acouasm
“I am hitting my head against the walls, but the walls are giving way.”
I carried the carton of eggs with both hands and decidedly tipped it sideways to watch the shells fall from the craft carton to the cement.
I wanted to hear the break.
I wanted to witness wreckage.
Something small. Something I could clean up in a few moments.
I picked the fragmented bits of shell, enjoying the sharper filaments in my palm. I rubbed the sticky yolk and smeared it with a cloth the colour of a mushroom.
The stress cycle was complete; I put the carton under the sink and the soggy cloth in the trash bin.
Creativity occurs between each phrase. A sketch. A line. A blob. A blur. A broken egg.
The next phrase is the gateway to a different universe. An infinite number of stars sparkle from a galaxy beyond the wall.
I can’t see the stars from where I stand. Something has to break for the boundary to come down. What I have to give is a carton of eggs.
Disaster demands as much as desire.
Photo source.
