Or someone else

14. October 2015 af Maria Guldager

One day life just left her

Chest

So sweet was the taste of honey in her

Mouth, when she ate

The scroll, the word.

But as she was born

Again the people who became her

Parents were so full

Of failure they needed

To get away with so they hid

The mistakes inside

Her, thinking no

One would ever find it. They lived

In a world of sound

To which her ears were always open

She sought the silence within

A mountain

Then she became thirsty, then hungry, then she needed a toilet, a hug, a question answered, an activity, a toilet again, more food, more love, love from the chest of a man, a scarf for the cold

Nights. The world of sounds had come

Alive from within her

Or had pierced through her and never left.

The world promised her liberation

It promised her grace

It promised her better

Days, please stay, the world said, you belong

But the world was poisoned

Inside

She turned green, almost choking

Yet everyone treated her

As a wholesome person and for a while she fell

For it, until she saw her green reflection

In the lake surrounded by enormous plants

She was the smallest of ants and not a big

Deal like she had heard

She took a good long look at the mirror and walked

Away from it, forgetful, needy, never returning to see her own true green

Nature, she didn’t  realize that she lived

In a myth, her whole existence was distorted

Maintaining only a caricature

Her every act a symbol

The very world her idea

Of boredom

Being ripped into succession of time

In a story that is being told again

Even if she wanted out of the part, she couldn’t

Understand

(and the world only existed through her understanding)

That the world only contained the taste of the taste

The taste was there

For a few seconds, then gone together with every good

Feeling, yet for years she would eat

The same again and again, says the story, until she stopped

Being afraid of not having

Food, she started to read

Her meals

What is

She would ask according to the script (and whoever wrote it)

The difference

Between seeing a person every day and once in a while?

The distinction she found on her own

was not the same when she found the man

What else is

Out there

She asked, when a grandmother tells it

What else am I

To do

She asked when the teacher tells it

From the mouth of the younger sibling she would marry

a dragon

fire and love could not be told apart

when imagination og the youth framed her

existence, and when she was full

of fire she would feel

the hardship of the numbered days, but once

emptied, she herself imagined not being in a story at all,

not in a body, not coming out from somebody else’s head.

The girl, this particular girl, was alone

Yet never accepting

Of it, she would, so the story goes, keep wanting

Company

Of that certain someone

Better

Than life

(a thousand pages are missing

But the final verse seems to be something like this):

But as life left her, as her chest turned

Cold, and the heart gave

in to the numbers of the days

The myth tellers and listeners understand

That they are she

Or someone quite different

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