There was a time in time when my body remained immortal. When I have looked upon my hands and it seemed as if I could see the sun radiate off the metallic surfaces of my fingers and palms. When I have looked upon the crevices and creases in my body and have noticed that they never grow old. When I have looked upon the fine lines around the edges of my eyes, they have seemed as if they were too far to see but I've never asked anyone this question. When I have even asked myself this question.
But now, everything has changed. My body has changed and now I am older and I am in a space that I've never been in and don't recognize. I am in a place within myself I could never go. I have learned that I have been to the room for solitude. It is the room of heaviness and dullness.
It is a place that is hard to see through the heavy, ink-colored vapors that quickly surround it. I look down towards the arms of the chair that encircle the room, slumping in my seat just a bit. I could see my hair under me and the chair; my hair seems dull and tired. I often find myself reliving my days of boredom and wishing I had done more. I never seem to come to any conclusions from the things I've done.
I lean my head back and place my hands together, feeling the nails gently scrape against the other. I feel the weight and the pain of each finger in my hands, I feel the cracks and I let the dullness dampen the pain of line of tone in the middle of each finger and the little dips between each fingernail and thumbs.
My body has left me and I sit in the center of my being. Looking down at the reflection on the ground, I see the room I'm in. Cold and empty and my reflection has passed. I whisper: "It is not you, it is never you." But I know the one I am looking at is not me.
Then, I hear it.
The sound of the doorknob turning is slow and deliberate. The sound is of hesitation and a beauty or the dread of what could come for the one inside. This is a room that does not welcome visitors and it does not invite them in.
Then, my door opens and I see the return of my visitor. The one who has had a fascination with me. He watches me and his eyes gaze down towards the floor as he looks at my hands.
I turn my hands towards him and I watch as he stops a few steps back. He takes a breath. I smell it. I smell the balsam and all is right in the world again. I feel the vapors in the room slowly lift and the ink slowly recede. The feeling is warm and has a smell of freshness to it.
A sound of footsteps is heard and it makes a rustling sound as the sound radiates off of the floor. It comes towards me. The sound of the floor being walked upon makes me feel certain things and with every step it sounds like the tiptoe of a mother or the step of a young man. But it is neither and it is something I have never heard before.
The sound makes me feel light and it makes my eyes open wide. I see the reflection, but it is the reflection of the one sitting in the chair.
