Red-Haired Girl

Cracks and patterns

Roman Newell
The Interstitial

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Photo by Oscar Keys on Unsplash.

She’s arranged on the ground between arms and legs. No face. I don’t know why they’re always faceless inside these dreams. One more thing for me to crack open. Maybe this is savior complex. Me pulling from the outside to compel myself inside a projection. The picture of a process I engage repetitively. If I am perfectly still life will wash over me. No more rhythm. No more pattern. No more chains.

Pattern is repetition and repetition is a product of inertia. I hesitate. It is not only the nature of the pattern I fear. It’s the pattern itself.

Takes an armful of energy to disrupt inertia. To make an object do something it isn’t accustomed to doing. I fight to stay on the path of pattern when pattern is the trauma.

My good friend, he’s quite a few years younger, asked me how I’m feeling about life these days. I told him a quick story: I go on my rides to this place where the bike path crosses the road. It’s not heavily traveled. But I never look when I cross. Just go right through it. Don’t even think I’ve seen a car on that road. Once maybe. But it doesn’t really matter does it? Somewhere inside there’s that much of me willing to take the risk.

I cycle up another hill. The path travels left then gets lost in trees. When I get there I too will be lost in trees, found only to myself…

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Roman Newell
The Interstitial

Busy working on my novel, 20XX. I also talk about the writing journey on Substack. romannewell.substack.com.