THE SECRET LIFE OF STATUES
The cold ground throbbing on his forehead, the ‘tick tick tick’ of peoples feet as they parade by. Knees bent, head to ground, arms out, palms upward in absolute supplication. He can't remember how it all started, can’t even remember his own name. Sometimes the words come easily forming sentences. Sentences into paragraphs, paragraphs into whole pages of exposition on his life, likes and dislikes, opinions and general noise. The brain just dumping its old hardly used words, rattling in through and out of his mind and mouth like a great biblical purging. Sometimes it was not so easy, like now. Vast tracks of silence and gaping maws of darkness that threatened to consume his mind, his warmth, his very essence.
Who was he? Today he referred to himself as Thracé. Why was he begging on this cold street at the edge of Charles Bridge? He needed the coins for something. Something was gnawing at his insides, something needed to be satisfied with these coins...the money but he did not know what. The cold ground throbbing on his forehead, IN his forehead, as people surged and pulsed past him.
"...flowing, blowing, pulsing, throbbing like...like BLOOD!", Thracé thought.
"I bled once...a long time ago."