A Symphony of Sadness, a Melody of Time

(for Velocity)

She was running now, faster than she thought possible. Outrunning the rush hour traffic that pulsed with indignation and distraction. Outrunning the flashing and freezing fits and starts that posed with momentary acknowledgement. Outrunning her own ability to breathe.

It was a force of will that created this necessity, this insistence, this “convulsive beauty” that stirred such jealousy in those that fed their egos on the transient fruits.

It was a force of will that drove her to travel any distance to achieve what she felt was, ultimately, the ability to fly.

It was a force of will that mocked her talent for watching the sun rise and set on opposite oceans.

It was a force of will that broadcast to the world the portraits of her dreams, through wire and wind and pixilated canvas, to rest like new fallen snow on the histories of Montparnasse.

And when she had outrun the sound of her own voice, past the barriers where light and time were condensed into theories, past the compensated days, past her plans and calendar notes, past where she ordered her thoughts into the tight bundles of concepts, she heard the silence of her heart and wondered if anyone was listening.