Osmosis

Osmosis

A Poem by +she plays with matches+
"

This has some truth...mixed in with some fiction. I hope you enjoy my moment of osmosis.

"





































"What time is it?" she asked.

"It's time for atonement," said the voice.


"What if I change my mind?" she asked.


"You don't have a choice," said the voice.


"What if they find me here?" she asked.


"They won't, you'll be in passage," said the voice.




*****************************



Carefully; she submerges herself chest high, in a porcelain wall of complacency.  The hand of hesitation, reaching out to support her spine during a brief moment of doubt.  Taking in a deep breath, she could feel the weight of the world; pushing her....forcing her down. Drowning beneath a raining cloud of purified osmosis.


Watching;  each pocket of air slowly escaping her lungs, exiting her lips. 
It was easy for her to imagine each bubble to be a reflection of subconsciousness. A dreamy void blurred by a waterfall of naive perception.  Direct and steady, like a floating compass, moving her thoughts towards the blue curtain. 

Eyes blinking.  She observes the first bubble as it breaks open at the surface. The air around it, producing a faint whimper accompanied by many visions.  She could see her Father coming home.  He had strong calloused hands.  Beer on his breath.  A thick mustache.  Black grease with oil stains on his pants.  He looked like Bruce Willis.  And he laughed like Barney Rubble.  She loved him, as much as she despised him. 

Then there was the smell of cinnamon.  Her Mother always made the best Snicker-doodles.  She liked helping her mother sprinkle the sugar on top.  Mouth watering, she could almost taste the first bite of a warm cookie. 

Thirsty...the sweet stuff always makes you thirsty.  She draws in another quick breath; topping the cookies off with warm milk, filling her lungs with condemnation.  The flashbacks begin to contort and ripple, she hears her Father's voice, molesting the inside of her ears again. 

"Stupid girl." 

Oh yes, and she remembered her classmate Mark.  They were just 17, and he only wanted to be friends.  Maybe if only her ears were smaller.  The freckles on her face...looked like fire ants that wanted to race.  Maybe he preferred brown-eyed girls.  All she wanted to do was touch his smile.

Then there was a lovely vision of Tracey.  Her Mother and Father said she was just an imaginary friend.  But she was as real as any other friend.  And then one day, Tracey went away. That same year, the tooth fairy stopped paying.  The wishing star never looked so far.  The big dipper and little dipper looked like tiny droplets of rain that fell on an Easter Sunday. This precipitation paving the way to deliver her soul. 

She could see and feel the hardwood floor beneath her.  Pajamas on, sitting alone in her bedroom, biting her fingernails.  At times, all the chewing would even bloody up her cuticles. 

"Disgusting habit, " she could hear one of her Teacher's say.
 

But it produced endorphins for her, it helped numb down her anxiety.  She often bit on the inside of her cheeks too.  Scratched at her scabs and sores until they bled.  But blood never bothered her, just certain sounds.  Like the door slamming shut.  Heavy footsteps on the floor.  The thunder in the night.  Her mother crying.

Her mother's tears pooling around her face as she watches; the second bubble.  It was quite small.  Filled with grief from being average.  Every time she spoke, she felt like an invisible whisper.   This bubble made no noise upon reaching the surface.   It instead just produced an echo of silence. 

Suddenly, a flash of light, she could see her purple shoes...her favorite pair of shoes.  It matched nicely with her purple hand bag.  The purple bag swells into a balloon, producing the last bubble. The biggest bubble.  It floated upwards slowly, as if it were reluctant to let go. The burst of air replacing the silence with many voices......

                                    "S**t."

                    "Worthless."  
          
                                   "Sweetie I love you."

                                "B***h."

                                            "Lazy."

                                 "Ugly."


                            " I love you."

                                                       " I love you."

                                          " I love you."



An echo upon echo of words.
She didn't get to say sorry to her Mother for spilling the juice on the floor.  And it was the day after; her Mother passed away so very suddenly.  The cause of death.  Brain aneurysm, she heard the doctors telling her Father.

"Awake now," said the voice.
 



    Opening her third

     (((EYE)))


she looks down,

and sees the place of baptism below.



© 2014 +she plays with matches+



Author's Note

+she plays with matches+





The process of gradual or unconscious assimilation of ideas, knowledge, etc.

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...
. oh ... there are a million thoughts racing in my mind right now ... there are so many thought-triggers in the narrative ... i thought the title would be very challenging to justify ... but you've done great justice to it ... this slow unraveling of the narrator's mind is compelling ... i am reminded of my own journey and of the time when i needed to atone ... and then ... once i started ... i realized ... that in some ways ... life is a journey into the perfecting the process of atonement ... almost like an art form ... the way we perceive ourselves has a lot to do with the way we perceive our mistakes ... and the plight of those we might have wronged ... albeit not in a major way ... this piece of writing is like an intense experience of putting oneself under the microscope ... piecing together one's key influences in life through the subtle analysis of key events and characters ... and then letting go ... yes, the final note of this symphony is undoubtedly liberation ... excellent work ...

Posted 5 Years Ago


4 of 4 people found this review constructive.




Reviews

When one has been brushed by the wings of darkness, she cannot help but be touched by the brush of darkness in another. Shadows have a way of following us around. Your words, at times, are like black ink; but I see glimmers of light between the lines. Another excellent write!

Posted 1 Year Ago


You had me engaged with this story. You definitely have a talent for writing, description and placing scenes in the readers mind. Excellent Beth!

Posted 3 Years Ago


Maybe if only her ears were smaller. The freckles on her face...looked like fire ants that wanted to race. Maybe he preferred brown-eyed girls. All she wanted to do was touch his smile.

Like these words, wrapped, in the emotional plea... many are the gems of perception, and much of the tragedies, left in the cloak of darkness. In no need of further expropriation, to leave for the reader to cringe to their own imagined horrors, beneath the traumas abuse. She lay, and escaping bubbles of torment and memory, is superlative. An unorthodox style here brought up from deep places exposed. That captures the inner reveal of imagination, and triggers, compassion. I found this write to be exceedingly compelling, with an ending that hangs bare, the mystery. Excellent reading. A talent that will only proceed herself, with the readers desire... "What's next?"

Right On / Write on... Romon in Review

Posted 3 Years Ago


The progression of images here stuns as those words break up the pace. They force you to linger on their intent. Just a few more lies thrown your way. I hope you've learned to ignore their sting. I appreciate the stark honesty here. Keep it up.

Posted 3 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

I enjoyed reading this expression in the form of a gilt ridden Stream of Consciousness in search of atonement. We don’t need to feel guilty about our natural naivety. It’s enough to know that we had good intentions, but the road to guilt is littered with good intentions since none of us is omniscient. Mystical Powers understand that our self-destructive feelings of guilt are just additional good intentions gone awry. The gods of forgiveness laugh at our folly knowing that we never needed forgiveness in the first place. Only the omniscient need forgiveness, but for them there’s none to be had.


Posted 3 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

This is a very well crafted, almost visual, account of rebirth (or exorcism) can't figure out which. (Maybe they're not so dissimilar.) It pulled me in very quickly and held me while every breath was squeezed out of her, bubble by bubble, memory by memory.

In the end it seems not so much osmosis by absorption as osmosis in reverse--a release of pain and past, bit by bit. A very nice idea and a rich complex telling of it. I liked it very much.

Posted 3 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

+she plays with matches+

3 Years Ago

Thank you. The journey was a personal one for me, but one that needed to be shared.
Transcending that which is life and death is an experience that electrifies the soul with shivers of reality of the past and allows one to identify with the present and of that which shall be. All of our misgivings, our mistakes, our hopes are wrapped up in perhaps a few seconds as our life/death flashes before us. You are able to make me feel that which has been, is, and will be.
An exceptional write in a style that is captivating and memorable -but, that is "Muse's style"! The ending is dramatic and one to long remember!

Posted 3 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

This is brilliant. I love it. The depth and breadth of it, and its complex back story told in such a clever way ...

Posted 3 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Oh yeah...my kind of writing...EXCELLENT! :)

Posted 3 Years Ago


very impressing piece of writing with beautiful artistic touch and the music just loved it. You will go places my friend. Congrats

Posted 3 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.


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3068 Views
82 Reviews
Shelved in 17 Libraries
Added on June 3, 2012
Last Updated on June 8, 2014
Tags: religion, death, life, spiritual, baptism, health, body, mind, sureal, poem, story, fantasy, woman, beauty, art, flying, drowning

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+she plays with matches+
+she plays with matches+

IA



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