Thinking about themes

We hold up mirrors, we plunge into the ocean, we cradle skeletons, our hair is lifted and caressed by the wind. The woods are dark, always, but nothing moves in their shadows, all is still, still. A continuance of a thing that has ceased.

But passing into the sunlit meadows, rabbits play, birds swoop and dart, flowers bloom, insects crawl, and the distant sound of a child’s laughter echoes.

where are the people

The scene slides to a new setting, the child, laughing a moment before, being scowled at by an unforgiving mother. Behind them, a clock shaped like a cat ticks, tail flicking with each passing second. There is an absence here, a lacuna named father. There is a couch, maroon faded to dusty red, and a living cat sits on it, tail swinging in an echo of the clock on the wall.

There is a painting of feathers and flames, something referencing heaven and hell, but abstracted into something that can be called neither holy nor unholy, merely descriptive, a passive observance of meaning culled into a pretty picture.

The family dissolves, the mother fading into obscurity, though her shadow remains.