Never In Heart

Always Together, Never Apart. Maybe in distance, but never in heart ......................................................................................................................................................

A collaborative project by Olga Kotnowska and Eliza Muirhead. A conversation through text and photographs between two best friends separated momentarily by space and timezones ................................................................................................................................................

Text by Ola and Photos by Eliza

Part II.

The rain breaks, it is angry when it hits: the rain leaves the street empty-handed.
There is a woman next to the door with eyes rimmed by a kind of defeat.

Her moves are slow, this woman is cold-blooded; she is moved by cold-blood.
When the woman speaks, her voice is almost used-up. This woman has fought for long enough now, and today she still stands, but she stands knowing the ugly side to it all: to all the other people; and this side she knows too well.
Somone should have told her - Get to the bone, bite into it, wrench it out.

There is no response when the woman knocks on the door, and when she knocks on the door again, the only sign of life is a lit window. There is also the hiss of rain and the rickety thumps of her heart.

And when you are woken up by a twitch in plain night, and there is no one next to you but a moon’s touch and a clock that ticks, this woman is you.

There is nothing pretty about all this; there is nothing to see here.
There is a thick cloud spread across the sky and there is a woman with a frog in her throat the size of a man’s fist.
There is a silence but this silence is not kind.
This silence is threatening: this silence threatens.

The wind has calmed down a little again and across his wet skin it cools him but he fidgets, he feels all fidgety. The wails of the landlady’s violin and the chirpy bird-chatter all mix into something a little complicated, a little agitating.

The light that I am talking about is not the light that you are thinking of. This light is almost honey, the honey you spread across your toast: honey thick and sticky and golden. This is the light that I am talking about and this is the light that you don’t see. And this light that pours in through the window almost softens the afternoon that is otherwise harsh with the ending that you bring, that your words have been bringing; this ending that you are about to leave behind, with me, in the room that will soon be colder than forgotten flesh.

That was boyhood. That was then.
Today the light filters through the blinds and wraps itself around her face in uniform stripes.
She doesn’t make the first move, she waits because that is all she has ever known: strategy.
And today, I am still here, and hours pour out and pull us along all the same, and I am still unsure of how to do it all: how to live and die well.