As one can do with words.
By the liberty given of making them sound out, make them highlight each other, lift or sink the other, one can pause, think, and make them sing again.

The written word takes on its own shape and in the process as it leaves the writer, when it falls of the readers eyes and lips, it takes on its own body. The reader pronounces and emphasis by their choice, by their skill.
The word stands on its own. Demands its space, its presence in time.
Makes its way on and in the continuum.
The word.

***

She shrugs her shoulders, sighs, quietly. That much she knows not to give away. Turns around with the coffeepot in her right hand. With her left hand she’s just lifted her coffee cup. In the rotating motion from the sink towards the kitchen table she pours her coffee. Black. Hot. Not scented. No vanilla in her house.

Firmly, with no hesitation, and with the apparent lack of social skills the puts down the cup. She clearly claims the lower end of the table as hers. Her space. Her watchtower. She reigns here. There. She claims her space.

Doing so, in that act of territorial claim, a pair of eyes looks up at her. The question clearly marked in his eyebrows: “What? What’s wrong with you?”
He is vigilant. Notices every shift in motion, in breath. He lets nothing pass.
The girl sitting opposite that accusatory gaze also looks up at her, smiling, hoping for a refill. Her facial expression, so open, her relaxed shoulders and comfortable seating givs away, she has no clue. “Since you’re here with the coffeepot” her eyes smile.

With the accusative gaze lingering. Still there. Relentless. Sounding loud and clear, aimed at her, she pours the refill. Locks her eyes in the abyss, she can hold her own!, and asks: “More?”

There’s no right or wrong. There’s life in the making, umbilical cords to be cut, sawed off on both sides. Debris cluttering the sound of the spoken word. Things said and unsaid fill the space. For those who can hear the room is as noisy as a jet plane racing across the skies.

The girl takes her replenished cup of black coffee, pours in some milk. Savours it. Takes a sip. Completely unaware of what’s happening across the table. She doesn’t hear the flush of unspoken words filling the room. She puts down her cup, looks up, still smiling. Happy about living. Content.

He looks at the girl. Smiles back, let’s his shoulders resign in to the kindness she’s sending. Accepts.

***

In the corner of the reigns territory she watched life happening, right in front of her. The last of the tendons broke.

Left is the debris. Left is all the unsaid. Left is the unaddressable need of ones own. Left is the need of time.

Giving birth is a long process. It ends when the gaze and lifted eyebrows “Enough!”

***

It takes a nemesis to move on. A nemesis with courage to make it into written words. To start sawing at the umbilical cord. To kill the darlings we all carry around.
To create the knowledge. The knowledge that’s innate, deeply hidden under everyday life and good intentions. It's there. Not yet in writing. The knowledge of life's progression, development. The knowledge that makes it clear.

It takes a nemesis to build the barricade which in turn helps create space between the child, now a adult, and the parent. Give distance, possibility, to the creation of the persona. The barricade giving pause, hindering good intentions and best wishes from soiling the process. The barricade giving us the void that will save us all from all that's left unsaid.

***

She needs to resign. She needs to give in. She needs to accept the vanilla scented girls take on life. He does.
He does for now.
It gives him a way out that’s nice, calm and pleasant. It’s enough for now.

***

The word is written. It stands on its own.