messages that can't be traced
She shivered, staring, gaze caught and held by the window. She studied the pane of glass aged wood separating the window into six small squares barely any space within each. She senses more than sees the words written in the ghostly script. Tempered by time, they linger on the back of her throat, and dance across the pane of glass before her.
Reaching forward she traces soft loops in the top quarter, fingers moving with ease, automatic writing, messages that can't be traced to any one source.
Her fingers jumped the edge of the fist square of glass to the right. The letters begin again, but this time the pattern traced is smaller, more concise, more words painstakingly left behind for one with the right kind of sight.
She moved again, another pane of glass, and another hand, and she wondered if this happens to anyone else with her inclinations. Automatic writing was a strange a misunderstood gift.
She tried to hold on to the worlds gleaned from the window, wishes to translate them to the page, even as she tests them on her tongue, mentally saying words to herself.
The words meant nothing to her, but she couldn't help but feel that they should be preserved in someway. She would become the scribe to those who came before, the keeper of the whispers of faded memories of another time. She had collected the voices of four men, and two women, six panes of glass, six unique scripts and no notion of who they once were.
Please save my son.
Don't forget to live.
So much sadness
If only I had listened.
Find Robby
Sing to me
She took their words to paper, wondering if the son had been found, if the song had been sung, and what wisdom had been missed.
Reaching forward she traces soft loops in the top quarter, fingers moving with ease, automatic writing, messages that can't be traced to any one source.
Her fingers jumped the edge of the fist square of glass to the right. The letters begin again, but this time the pattern traced is smaller, more concise, more words painstakingly left behind for one with the right kind of sight.
She moved again, another pane of glass, and another hand, and she wondered if this happens to anyone else with her inclinations. Automatic writing was a strange a misunderstood gift.
She tried to hold on to the worlds gleaned from the window, wishes to translate them to the page, even as she tests them on her tongue, mentally saying words to herself.
The words meant nothing to her, but she couldn't help but feel that they should be preserved in someway. She would become the scribe to those who came before, the keeper of the whispers of faded memories of another time. She had collected the voices of four men, and two women, six panes of glass, six unique scripts and no notion of who they once were.
Please save my son.
Don't forget to live.
So much sadness
If only I had listened.
Find Robby
Sing to me
She took their words to paper, wondering if the son had been found, if the song had been sung, and what wisdom had been missed.