Making space for mental scribbles from a week of running on my 5 x 1.5 m balcony
I
In old English, balca connotes a ridge, a crest in the landscape
of our physical reality; a seemingly endless edge
beckoning us, scaffolding our faltering steps
onto a covered, consolation of an island
floating on solid steel against the stretching sky,
an inaccessible gulf, only the eyes can seek
No one to the railing, said: you shall be my horizon
the tip of existence in my land of the Balcon
I am but an aberration on your projected tapestry
a loose red thread amidst the blues of heaven.
II
I notice the burgeoning clouds, it will be raining soon. I don’t know how long I’ve been running. Inertia, I assume has consumed me, us. My feet and mind are moving, heart languid. The rain arrives in waves, hope and despair, alike. The stillness settles on the balcon. The walls close in. It’s me and the sea.
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