Mrs. Dalloway sits at her desk, water cup dripping from frigidity, music blasting to drown out all the sounds, pants rolled over her knees for added comfort, and she types.  She throws parties, but the silence becomes louder--oxymoron, I know, but nonetheless, a very intuitive comparison.  And she feels so empty.  She is like a house that sits alone on a road.  One streetlight gives subtle emphasis to her features, and she feels as though she should be demonlished. 

Mrs. Dalloway cooks in her kitchen, cracks eggs one by one, and mixes everything with her hands.  It's all in her hands.  She gently...lightly...carelessly allows the yokes to slip into their eternal abyss.  And she continues with her work--the work for her party.  Mrs. Dalloway waits by the phone, hoping against all hope that her Beloved will call...but she doesn't want to be too consumed...consumed with the impending conversation.  So, to ease herself, she opens her phone--state of the art with buttons and flashy things--and she turns the scroller to vibrate.  She feels as though this move will alleviate her anxiousness, yet alertness resounds.

Mrs. Dalloway walks down busy city streets...heals clacking, bag clutched, scarf flowing in the speed of her pace, and she enters a florists' paradise.  She buys roses, daisies--flowers of all kinds...happy flowers that cover the ugliness.  And, as she stares at those flowers, she tries to find her escape in their beauty.  The smells intoxicate her--the colors carress her, and she closes her eyes to take it all in--the essence of those flowers.  They are her hope--the hope that it isn't all in vain.

And she takes a shower to prepare for the party--the party intended to silence the silence.  As the water rolls like rain down her back, she holds herself.  She imagines being hugged and held by someone who is it--who is there--who has escaped the silence.  And though her arms are as useful as anyone else's, she realizes that they are cold to her...as cold as a broken love--as cold as a winter storm in the mountains--as cold as the rest of her.  So finishing up without trying to go into any deep introspection, she turns the nozzle off, stands, and breathes.

Mrs. Dalloway lays on her bed staring at the ceiling.  She wonders what the next day will bring or rather, if she will be available for the next day when it arrives.  She turned on her side, holds her pillow close to her face as though it's her lover, and cries herself to sleep.  Mrs. Dalloway...sleeps.

It pounds and it pounds...and it pounds almost out of my chest!  Is there a whirlwind here?  Is a blue breeze flowing around me with various flowers in its' grasp? 

Lungs expand and release the air through my nostrils...and I am filled with security.  The sun rises and then it sets, just as I receive a realization of that peaceful moment.  The world revolves, but not around me...not around me...not around me.  The world revolves but not around me and I finally accept that. 

Just breathe, she whispers through harmonious breaths that come to her as though balanced on the wings of angels and nestled in the arms of infants.  And yes, I can breathe!  My breath is back again, and during this...this pause...this time of release, I will breathe as though I have just begun life. 

I see buildings lit by dimming streetlights--buildings, with stairwells clearly seen, worn, welcome...buildings, wet with rain that accents the path for those about to enter...and yes, I love seeing these things, but now, all I want to see is life.  I just want...life.  Like lightening bugs hovering around in a Mason Jar topped with poked foil... Like bees drifting to sleep during twilight...like water welcoming it's distant cousins at a hidden delta, I want to rest in living.  I want to rest in the arms of pillows, in the comfort of quilts, in the indentation that so perfectly fits my body.  I want to rest in songs of worship...in words of passion...in the essence of being known. 

And on that couch, I want to just...be.  Time is but a clock that ticks when recognized.  Time must yield to it's Creator.  And now, as tears well up in my eyes from the sheer joy of this breath, within me mounts a power that can fly about ice-tipped mountains, and swim in clear blue seas.  Just breathe...

Like anyone who leaves a place, I pack my bags.   And while I pack, I seem to be throwing out things...things of no real significance, because, well, if they were things of value, they'd be treasured, wouldn't they?  And what do I say?  I feel as though I am a white sheet of paper--clean and new.  I want to be new.  I want to begin again.  So many barnacles have been latching on...leeches to my legs, and now is the time to shake them off to their fate.  It is time to start over. 

By why speak with symbolism?