the threads in her head

dream, hard-

The season of Valentine started with poetry. Poetry with a keen sense of the physical. Not sexual, just physical. It made her pant; breathless, like something strong and raw had caught her, raw and powerful. The poems were not just words, but throbbing with a strength of life that made them physical, words that could really grip and hold you. Tight.

For a moment that was all in her mind - the words, the words, the strength of the words. It was followed by a wave of surprised delight, warm like the golden glow of the sun on the skin, the gentle bath of mid-morning warmth, induced by the rediscovery of the love between words.

How strange it is when words do meet, the way the letters kiss and the words join to to form a product; an image, a new world, sometimes full of fancies and whims, sometimes a harsh dystopian image,

Sometimes, an escape.

A loud burst of laughter from the crowd broke her train of dreams, and then in the sudden silence of her mind she felt almost lost, and there was fear, but a quick look revealed that the laughter came from a harmless group of children. She could hardly cared less, and turned away. And, as if she had not delight enough, she realised then that the sky was glowing pink, and that soft hue was spread everywhere, curling gently round leaves, rippling across the walls of the buildings. It was the pink of unicorns, of fairy world with princesses and princes. For a moment, the world she knew had been transformed, back into somehing more alive and exciting, something intoxicating.

Intoxicating, like the almost-overwhelming smell of strong heady cologne fumes warmed up by the body. The world in front of her exploded into starbursts, pink and blue, white and colourful astericks - her head throbbed as a myraid of ideas, thoughts, emotions gripped her. Suddenly, everything seemed to be crying out to her for attention, the grey rough surface of slate tiles, the way the lines met and criss-crossed, the green of the grass that stretched ahead of her, the ragged cloud-boys running across the skies, their garments dirty grey from play and mischief. How bright and new the world seemed again, when the abstract had become physical, it was beautiful; elements swirled round and round; it was once again a world where all were spheres, conducted by angels, trembling gently, making the light buzz of sweet music that is supposedly closed to human ears - but oh, perhaps they could, if unseen words could become a physical force, one to be reckoned with, then why not the unheard be heard, human's ears be open? - all things unknown now existed, it was strange, fantasical and exciting. Chaos bubbled within her, it was all too much to taken in, so intense, very much so. What was she to do?

She took in a long deep breath.

And let herself fall.