Then, sometimes, you only leave the backround in focus. Just to try and concentrate on the things you never really look at.
You tell people you're 21. A complex of unities that are complexes of even smaller unities, and so on. Is that everything you've lived? A list of days and dates, rolled and archived as "1997"? What if your age was built up by the times you've smiled, by the times you've felt your heart cracking and a crackle on somebody's lips? Where's the pulsion-measurer, when you look outside the window and you feel your head filling up with as much snow as the one filling up the valley? When you try to catch Orion on your film? Where are all of your years, then?
She sits on a wall and looks at the children sliding down the road. She can feel her own arse and bones slowly freezing, she breathes in sharp and delicious air. She closes her right eye, leaving a world in half-focus to her mind. The backside of the black boots gently hit the wall, but the sound's nothing more than a ticking, a rythm for insects. She's still waiting, exhaling white vapour from violet lips. But her attention is stuck on what's in front of her, and on what's upon. She loves the dark silouhettes of the trees angainst a burned-out sky. She hears a rustle behind her back, but before she can turn around everything's quiet and silent again. She looks forwards and opens the right eye, catching the glimpse of something laying on the side of the road. Something that wasn't there before.
Small, smaller, smallest. All the details slide on the surface of something perfect, and stop. You're baking the bricks of your own mind, trying not to make them stick to your fingers. Smile alright, put the dirty cd in the player and let it start. Automatically, time is not of your concern anymore. Take a deep breath, and look at the perfection of that frown. The delight of the perplex expression on his face, the way we all lift our eyes towards the sky and shake our heads when some absurdity floats through the air, in the vicinity of our ears. Aint we beautiful, judging silently and chewing wisdom behind closed lips? Night-and-day creatures in a restless search for that infinity we never could get to imagine anyways. And than we explode. Whoom. The minuscule pieces of ourselves fall down again, just like flour. They land on the surface of that something perfect. Not to stick our fingers to it. Again. Againer. Againest.
Is it that bad? Close out the world, try to ignore anybody elses mind and heart. Is it that hard? Sit down and close your fingers around what you're sure can be called "happiness". Is it already sliding down, down under the pretty parquet of your being an hypocrite? You murmur you can't judge anyone, but your eyes are suspicios and your fingers are crossed. Your smile is a crooked one, while you swear you don't care. It does get hard to breathe, when the air's too cold to be chewed. Can the person you have on your side compensate for the loss of another one, of a whole world of memories? Can you still pretend that everything is gonna be allright? Drink up your never-land cup of dreams, smell its fragility. Do smile, or you won't survive. Do laugh, or you'll be left behind by your own finger and toes.
You get your nose out the door and into the freezing winter air. You lean on a cold wall, look down on the snow crystals, and click. The picture is taken. You do place the focus on the crystals, and discover without much of a surprise that the rest of the world is blurry. How can you tell a story about that?
The details through the digital frame are talking for themselves. No need for deep analysis here. Most of the things you get to communicate are probably those you don't need to explain.
