Bookmark

So here goes...
The page was screaming to be marked. Its bold letters each climbing up a decibel until it reached that unbearable crescendo. The final symphony of pain. And relief. The note slips. The orchestra goes awry. And the stick falls from the conductors hand as he collapses to the ground in the ordeal of cacophonic creation (or was it recreation?!). Freeze... Bookmark...
The letters stare at me. They each pose a question. And they sink their gruesome stare right into my heart, like a thousand silent daggers. Smooth and soft. It doesn't hurt. Just a warmth. Or is it the blood seeping out through my wounds?! Freeze... Bookmark...
I stare at the page. It is innocent. It is silent. But its innocence and silence which poses the most disturbing of questions. You cannot answer to innocence. And you make your own questions up in silence. The words run around my head in dizzying circles. In a whirlpool of thought. Interstellar verbal orbiting. Freeze... Bookmark...
I was scared to mark the page. Condemn it to memory. Afraid i ll remember the page number and the odd tear halfway down the right edge everytime i flip past it. Condemn it to familiarity. Tag it as special. And yet never be sure, whether it was so exceptional after all. Or whether it was a moment's fancy, or a passing glimmer of hopeful fear.
A faint breeze catches the page, and it rustles in mid-air. My fingers still rest on its torn edge. Freeze...
I never use bookmarks. I just remember the page numbers.