What was lost

The faces the spaces the places you sit in with one hand outside and the other on another plane where the head meets the sky, where dreams and reality cohabit on an altogether more realistic level. Thoughts shared with the supermarket trolley become symbolic of something greater, something more profound, something that might slip between the fissures of the all-to-readily-discarded. There is room, there is always room, even when the room is sometimes too large and too spacious and there is an alarming distance to the door. You don’t know where to sit and end up sticking to the edges where it is presumed it is safer but from where the views are restricted and walks are long and lonesome and altogether daunting, at least for some. That is why you must make for the centre, the space where you can face all and everyone and all the thoughts and dreams that made you at once cry and scream with ecstasy and delight yet with a degree of concern for the hold that it had taken on you, on arms stretched taught leaving veins rippled like contours on some undulating region. Every move shifts the hills to the left or the right or they simply vibrate and shudder as though an earthquake has just ripped through them with all the subtlety or a large knife begin plunged into a small rabbit; or so you thought until the used carcass rolled into the road, all bone and sinew and unwanted fur. It was struck by a car and sidled towards the pavement only to be picked up by a man returning home from work who had no real grasp of the profundity of the situation he found himself in until later, over the beans and chips and bacon his wife had prepared for his supper, when he cast his mind back and for some reason unknown to anyone except his subconscious began to wonder if he had missed something. It gnawed at his head like the bacon rind between his teeth; its rubbery texture rasping against the enamel. Surely something earlier that day had passed him by as he looked the other way. He had been afraid, concerned, not inclined to think-like-that. But he knew that he had missed it now and all he could do was free the gristle that was caught between his teeth and let it slip down his throat, taking with it any hope he had of clutching at the space that he had for a brief second chanced upon and which now was as dead for him as the pig or the rabbit or any other animal whose day had been ruined by his penchant for flesh.