The Spilling Room.
No heartmonster can go in this room alone. They go in pairs. Usually holding hands. Sometimes the room is deep blue with black and
turquoise swirls. Or sometimes variants
of purple. There’s a couch or a cozy
pillowed and blanketed corner.
They sit. They
touch. Left thigh to right thigh. Hand in hand.
One goes at a time.
With words and tears and images and direct memory
transferred across the spilling lines, he shares….whatever memory or experience
needs sharing and full knowing. Yes, the
spilling room catches all that is stored in our livers, our bones. If and when a heartmonster so chooses, he can
spill it to another: all color, sensation, all vividness, all hurt. And even the pieces he doesn’t remember. So he doesn’t have to remember it alone.
And once it is spilled, it’s spilled. It’s done.
As fully as the other heartmonster knows the direct sensation, memory,
feeling of that moment, once they disconnect – left thigh away from right,
hands no longer held- it’s gone. It’s
not his.
And so the heartmonsters look at each other. Deep doe eyes as all heartmonsters have. And without even knowing the extent of what
was spilled anymore, they love each other a tad more wildly and a tid more
wholly than they could have before.
---------------
“In love with everything,” she said. “Completely.”
And she meant it. In
a state of some stun. No words to draw
pictures of her meaning.
“Spilling room?” he asked.
