On one side of her mind, its like a wide dish, made of wood, the kind that one hardly sees in this city. Maybe that’s a good thing.
On that dish all the thoughts dance with strands and worms and long beans
poking up from below the deepest of her decrepit self.
Its like a pot of flying corn, standing on end and weaving, swaying slightly in the sun. Its red, at places.
Its derelict, only she can’t really see that.
The other side is like a vast vast bubble to contain it all, the place where one should safely think, with only the unending forever edges of ones hearts being the limit. Only the bubble isn’t there, so a bubble without a bubble.
They dance in fear,
every second, every kind
fear and something else
Sometimes there is hope-the springing wonderful one and a lot of sometimes there is a calm patience.
And sometimes there is panic.
More abstract stuff is confuddlingly beguiling me 😉