Your Silver Ropes



Give me that!

I’ll tie myself with this silver rope to this chair and just lean back a bit and hang out; I’ll make sure the gag is in place and I’ll be good about it- I won’t even scrunch it up with attempted screams for help; hey, I’ll even throw in these disgustingly neon-orange ear plugs- squash- then- air- filled- cheap- kinds, but efficient for their purpose; there’s just me, out here in this place, with so few shadows, so damn few shadows-
Did you know how much light happy places have to have to have shadows (think of blades of grass)- thankfully it’s under the moon light; which looks bigger on the horizon, in the emptiness, in the wild-over-grown-countryside, hanging like an eye- an eye of a great flopping beast made of little droplets of white,
And I’ll just sit back, lean back and hang out, her,e under the moon light with a silver rope around myself, tied to this wooden chair in the middle of Nowhere.
Yeah. I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.
Its hours later. I know. I could have broken the wooden chair. I could have skipped through the silvery rope- messed up with slivers and pieces of the chair leg that broke into 7 pieces. Except it didn’t, of course. I could have run. Through the night. I could have danced wildly and feisty-ly, without a person seeing me,
to the music of the trees,
I could have slipped through a little gate, where the stairs to the Moon exist. Mary Poppins’ style, except I think so many people come up with that originally. Independently.
I could have run. I could have. Here I sit tied up in silver ropes, under the setting moon, mouth gagged, ear plugged.
I’ll be okay, yeah, I will.
More hours later…
The sun is rising…
(that’s used a lot in stories)
Your silver ropes, I snatched from you at the very beginning, it was my gag and my plugs, my chair, but the ropes are yours. Yours. Yours.
Yours. YOURS.
And I know. You have a gag and plugs and a chair too. And I took the ropes. Yeah. I did. The silver ropes. Yeah. Those.
So. Why does “so” look like a hook, Why are people so fussy about noses? And fingers? Why does it hurt to touch hot pots- except it doesn’t when you put your mind to it? Why does this pen write? Why do price tags become all yellowed and faded so damn quickly? Why am I stretched out in the sun with silver ropes all wrapped around me on that tilted back chair that fell? Why? Except I’m not.
I wish I’d taken those ropes from you. Snatched them away and ran like a scared rabbit. Or a cat after a bird. Or an ant, if it were magnified times 100 or even a spider (again times 100).
Except. Now. That we’re on the topic, who are you? Who am I talking to? Where am I? Why am I here?


About theshadowsofthenight

An amateur writer and amateur artist :)
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