The Slow-Cooked Sentence

My brain

Rachael Conlin Levy
Crnomelj House
Courtesy of Max Boschini.

It’s dark here, the room just a sketch, the corners fading in the layered gray light. Dust floats in the air and the floor’s covered in pencil shavings. I pinch some and feel more than see the threads of wood fall. Graphite stains my hands, highlights the finger pads’ relief of grooves, ridges, bumps, lines, an intricate, identifiable map leading to me. The room itself watches and waits, just as I watch and wait inside the room, eyes shut, fingers laced over my face, leaving small windows to peer out of. Or into.

5 responses to “My brain”

  1. I tried to call you today but it just rang. How's your brain??

  2. Rachael Levy says:

    Marbles are still rattling around in there. Talk to you tomorrow.

  3. anno says:

    Maybe this is just an early spring thaw, that time of year when things look piebald and bleak, but it's really a harbinger of spring flowers soon to bloom. Your analogy (allegory?), though, resonates beautifully.

  4. Rachael Levy says:

    Anno, honestly, I don't know what that paragraph was but a bit of fun, just kind of doodling with words, experimenting, but thank you.

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