Thursday, 31 July 2014

No-lead pencil

Back in the old place I am where I grew up and where there are enough deaths and ancient bitter words and half forgotten but still palpable stories to fit in a novel. Every time, every single time the reasons I left are still there peering at me from the corners of the parquet floor and the creaky hinges of the shutters. They are always there. But what once was an abhorrent carcass has mellowed over the years, has become one with the scorched earth, it is smooth in its decay, resigned under the relentless sun. Nothing new grows. Sometimes a timid cyclamen would raise its fragile head from the hard clay soil and thrive briefly in an October shower. It dies quickly after that. Nothing new grows. Ghosts slap you in the face sometimes. Anger rises like the tide and then subsides, even it cannot grow for too long. In my father's old chestnut desk the pencil that I find has no lead. The pencil sharpener is corroded and the replacement razors are missing. The stories cannot be written.

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