strong. Because there’s always a bigger distraction; there’s always stuff to fill the yawning space and always stuff to chase.

But here, in this instant, I dwell in the moment and on the minutiae.

I need to just look.

For as long as I can.

And the luxury of me being able to engage with this thing of nothingness feels like bliss.

The sun surely spreads itself across the window and I’m both bathed and blinded by a bittersweet truth; that something beautiful has slipped away from me.

On the underside of the shelf, directly above my face, there is a pattern, faintly revealed. It’s like a bruise, on the wane.


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