On A String
She wishes that she knew why she is always the tragic figure in the stories.
She wanted to tell the writer:
Please, Sir, (she addresses him as such because one must always be polite when addressing the carpenter who carved his last daughter) write me a new story. One with a happy ending.
And every night he would oblige her. And every morning, she would open her eyes to another hour that was much like the one before: all about shadows and forgetting.
The clock is always merciless to the children of fiction.
Pity the poor doll child, the girl always dressed in lace and white. She waits beyond the window, the pane of darkening glass the border between her world of the the four walls and the fields beyond -
She surveys the gathering gloom, one hand clutching the frame like a bouquet of unyielding roses, because there is no other way for disjointed legs to balance the body of wood.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Thank you to Ava, who got me a copy of my thesis adviser's first collection of poetry, Dark Hours. It's lovely. I wish I can write again. ^_^