Anne,a Beginning

writing by tony hall

Anne was born with the impression that she was unspectacular, in fact all her life not one incident seemed to dispute this, save for the time when she was 7 and her mother cut her hair and dressed to make her face look perfectly square, later pitching to local news outlets about this supposed phenomenon and for a week Anne’s face was projected over the evening news, right after the weather when families got up to prepare for dinner. 

Presently, she felt insignificant suddenly, and a familiar part of her preached contentedness, after all a stable job, reliable husband and normal life was all one could ask for these days. There were moments in the office when she felt compelled to leave and run, toes in sweat and a heart alive with adrenaline, instead she peered out and contemplated the blue, turtling skies and wondered what gorgeous infinity could lay beyond her own plain existence.

There was days she simply felt lost, entirely spent in the office brooding over deadlines and paperwork, they felt smooth and harmless like water, but there were times when she felt the hard skin of her knuckles, or study the lines on her face that grew over time, whether she noticed it or not, time forged ahead and day by day she was withering away to age.

And this burden, an unsinkable feeling that she was meant for something bigger, that she had been made to create something special, followed and began to permeate her thoughts, and to combat the ennui she sometimes wrote poems that oft appeared in mundanity so they began as scribbles on a lunch napkin, an alien paragraph on a report, lines on a stray post-it.

These had the ordinary qualities of a poem, the words and shape and effortless rhythm and beat, but they breathed a speechless life as the lines grew more erratic, thundering right and left until they threatened to spill over pages, but pulled together they owned a hard physique, stepping over small and large spaces like a considerate stranger passing through the night, and read in whole these poems spoke of a great fantasy, a flawed Babylon.

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