Roxanne Ratcliffe, Next to Nowhere
The empty white page bleeds to an empty white world. I’m walking and yet there’s nothing. The pale sky merges to the pale snowy landscape, except there is no landscape, no trees, no shapes. Just an expanse of white page, blank. Maybe here I am truly lost. Spinning around, I laugh. There is life in me, the cold air ripping out my insides, because inside there’s blood and breathing, a nervous system bleeping away, monitoring reactions, movements, the feel of the snow that sinks softly beneath me.
A figure emerges from the blank page. At first just a vague smear, getting larger and clearer until I can make out the laughter inside his eyes and the tiny flecks of cold moisture on his stubbly chin. He wraps me in his arms and the soggy wool of his grey coat. He kisses my forehead and his nose feels cold against my face…
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