In three weeks and not one second more, this time of silenced hands and muted touch will flower to an end. I will give to myself one day of entire day dreaming.
One day of paint, wet and smooth, paint that will turn, that will become dry and caked; it will come off my fingers in flaking sighs of relief. Dead skin dying and peeling back to let clean cells breath. This panting heat of suppressed thoughts and coughing imagination will at last inhale the cool tender touch of a beloved friend who has been asked to wait, just to wait, just a little longer a little too long.
In three weeks I will create and gulp in the fragrant air of life and my art.
Amen, Emily! Is that when your semester of intellectual bondage ends?
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