Meat Cleaver Mountain


I am looking at the mountain away over the balcony. It doesn't look like a meat cleaver. It acts like one - split and wedged into the slopes and villages. Today it is a mass of prisms gathering clumsily. Though not nearly as amateurish as my splintered mess. Yesterday it was lines which fell and alighted on my railing. Shifting shape and tone.

And every time I look up it is a new ground. The longer I spend here - sitting, sitting, sitting - the more it changes before my lowered head. I spend too much time crunched and crinkled. My neck and my brow growing creased. Look up. Look up! It's changed. The soil is gold! Did you see that? Wait, no, it's grey, those trees are grey and the folds go deep and dark. The mountain is never the same as the day moves.

Though, of course, it is. It will be the same forever. I am the one who is leaving. And I'm not taking a single thing with me. I wouldn't dare. It will stay the same and changing under a silted sky. I'll go back to my acid blue and never fully understand.

Balcony studio