She’d been sat in that dark room for hours,
the streetlights creeping in through
the blinds
like ants.
It would not be the first time
she would spend an evening alone,
the echoes were quieter that way.
Reflections of a loud
and jarring
energy from her P.E teacher
who was adamant on using
the school’s megaphone
at a constant rate.
‘The weakest are always the loudest’
her Mum would say.
Why then did she always flock
to the class clown, the brash,
the cocky, the arrogant, the overly
self-assured?
Was she predisposed to like
weak men?
Her father wasn’t weak.
If he was
he certainly didn’t show it.
He was a quiet man
after all.
The corners of his armchair
slightly worn away,
inanimate objects
playing audience,
the orchestra his fingers
reciting any complex emotion
onto the paisley embossed
print of the chair cover.
You could often tell a lot about
a family by
not what they owned
but
by the condition of what they owned.
As a young girl she’d
speak her mind
when noticing the small details
etched into the objects
in her friend’s houses.
No wonder she stopped
getting invited over.
Every time she did
that
family would end up arguing.
She always thought
that she had been
cursed with the power of
being overly observant.
It had brought nothing good
to her life.
She wished she could choose
when to notice things like
everyone else.
However that wasn’t the case.
So she sat there,
in that dark room,
giving her mind a much needed
break whilst her eyes were adjusting
to the light,
or lack thereof.
It would only be minutes before
the details encased within
would whisper their secrets
into her ear
yet
again.
I’d been walking up the muddy track for a while, beautiful vistas here and there coupled with a big drop off just metres next to me. Most things in life had that balance Between beauty and death. Up further along I had spotted A wooden thing Just stood there. It didn’t belong there Or at least not In a natural sense of the term. Unlike the flowers and trees that existed around it That for-one-reason-or-another, chose that particular spot to live out the rest of its life, this, had had no choice of its own. I mean how could it? An inanimate object as such, I can’t even say it chose to look the way it did. No, That was up to the designer or in this case, the wood worker.
I was closer to it now the distance between it and I a matter of centimetres. A door. It was a door. A nice door at that, one that had patinaed and aged through its intended use. Unfortunately for this door, It had lost one key feature. Either, through the perils of time or the uncanny strength of one individual. Nevertheless, this door was undoubtedly missing a handle. In its place, a chain. A door, chained shut. Which as uninviting as that may seem, had a certain warmth about it. Like an old friend or relative. Maybe that was due to the backdrop, a cacophony of plants and branches that completely changed my perception of this piece of wood. If anything, this large piece of wood was cousins with the trees that grew beside it. The stone parked at the bottom of the door also did not add to the overall welcoming nature of this inanimate object. Yet again, it still filled me with warmth.
I’d have loved to have met the owner. Not of the ground that lay behind the entrance, but to the opening itself. Of course, I would have asked him politely, Not knowing the nature of the man who owned this door. Although the chains and rock had suggested he wasn’t a friendly man, or that perhaps he was and that he was keeping those who were not so friendly, Out. Like most of us who live day-to-day, we can often feel misplaced. But when we do, we will often do something about it. On the other hand, this door, which in one way, can only be described as misplaced, simply must stand there, in its awkwardness and all. Unlikely to be opened, used, touched, man-handled. So if ever you are feeling Misplaced. Whether that be in a literal or metaphorical sense. Just be glad, you’re not this door.
wear shoes, write poems 