The Sculptor of Invisible Statues
Art Made from What Cannot Be Held
A sculptor claimed to carve statues from air. People mocked him until they stood in his gallery and felt something shift around them — pressure, presence, shape. They realized his sculptures weren’t meant to be seen but perceived. Each invisible form represented a truth people refused to acknowledge: regret, hope, longing, release. The gallery became a sanctuary for those who needed to feel something they couldn’t explain.
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The Door Made of Shadows
A doorway made of shadows appeared in a village square every full moon. It led nowhere and everywhere at once. Those who entered described confronting versions of themselves they had avoided for years. Some emerged trembling; others emerged lighter, as if shedding invisible weight. Elders taught that the door was not there to frighten but to free — because a fear faced willingly becomes a guide.
By GoldenSpeech3 months ago in Chapters
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaabout 10 hours ago in Poets
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