As one can do with words.
One can take the liberty 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 reader pronounces and emphasis by their choice, by their skill.
The written word takes on it's own shape and in the process it leaves the writer, falls of the readers eyes and lips, it takes on its own body.
The word stands on it's own. Demands its space, it's presence in time.
Makes it's way on and in the continuum.
She shrugs her shoulders, sighs, quietly. That much she knows not to give away. Turns around with the coffee pot in her right hand. With her left hand she’s just lifted her coffee cup.
In the rotation, 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.
Doing so, in that act of territorial claim, a pair of eyes looks up at her. The question clearly marked in the eyebrows, “What? What’s wrong with you?”
He is vigilant. Notices every shift in motion, in breath. Doesn’t let anything pass.
The girl sitting opposite that accusatory gaze also looks up, smiling, hoping for a refill. Her facial expression, so open, her relaxed shoulders and comfortable seating has no clue. “Since you’re here with the coffee pot” her eyes smile.
With the accusative gaze lingering. Still there. Relentless. Sounding loud and clear, to 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 words. 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 life happened, 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. To create the knowledge. Make it clear. Make it into written words. 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.
It takes a nemesis to build up the barricade witch helps create space between the child, now a adult, and the parent. The barricade hindering the good intentions and best wishes from taking over. The barricade saving us all from all 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 it's own.