Friday, December 19, 2008

The Safe Room

Time gets put in a box and the box gets put in a room. The room is completely quiet. Everything disappears: pictures, colors, sounds, feelings, fear. The breath remains. In. Out.

When breath enters your nostril you hear a child’s shout on the playground. Passing through the nasal passage, it’s the screech of a crane turning slowly. In the throat it plays your tonsils like a balalaika or a harp. At the top of the lungs, it’s the whistling wind in the sails of a boat, the creak of rope, the splash of sea. In the diaphragm it’s the moans of lovers. At the tips of the branches of the respiratory tree, it’s a softly falling pine cone. Pop.



Outbreath. It plays all the sounds together, in D Major.

Every inbreath brings the world in, every outbreath plays it as music, until everything is singing, every thing a sound. This is the safe room. This is true.

Mischa Kuball: Lightshadowcomplex

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