Claire Moran
Stories (2)
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Glimpsing freedom
On slow, cosmic days, I find my way out of that cramped, noisy, dirt-shod room filled with ghosts and echoes. Out of the deafening fog churning and churning day and night. Where clocks tick, tick, tick into tomorrow, always tomorrow, at breakneck speed. Back to the door with no lock, no chains, no captives. Back to the spiralling, humming space; where life flows, through light and air, through ever-moving waters. Back to the sweep and curve of the corridors, the stairways, the tunnels. Back to the weight, the mass, the blend, of steel, wood, brick, stone. Back to the cauldrons, the furnaces, the engines, that burn and pulse, that transfigure and transform. Down, deeper, and deeper, deeper down, through dust and dark, breathing in every corner, every crevice, every whip and sting of the place. Passing places long-forgotten, unseen, roughly hewn, old with age and neglect. At times I find my way blocked, confused; a maze of dank and damp, of sharp-edged carapaces, so that I retreat. Other times I find my way with ease, through dark and dust, till I can go no further. Till I see, till I feel, the warm, steady light of that lamp-lit place, deep inside it all. Where the air is clear and crisp, the fire always burning, the view fresh and clear. From here light and air ripple out, flinging open doors and windows, flushing out the dust, the dirt, the cobwebs; guiding the whole, whirring, working thing back together. Bringing back that slow, easy, rhythm of a machine in perfect motion, in perfect harmony. Bringing the whole house, my body, back home.
By Claire Moran4 years ago in Psyche
