Reflections by Cetywa Powell © 2014. Cetywa Powell is a filmmaker, based in Los Angeles, who has had photography exhibitions at galleries in France, New York, Los Angeles, as well as Virginia. A photo was also a National Geographic Daily Dozen selection. You can see more of her work here

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Intruding by Evelyn D'Arcy

Follow me through his beautiful eye, from the sun shining into the darkness and back into the light again. Here, in the shimmering depths of his mind we’ll sit a while. Let’s hold hands and look up through the shivering boughs of his thoughts and see how they stream, connect, weave, chase and tease each other. Look at that one! It grasps another in a struggle, glows brightly and fuses into one single piece. Its end flailing free, whipping through this space (just missing your elbow by the way) in search of a new strand to grapple with. Some of them have been here a while – see how they pulsate? They’re being fed by new thoughts, you might call them cannibals. In reality they’re helping him out, such thoughtstrands keep him strong. That one there, the silvery-green one, that’s his sister. And that one is the first time he ever felt ashamed.

It’s quiet here now – it hasn’t started yet – so let’s wander over this way. Mind your step, the light’s fading. I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that (there’s no need to whisper, they can’t hear you). Oh! That little curled up one? That’s the last remembered guitar chord from that tune he taught himself that time he decided he wanted to be a rock star.

I like to sit in this place, here in the dark by the back wall. It’s where I see myself in him. The things we used to do together, the days we shared. When I touch this one here, I’m back standing on the footpath, shopping bags in hand, when he told me he loved me for the first time (I guess it’s not often one often finds love in the aisles of a supermarket eh?). And if I put my arm just here, I can feel the warm glow of his hand on my back at that crazy gig we went to when the lead guitarist fell into the crowd and had to be taken to hospital. If I take a deep breath, stretch out my foot and close my eyes I feel my toes spread out into his shoes and now we’re walking in the wood together again. I can feel the swell of his chest as he looks at me, leaning against a tree trying to fix my boot.

It was real, it was wonderful, it was living.

It’s time to go.

 

Evelyn D’Arcy lives in Dublin but grew up in the Meath countryside where she cultivated a love for writing from a young age. She credits this love to the encouragement of her mother, who she says was her “first editor.” Evelyn writes short pieces, both fiction and non-fiction, in the spaces she finds within a busy life working as an architect and English language teacher – a job she credits with teaching her more grammar than she ever learned at school. Read more about her here

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