doomscrolling

She knows nowhere places. Places with no sea, no cool waves, no sand. She knows the never ending roots of a nothingland tree, the serpent that eats itself, the missing eye. She knows war. The pauses of breath that last too long. The clicks of imperfectly oiled keys, that silvery sound sharpening despite diaphragmatic resistance. She knows bloodsoaked places, sees over all nowhere worlds, knows mistakes before she makes them, knows that e to d flat, e to d flat, e to d flat still won’t get that fourth finger moving without a lag when it’s crunch time. Knows that body betrays mind regularly, and that mind rarely forgives. She watches a gentle god bleed, and the venom of winding serpents drip down majestic walls. She tastes wolf mauled giant flesh, sees the nowhere tree shudder, hears Odin’s endless questions that are met with no comforting answers. What if he had never asked the old witch how things would go wrong? The nothing gods shoot barbs into her darting knuckles as the fingernails of the dead float like blurry notes on the page. Does she know why are they always so far away when she needs them? She sees hot stars tumble, a blackening sun, an unleashed wolf, and an old witch hang her head and sink into oblivion, pulling the whole nowhere world with it. She knows nowhere places, but she knows somewhere places, too. Places with sea and cool waves and sand. Places with this tree, and that tree, and they all stand tall and smell good, and offer shelter. Places without self-eating serpents, but tiny little wobbly green blobs your sister finds in the garden and gently places on your nail, and you shudder a little bit but she tells you they don’t bite and that one day they’ll explode from a cocoon looking really cool. Places with simple major scales and arpeggios, and all the old songs you once learnt that flow so effortlessly despite all the wars you once waged against them. Places with loud, incessant barking, and a wolf’s tail that wags so enthusiastically it nearly capsizes you. Places where a door slams shut and a girl screams, ‘I’m never going to get this right’, and then an old witch rises from the earth holding Odin’s dripping, missing eye (it was probably never really his anyway) and says; “uff da. Better luck next time”.
Jo prepares for her flute recital, inspired by old norse end of the world myth 'Völuspá and the Red Army Choir
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