An empty canvas

In a town of 400 little happens to just one person. The ripples in the pond extend far and wide, and ocassionally they cause self induced whirlpools or tsunami's in the outer deltas. To discern the reality is impossible. One might even start believing the tail ends of the story, even if being there at the origins, because the stories can be more convincing that reality itself.

Only a spoon knows how deep the bowl is', Freida had reassured me when offering her token statement after the painter left me. I've held on to that for a while.

This was my life, I was the spoon, the dipstick, the assess of bowl full, bowl half empty. If I was a spoon did that make him the substance in the bowl or the bowl itself. Was he the container, the volume of influence that held a separate gravity that made the vessel contain and giving the spoon a place to rest. Or was he the contents of the meal an offering of mixed fair. An original feast of potent dreams and intent that had dwindled over years to become the reluctant grits of necessity. Just to put something in the bowl, forgetting the original desire and possibilities of the feast and the love in life.

Living over the hill from the center of town much can escape me. Unless I was to make a habit to frequent the key fusion spots where information is exchanged. The post office, the bar and the coffee shop and Town Hall. All offering their lilt to the story. Assumptions the individual seasoning that each teller makes the recipe and influence of their own.

Personally I do not want to add to the ripples, I would rather skirt the circumference and find an acceptable cove to rest in. One without people and stories and the constant hail and impact of unnecessary ripples from a bitter x. So that I can linger in a vacant canvas, as yet uninfluenced by the prevailing winds, and maybe, maybe one day, find my own colors and raise my own flag.