The Fullness of an Empty Room There is a blue feather that floats against the background of a pale yellow wall. It is still but only at the cost of daydreams, wandering thoughts and all possible attachments to birds. It starts to spin like a woman dancing slowly alone, unwatched, not too fast, but, after a while a bit faster. As if it is entering a contemplative ecstasy that grows out of the stillness within its controlled spinning. It does not go too far but far enough to see over the trees that have grown up out of the dirt floor in the time concentrated then forgotten and so now quite expansive. The yellow walls dim then go brighter. To whom? The feather? The space between the walls? Not to me. I wasn't there. I am not there.
In this moment of wondering how I know any of this, the insistent strength of my thoughts overpowers the visual song. It has been replaced. I try to look again, but it is gone. Has the absence of my looking transplanted it, caused it to evaporate? Perhaps somewhere there is a particular blue feather using the wind. Perhaps somewhere there are some wrongly placed, or simply just newly placed, yellow walls.
Carrie Hunter 's Questions:
There seems to be something that is very necessary missing from this, like oxygen, but I don't know what it is exactly. I think it might be something to do with the lack of the human element, is it too removed? And if so any suggestions on how to add that without losing the meaning? Or since it is so based on the yearning for the inanimate, is that just not possible? Also, does the prose section work, or is that just confusing?