The weather makes for one of those mornings that is good for lying in bed with a book, coffee and cigarettes. Maya Roy, quite an aesthetically pleasing girl in her early thirties decided to take the day off to do just that. Her neverending chain of unatttended to files piled up on her desk as a result, but she will deal with that tomorrow, she thought. It actually made no difference whether she be there or not, the files piled up anyway. There are too many people suffering from the blues these days and too many a day of attending to their blues, makes it justifiable for her to take the day off just to sit. She was a grief counselor at the nearby hospital, but today she was an artist, philosopher, writer, just because it gave her just the escape route from just blue.
She walked down the steps to make them both coffee, him and her. She had been too occupied with herself for far too long, it is about time for her to appreciate him and his company. She allowed the black liquid to drip into the white mug, one by one while she steamed the milk. She playfully muzzled into his chest to wake him. She laughed as he hugs her with his strong hands and pulled her back into bed. She loves his grip, his laugh, his jokes. She thought how often she just brushes his dance aside as stupidity while she hardly hears the songs he sings. She will make up for her unappreciativeness she vowed, from today onwards she will enjoy his dance, and hear his songs. She kisses him and falls asleep.
It was the afternoon and she smiles as she hears his voice in the music room playing his tunes. She creeped in and sat beside the piano with her book and rocked to the music. Hardly has she found the time to indulge in him like that. Many a days she was too obsessed with the files on her desk, with the dishes in the sink, and the dirt on the floor. She resented him for the clothes on the ground and the shoes off the rack. When they are out she was quick to point out the faults of the waiter, and the off-coloured greens, the uneven table legs, and the cold chicken. The lumpy soup began to creep up her list of priority, and soon enough it appeared to be on top of him. She sighed with regret and slipped beside him on the chair. He stops and looks at her adoringly. No one could ever look at her with such loving eyes. She smiled back.
The rain continued to pour down and it began to turn cold. He hugged her to share his warmth and she sat cuddled. As much as she desired to posess him within her, his beauty, his being, he could only share that much. As much as she desired to have him forever, it will not be. The desire within her burnt for him and she sat undone by it. The chill broke through the warm shawl and she turned around from her canvas and saw what is. The empty piano stool, and no music. Silence rang loud and clear and coldness surrounded her. She was alone. She turned back to see a canvas painted black. Nothingness. The fragments of her imagination, the one she held so tight to wishing it be real had cracked, and with the last blast of cold wind came crashing down. She got up and walked into the bedroom and on the floor, on his side of the bed still sat the cups and cups of undrunk coffee. Still undrunk. He's not there.
She called out his name. Nothing. She waited a while. Still nothing. Pure nothingness. The lights had been out for days, and the wind chill for months now. She was most unattractive, a hollow skinny sillhoute still dressed in black. Tears streamed down her face and she felt what she had caused him to feel all these years, like a knife had been pushed into her side. The truth is, she's been taking the day off for a year now, and he, he is not there. He has been dead for a year now. She has just escaped out of the blue for far too long. And meanwhile, grief piles up on her desk and she, she lit a cigarette and looked into her canvas where she could sleep restfully safe in his arms.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
dance sweet ballerina
The ballerina floats in her pink shoes, the ones with ribbons all the way up to the calves. She spins and dances and she never tires, never falls.That is me, she whispered softly, me in my dream, but wide awake I slip I fall, I bruise and I am tired, wide awake I fall. But I will keep on dancing. Keep on dancing.
She cries, tears in her eyes, mummy I hate this take off my shoes. Tears stream down my face. But my dear Sarah I whispered, Sarah my dear, but you look so beautiful in those pretty pink shoes. And so she keeps on dancing.
The thing she knew not, was that she is pretty in my sight, indeed she was, my little ballerina in pink shoes, the thing is I know she falls, she falls but those were the most precious times. Those were the times I get to pick her up, and wipe her tears, and those were the times she says to me, mummy hold my hand until I float again. I hold her hand time and again and watch her as she dances, my little pink ballerina, precious in my sight,
My eyes only see things in that perfect world, and my little Sarah, in my eyes, fall she may, but that's not what I see. In that world where all is perfect I can see her dancing, I don't see her fall. I smile and nod the ballerina will always see herself fall, she will, she will, for she cannot see what I see. The ballerina that floats, never tire, never fall. if only she could see herself, through my eyes.
Over the years same thing over I tell her. But you look so pretty in those pretty pink shoes and today she stands waving her hands to me. Mummy I dream of that ballerina too, pretty in her ribbons and pink shoes, I know your secret I see it in your eyes, and so I try, to float not fall, for I am pretty in your sight.
And then one day she fell quite bad, her ankles sprained, and her knees buckled, she swore and swore she would never dance again and hung up her pretty pink shoes. I am by her side, but I refused to carry her. I watch and wait until she decides to walk again, but walk she refused and refused, I wait until she steps out of bed for she is too precious for me to carry her always.
And then she turned away from me and bitterly pointed her dreaded finger. it is so painful to walk why don't you carry me like you used to, she sobs. Dear sarah, dear Sarah it pains me more this way, but you have to learn to walk again, and put on your pretty pink shoes.
she sobbed and cried and said I ruined her life, she did not want to walk no more. I sighed and watched her from afar as she shut me out of her life. I saw her sit and grew some fat and her legs went very numb. My dear sweet little ballerina sways from the truth of who she was, when she refused to stand again.
I watch, I never leave her side, eventhough soemtimes she does not see. then one day her eyes opened again, and her sight she once more received. her dreams returned and her heart tingled as she got out of that bed and then she walked her way towards me and asked if she could hold my hand. I want to dance again she said with tears in her eyes. I held her close and whispered in her ear, you will I said sure and clear as I took her sweet hand.
I held her hand until she could walk again and then I put on her pink shoes for her and as clumsy as she was just then, all I could see, was her. Her beauty, her grace, just the way she was made as she tries and tries to dance. And day by day she dreamt again to be that ballerina that never falls.
She waved at me as I walk by her side, she knew I would catch her when she falls. And then one day my dear sweet ballerina, floated, so graceful and so tall. I smiled to myself and wish she could see herself so radiant in my eyes. to me my little ballerina, will always be so pretty in my sight.
The ballerina floats in her pink shoes, the ones with ribbons all the way up to the calves. She spins and dances and she never tires, never falls.That is me, she whispered softly, me in my dream, but wide awake I slip I fall, I bruise and I am tired, wide awake I fall. But I will keep on dancing. Keep on dancing.
Keep on dancing with me by your side.
She cries, tears in her eyes, mummy I hate this take off my shoes. Tears stream down my face. But my dear Sarah I whispered, Sarah my dear, but you look so beautiful in those pretty pink shoes. And so she keeps on dancing.
The thing she knew not, was that she is pretty in my sight, indeed she was, my little ballerina in pink shoes, the thing is I know she falls, she falls but those were the most precious times. Those were the times I get to pick her up, and wipe her tears, and those were the times she says to me, mummy hold my hand until I float again. I hold her hand time and again and watch her as she dances, my little pink ballerina, precious in my sight,
My eyes only see things in that perfect world, and my little Sarah, in my eyes, fall she may, but that's not what I see. In that world where all is perfect I can see her dancing, I don't see her fall. I smile and nod the ballerina will always see herself fall, she will, she will, for she cannot see what I see. The ballerina that floats, never tire, never fall. if only she could see herself, through my eyes.
Over the years same thing over I tell her. But you look so pretty in those pretty pink shoes and today she stands waving her hands to me. Mummy I dream of that ballerina too, pretty in her ribbons and pink shoes, I know your secret I see it in your eyes, and so I try, to float not fall, for I am pretty in your sight.
And then one day she fell quite bad, her ankles sprained, and her knees buckled, she swore and swore she would never dance again and hung up her pretty pink shoes. I am by her side, but I refused to carry her. I watch and wait until she decides to walk again, but walk she refused and refused, I wait until she steps out of bed for she is too precious for me to carry her always.
And then she turned away from me and bitterly pointed her dreaded finger. it is so painful to walk why don't you carry me like you used to, she sobs. Dear sarah, dear Sarah it pains me more this way, but you have to learn to walk again, and put on your pretty pink shoes.
she sobbed and cried and said I ruined her life, she did not want to walk no more. I sighed and watched her from afar as she shut me out of her life. I saw her sit and grew some fat and her legs went very numb. My dear sweet little ballerina sways from the truth of who she was, when she refused to stand again.
I watch, I never leave her side, eventhough soemtimes she does not see. then one day her eyes opened again, and her sight she once more received. her dreams returned and her heart tingled as she got out of that bed and then she walked her way towards me and asked if she could hold my hand. I want to dance again she said with tears in her eyes. I held her close and whispered in her ear, you will I said sure and clear as I took her sweet hand.
I held her hand until she could walk again and then I put on her pink shoes for her and as clumsy as she was just then, all I could see, was her. Her beauty, her grace, just the way she was made as she tries and tries to dance. And day by day she dreamt again to be that ballerina that never falls.
She waved at me as I walk by her side, she knew I would catch her when she falls. And then one day my dear sweet ballerina, floated, so graceful and so tall. I smiled to myself and wish she could see herself so radiant in my eyes. to me my little ballerina, will always be so pretty in my sight.
The ballerina floats in her pink shoes, the ones with ribbons all the way up to the calves. She spins and dances and she never tires, never falls.That is me, she whispered softly, me in my dream, but wide awake I slip I fall, I bruise and I am tired, wide awake I fall. But I will keep on dancing. Keep on dancing.
Keep on dancing with me by your side.
I still dream of Shanghai
I put on my boots and go sleepwalking.
The sun shines through the windows and the clouds cannot get through. The woman called to tell me who she was and yet when I called back she does not exist. I am confused thinking of what she said, I still dream of Shanghai she whispered. And I asked her when was the last time she was there, I've never been she said. Homesick for a home she never had, she still dreams of Shanghai. God help the girl.
I put on my boots and go sleepwalking.
Funny things happen when you're awake at five a.m. The car stalls and stops in the middle of the stream and stars shine from underneath upwards. The man called to tell me who he was, and yet when I called back, he does not exist. I am confused thinking of what he said, I still deam of Shanghai, he whispered. And when I asked him why, she was there he said. Lovesick for a love he never had, he still dreams of Shanghai. God help that boy.
I put on my boots and go sleepwalking.
Funny things you see when you're walking around at four a.m. Perfection inverted, truth be told. The moon is still, as the earth circles around the moon, and the sun circle arounds the earth. I still dream of Shanghai I said. But I have never been. Dreaming of a place I have never been, possibilities of seeing what I have never seen, maybe even feeling what I have never felt. I still dream of Shanghai. God help this girl.
I put on my boots and go sleepwalking.
This time my eyes open not closed. Conciously sleepwalking I still dream of Shanghai. The city lights blink and I run, anticipating, and there he was. His face shone under the moonlight and he smiled. I walk, and run, and walk, and run and he made his way towards me. Hearts a beating, walking and running in rhythm I am a woman in love. We met on the bridge in Shanghai remember. I nod I nod and rubbed my eyes, but i have never been to Shanghai. Never been not even once in my life.
But I still dream of him in Shanghai. He and I on that bridge, kissing. A reunion. I put on my boots and go sleepwalking and when I called he answered. I still dream of Shanghai he told me, I still dream of you.
So do I. I still dream of Shanghai. I still dream of you.
But I have never been to Shanghai, I have never met him.
And yet I dream, of Shanghai.
The sun shines through the windows and the clouds cannot get through. The woman called to tell me who she was and yet when I called back she does not exist. I am confused thinking of what she said, I still dream of Shanghai she whispered. And I asked her when was the last time she was there, I've never been she said. Homesick for a home she never had, she still dreams of Shanghai. God help the girl.
I put on my boots and go sleepwalking.
Funny things happen when you're awake at five a.m. The car stalls and stops in the middle of the stream and stars shine from underneath upwards. The man called to tell me who he was, and yet when I called back, he does not exist. I am confused thinking of what he said, I still deam of Shanghai, he whispered. And when I asked him why, she was there he said. Lovesick for a love he never had, he still dreams of Shanghai. God help that boy.
I put on my boots and go sleepwalking.
Funny things you see when you're walking around at four a.m. Perfection inverted, truth be told. The moon is still, as the earth circles around the moon, and the sun circle arounds the earth. I still dream of Shanghai I said. But I have never been. Dreaming of a place I have never been, possibilities of seeing what I have never seen, maybe even feeling what I have never felt. I still dream of Shanghai. God help this girl.
I put on my boots and go sleepwalking.
This time my eyes open not closed. Conciously sleepwalking I still dream of Shanghai. The city lights blink and I run, anticipating, and there he was. His face shone under the moonlight and he smiled. I walk, and run, and walk, and run and he made his way towards me. Hearts a beating, walking and running in rhythm I am a woman in love. We met on the bridge in Shanghai remember. I nod I nod and rubbed my eyes, but i have never been to Shanghai. Never been not even once in my life.
But I still dream of him in Shanghai. He and I on that bridge, kissing. A reunion. I put on my boots and go sleepwalking and when I called he answered. I still dream of Shanghai he told me, I still dream of you.
So do I. I still dream of Shanghai. I still dream of you.
But I have never been to Shanghai, I have never met him.
And yet I dream, of Shanghai.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Changing Shoes
Whatever busyness was around me, was immaterial. I was comfortably cosy in my little bubble on this Sunday afternoon. There was no point in worrying about the week to come, after all it was Sunday, so I settled into the cosy seat at the quiet cafe in the middle of town with some coffee and honey. Pondering upon certain thoughts on life I embrace the feeling of happiness. I have learnt to recognise it, and be grateful for it. A dream I once had misted to the forefront, and I started drawing lessons from it. In that dream I was she.
She awoke, three a.m sleepless.There was an urgent need to get somewhere, she just didn't know where so the urgency, was at the surface of all her thoughts keeping her sleepless so she rose and drew herself a hot bath. Running downstairs to turn on the coffee machine she brew herself a strong cup while waiting for the bath to fill up. Carrying the hot cup of black liquid upstairs into the bathroom she felt the urgency once again. The direction which she needed to head was clear and so she made concrete the decision that was a-floating. She would start on the journey today. In the hot tub, sipping the hot cup of coffee she soaked in every possible good in the moment before getting up, drying off and getting dressed. She pulled on her t-shirt and shorts and pulled the jersey over her to keep warm. She grabbed her bag, and stuffed all she thought she needed into it, grabbed her keys and headed into the kitchen. She filled a quarter of her thermos with hot coffee and topped it up with steaming hot milk, grabbed a bag of apples, and a bag of bread and headed out the door. She waited while the garage door rolled up and started the engine of her brand new car. She laid down the stuff in her arms on the passenger seat and looked on her shoe rack for the perfect pair of shoe. She pottered until she found them, leaned on her car and pulled up the pair of brown ugs. Perfect for the journey.
She drove on at a consistent speed and she felt the urgency lift as she headed towards the highway. She picked up and dropped off a few hitchhikers, who entertained her with a few interesting conversations that kept her journey interesting and night fell. She drove through the night, and day, finished her coffee and felt the need to stock up on the caffeine, and empty her bladder. She drove into the next town and pulled into an empty parking lot and walked into the cosy little cafe to fill her tummy, afterwhich she headed towards the washroom.
The washroom was located in a singular bungalow at the corner of the road outside which sat rows and rows of shoeracks filled with shoes. Shoes of all shapes, sizes and colours. She removed her ugs and placed them at the corner, took the tag indicating the rack number to remind her of where she had parked her boots, and entered the bungalow. She was immediately greeted with chaos and busyness. She was greeted by a few people, stopped to chat to another bunch, and eventually she was lost in her rest-stop. When she finally arrived at the cubicle, she emptied her bladder and then proceeded to brush her teeth when the urgency hit her again, reminding her of that long journey she still had before her. Panicking she washed her face and tried to find her way back out to the shoe rack. The chaos that greeted her on her way in surrounded her as she found her way to the door where she was immediately overwhelmed with anxiety. She had to find her shoes.
She started down the racks and racks of shoes she realised she did not know what she was looking for. She had forgotten which shoes she had on, so she decided to try on every single pair, with the hope of finding the perfect fit, for her journey. Pair after pair, and day turned to night thrice, and by the fourth day she had begun losing all hope of finding the perfect pair. When she finally stopped she realised. She had spent all week changing shoes. Standing in despair, not knowing what to do next, for she couldn't possibly leave without shoes, she sat on the ground and folded her legs. In her tiredness she fell asleep, and had a dream. And in that dream she was, she.
And in that dream, she was changing shoes, and whilst changing shoes she was greeted by a little old woman who pointed in the direction of the perfect pair. Her own boots. She shook herself awake, reached into her pockets and pulled out the tag that indicated where she had parked the perfect pair. Her own boots. With such relief she pulled them on and walked back out to her car, and continued her journey down in the right direction. She drove on, and the urgency lifted. She didn't know where she was going, but she knew that she was going in the right direction, and she had her own shoes.
I found myself awake, three a.m not knowing whether she arrived at her destination, or whether she ever detoured. But I know this, I had spent a portion of my life changing shoes. I walked down to pour myself a cup of hot milk when I looked out the window, where a little old lady waved at me, and smiled. I reached into my pockets and pulled out the tag that indicated where I had parked my perfect pair of shoes. I smiled. I will be putting on the perfect pair of shoes before getting into my car later that morning. And I will be going in the right direction, that I am sure. The solitude around me was immaterial, I was comfotably busy in my shoes, headed in the right direction. No one in that singular bungalow would be able to steer me any other. I had my own destination to reach.
And I am not going to be needing to change shoes. No more.
She awoke, three a.m sleepless.There was an urgent need to get somewhere, she just didn't know where so the urgency, was at the surface of all her thoughts keeping her sleepless so she rose and drew herself a hot bath. Running downstairs to turn on the coffee machine she brew herself a strong cup while waiting for the bath to fill up. Carrying the hot cup of black liquid upstairs into the bathroom she felt the urgency once again. The direction which she needed to head was clear and so she made concrete the decision that was a-floating. She would start on the journey today. In the hot tub, sipping the hot cup of coffee she soaked in every possible good in the moment before getting up, drying off and getting dressed. She pulled on her t-shirt and shorts and pulled the jersey over her to keep warm. She grabbed her bag, and stuffed all she thought she needed into it, grabbed her keys and headed into the kitchen. She filled a quarter of her thermos with hot coffee and topped it up with steaming hot milk, grabbed a bag of apples, and a bag of bread and headed out the door. She waited while the garage door rolled up and started the engine of her brand new car. She laid down the stuff in her arms on the passenger seat and looked on her shoe rack for the perfect pair of shoe. She pottered until she found them, leaned on her car and pulled up the pair of brown ugs. Perfect for the journey.
She drove on at a consistent speed and she felt the urgency lift as she headed towards the highway. She picked up and dropped off a few hitchhikers, who entertained her with a few interesting conversations that kept her journey interesting and night fell. She drove through the night, and day, finished her coffee and felt the need to stock up on the caffeine, and empty her bladder. She drove into the next town and pulled into an empty parking lot and walked into the cosy little cafe to fill her tummy, afterwhich she headed towards the washroom.
The washroom was located in a singular bungalow at the corner of the road outside which sat rows and rows of shoeracks filled with shoes. Shoes of all shapes, sizes and colours. She removed her ugs and placed them at the corner, took the tag indicating the rack number to remind her of where she had parked her boots, and entered the bungalow. She was immediately greeted with chaos and busyness. She was greeted by a few people, stopped to chat to another bunch, and eventually she was lost in her rest-stop. When she finally arrived at the cubicle, she emptied her bladder and then proceeded to brush her teeth when the urgency hit her again, reminding her of that long journey she still had before her. Panicking she washed her face and tried to find her way back out to the shoe rack. The chaos that greeted her on her way in surrounded her as she found her way to the door where she was immediately overwhelmed with anxiety. She had to find her shoes.
She started down the racks and racks of shoes she realised she did not know what she was looking for. She had forgotten which shoes she had on, so she decided to try on every single pair, with the hope of finding the perfect fit, for her journey. Pair after pair, and day turned to night thrice, and by the fourth day she had begun losing all hope of finding the perfect pair. When she finally stopped she realised. She had spent all week changing shoes. Standing in despair, not knowing what to do next, for she couldn't possibly leave without shoes, she sat on the ground and folded her legs. In her tiredness she fell asleep, and had a dream. And in that dream she was, she.
And in that dream, she was changing shoes, and whilst changing shoes she was greeted by a little old woman who pointed in the direction of the perfect pair. Her own boots. She shook herself awake, reached into her pockets and pulled out the tag that indicated where she had parked the perfect pair. Her own boots. With such relief she pulled them on and walked back out to her car, and continued her journey down in the right direction. She drove on, and the urgency lifted. She didn't know where she was going, but she knew that she was going in the right direction, and she had her own shoes.
I found myself awake, three a.m not knowing whether she arrived at her destination, or whether she ever detoured. But I know this, I had spent a portion of my life changing shoes. I walked down to pour myself a cup of hot milk when I looked out the window, where a little old lady waved at me, and smiled. I reached into my pockets and pulled out the tag that indicated where I had parked my perfect pair of shoes. I smiled. I will be putting on the perfect pair of shoes before getting into my car later that morning. And I will be going in the right direction, that I am sure. The solitude around me was immaterial, I was comfotably busy in my shoes, headed in the right direction. No one in that singular bungalow would be able to steer me any other. I had my own destination to reach.
And I am not going to be needing to change shoes. No more.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Jam prints through the pink screen
She was the cutest thing I have ever seen, little Sarah Jane. Mummy dearest always took the greatest care and pleasure in fashioning that soft hair into pigtails. Her cheeks were so pink and so soft that I could never resist kissing them. I love that little girl, she was the cutest thing I have ever seen.
Each morning, ten am, just before I go off for that thing called work at the little cafe on Mercy Avenue, she bounces up to me with the biggest grin and demands her morning dose of hugs and kisses from me. And most days, I get jam prints all over my face as she pinches my cheeks and tells me she loves me, the way everyone else does to her. I mind jam prints, but never the ones from her. Her jam prints were love prints that I carefully wipe off before I arrive at that cafe round the corner.
And each night, seven pm, just before I could turn the keys to lock the door I hear her little footsteps running towards me to give me that goodnight kiss before she goes off to bed. And I, I would look forward to picking her up and kissing her soft cheeks goodnight and carry her off to her bed to tuck her in where mummy dearest, I, could read her favourite book to her until her sweet eyes close and her sweet dreams begin. Then I usually spend about a minute or two just looking at her sweet face, she was the cutest thing I have ever seen, little Sarah Jane. She was and I love seeing her, everyday.
Except, I only see her when I am sleeping. My little Sarah Jane. And only when I am sleeping I can wipe the jam prints with my fingers and then lick the sweet taste of strawberry jam, and only when I am sleeping can I kiss them soft cheeks goodnight and then again in the morning. So everyday Sarah Jane, wake and goes back to sleep again, while I am sleeping. And everyday dear Sarah Jane waits till I close my sweet eyes and begin my sweet dreams before she comes a-running to me, ready to give me them sweet jam prints. Those were the sweetest jam prints, and she was the cutest thing I have ever seen. My little Sarah Jane.
My ltitle Sarah Jane. I often long for her, my little Sarah Jane, to be real beyond that pink screen called dream.
Each morning, ten am, just before I go off for that thing called work at the little cafe on Mercy Avenue, she bounces up to me with the biggest grin and demands her morning dose of hugs and kisses from me. And most days, I get jam prints all over my face as she pinches my cheeks and tells me she loves me, the way everyone else does to her. I mind jam prints, but never the ones from her. Her jam prints were love prints that I carefully wipe off before I arrive at that cafe round the corner.
And each night, seven pm, just before I could turn the keys to lock the door I hear her little footsteps running towards me to give me that goodnight kiss before she goes off to bed. And I, I would look forward to picking her up and kissing her soft cheeks goodnight and carry her off to her bed to tuck her in where mummy dearest, I, could read her favourite book to her until her sweet eyes close and her sweet dreams begin. Then I usually spend about a minute or two just looking at her sweet face, she was the cutest thing I have ever seen, little Sarah Jane. She was and I love seeing her, everyday.
Except, I only see her when I am sleeping. My little Sarah Jane. And only when I am sleeping I can wipe the jam prints with my fingers and then lick the sweet taste of strawberry jam, and only when I am sleeping can I kiss them soft cheeks goodnight and then again in the morning. So everyday Sarah Jane, wake and goes back to sleep again, while I am sleeping. And everyday dear Sarah Jane waits till I close my sweet eyes and begin my sweet dreams before she comes a-running to me, ready to give me them sweet jam prints. Those were the sweetest jam prints, and she was the cutest thing I have ever seen. My little Sarah Jane.
My ltitle Sarah Jane. I often long for her, my little Sarah Jane, to be real beyond that pink screen called dream.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
grain of sand
The drawing of the curtains created a sudden sharp zapping sound and his eyes focussed for a while on the flame of the steady burning candle behind her. He did not dare to look at her, her eyes often drawing him in and locking him. It gave him an intense pang in his heart he was uncomfortable with, and yet the outline of her face highlighted by the orange flame enticed him to look at her. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of lavender and vanilla. Opening his eyes he found her sitting perfectly still, her eyes focussed on the words of the book she was holding and her lips tenderly kissed the cigarette buds and her chest raised as she drew in. She looked up and smiled. The sweet smile that would take him years to forget. And there it was again. The intense pang in his heart that made his stomach flutter. His heart ached with the sudden intense want for her.
He moved slowly towards her lengthening the minutes of deep desire. She looked back down at her book and he allowed his eyes to explore every single inch of her. Her toes, calves, and the bare skin of her thighs. Her pink boxers and the ribbon that held it around her hips. His chest raised as he drew in deeply the sweet smoky frgrance of her. He looked at the pink camisole hung loosely to cover the skin he desired to touch. He looked at the slender long fingers that held that book and the slender white arms that extend towards her graceful shoulders. On her neck hung the platinum necklace he had gotten her for their first anniversary. The diamond pendant sat at the dip of the necklace right where the lace of the camisole starts. He watched as her chest rises as she drew in another breath.
She was not a striking beauty, and yet she had a beauty that held one's heart tightly. The grip of her beauty was gentle, open and yet there were strings, invisible that tied one to that beauty. Almost like an addiction. It was bitter, sweet and salty, all at once. Her beauty was inviting, and old, comforting, not much like the commercial make up models that cut into any tranquil scene with their seductive glare. Looking back at them only caused a great disappointment for there was nothing in their sharp sudden beauty that held the heart tight. She was different. She gently draws you in, she gives you something else. Something about that beauty makes you want to linger. Linger on.
Beauty has this ability to cut through to the deepest part of the heart and beauty has the ability to stay there in its centre. That was his thought as he slowly reached out to touch her face. He drew close and lifted her chin and looked deep into her eyes. She smiled as she put her book aside and looked at him with eyes so tender. Deep desire fanned the steady flame burning in his heart for her. The flame that flickered fast to burst out and burn blue. A deep blue in the middle of fiery orange. He placed his hands on her waist and pulled her close. Their eyes meet and in that second the world faded. Nothing but her beauty held him close He kissed her moist lips that tenderly kissed him back and he began to explore, as if it were for the first time, the feel of her bare skin on his palms.
Beauty has the ability to hold the deepest part of the heart. This beauty in her had the ability to make walls of his heart give way to its centre. And at that moment she had acess to the very centre of his heart. The very core. She touched it lightly, and he wanted more.
He held her tight and as her bare skin touches his, he began to dive deeper. Deeper and deeper into the depth of her beauty. Slowly he swam, in her arms. He plunged. His skin tingled cold and hot. He reached in for more and her beauty fluidly surrounded him. As he floated, swam in the ocean that was her beauty, all things stood still in time.
Her beauty opened up and under it lay something more. In moments where he thought he had all of her to himself, he was left wanting, for more. He held her tight, close and beauty upon beauty unfolded. The layers slip off revealing another. Layer upon layer beauty unfolded. Layer upon layer he plunged. She lay allowing each layer unwrap. Unwrapped from herself he discovered there beneath it all lay the heart of the the creator from whom all her beauty flows, where all her beauty rests. He stood still, breathless and in awe at the glory. Her beauty was pure.
In that beauty pure the man lost himself and gave all that was within him. Unwrapped from himself she discovered in him the glorious presence of what was beneath that flesh. His love, pure. The candle flickered and let out its last light as it gently rests to allow darkness to envelope them. In that moment beauty and love drew in, deeply and rested. In that soft, smoky fragrant darkness she rested in his arms, she felt like had seen the world and even heaven.
He moved slowly towards her lengthening the minutes of deep desire. She looked back down at her book and he allowed his eyes to explore every single inch of her. Her toes, calves, and the bare skin of her thighs. Her pink boxers and the ribbon that held it around her hips. His chest raised as he drew in deeply the sweet smoky frgrance of her. He looked at the pink camisole hung loosely to cover the skin he desired to touch. He looked at the slender long fingers that held that book and the slender white arms that extend towards her graceful shoulders. On her neck hung the platinum necklace he had gotten her for their first anniversary. The diamond pendant sat at the dip of the necklace right where the lace of the camisole starts. He watched as her chest rises as she drew in another breath.
She was not a striking beauty, and yet she had a beauty that held one's heart tightly. The grip of her beauty was gentle, open and yet there were strings, invisible that tied one to that beauty. Almost like an addiction. It was bitter, sweet and salty, all at once. Her beauty was inviting, and old, comforting, not much like the commercial make up models that cut into any tranquil scene with their seductive glare. Looking back at them only caused a great disappointment for there was nothing in their sharp sudden beauty that held the heart tight. She was different. She gently draws you in, she gives you something else. Something about that beauty makes you want to linger. Linger on.
Beauty has this ability to cut through to the deepest part of the heart and beauty has the ability to stay there in its centre. That was his thought as he slowly reached out to touch her face. He drew close and lifted her chin and looked deep into her eyes. She smiled as she put her book aside and looked at him with eyes so tender. Deep desire fanned the steady flame burning in his heart for her. The flame that flickered fast to burst out and burn blue. A deep blue in the middle of fiery orange. He placed his hands on her waist and pulled her close. Their eyes meet and in that second the world faded. Nothing but her beauty held him close He kissed her moist lips that tenderly kissed him back and he began to explore, as if it were for the first time, the feel of her bare skin on his palms.
Beauty has the ability to hold the deepest part of the heart. This beauty in her had the ability to make walls of his heart give way to its centre. And at that moment she had acess to the very centre of his heart. The very core. She touched it lightly, and he wanted more.
He held her tight and as her bare skin touches his, he began to dive deeper. Deeper and deeper into the depth of her beauty. Slowly he swam, in her arms. He plunged. His skin tingled cold and hot. He reached in for more and her beauty fluidly surrounded him. As he floated, swam in the ocean that was her beauty, all things stood still in time.
Her beauty opened up and under it lay something more. In moments where he thought he had all of her to himself, he was left wanting, for more. He held her tight, close and beauty upon beauty unfolded. The layers slip off revealing another. Layer upon layer beauty unfolded. Layer upon layer he plunged. She lay allowing each layer unwrap. Unwrapped from herself he discovered there beneath it all lay the heart of the the creator from whom all her beauty flows, where all her beauty rests. He stood still, breathless and in awe at the glory. Her beauty was pure.
In that beauty pure the man lost himself and gave all that was within him. Unwrapped from himself she discovered in him the glorious presence of what was beneath that flesh. His love, pure. The candle flickered and let out its last light as it gently rests to allow darkness to envelope them. In that moment beauty and love drew in, deeply and rested. In that soft, smoky fragrant darkness she rested in his arms, she felt like had seen the world and even heaven.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Yellow dress,yellow dress, life is more than less...
It was raining heavily and the cold air hung heavily around. She pulled up her worn leather boots under her yellow dress and put on her hat. The heels of her boots made a pleasant clucking noise as she briskly walked across the streets towards the park in the corner. She needed to speak to her today, it had been a while now that she is back on those meds and she wanted off. She needed to speak to her. Cuddling herself underneath her coat she broke into a slight run as she panicked at the sight of the empty seat on cathedral square. The ginger cat sat curled in a ball on the park bench motionless. She sat down beside the cat and all of a sudden felt a pang of loneliness wash over her. Her heart began to beat faster as she heard hymns being sung in the chapel of the cathedral in the middle of the city. Chatter from the crowd that is huddled on the steps of the overflowed chapel drew her attention to listen hard to the conversations that were revolved around a single subject. The little old lady that lay in that coffin inside.
As the rain turned into a storm and the thunder began to roll, the crowd huddled closer, undispersing. She drew her knees up towards her chin and lit a cigarette. The ginger cat huddled closely beside her. I watched her eyes attentively as her eyelids fluttered slowly. The cold air closed in tightly around me as I approached the cathedral building and walked around in search for an open window. I crouched to sit on the ledge of one close to the pulpit and peered in. Taken by the sight of tears streaming down the faces of the strangers I listened attentively to the words of each person as they told the story that painted me a clear picture of the little old lady.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
I observed every detail of that tall distinguished gentleman closely. His voice boomed loud and clear as I listened attentively. His white hair was neatly combed and his black leather shoes were shiny. The well-fitted black suit complemented his well-built body perfectly. There was an expectancy in the silences when he paused. He slid his right hand into his pocket and his eyes searched the crowd. He was articulate, intelligent, and appropriately humorous. The man, who most recognised, I gathered had a social status and a bank account coveted by many but as his words gushed out and his voice began to quiver I saw behind that integrous stature, the raw soul that was touched deep by the little old lady.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
Stranger upon stranger stood upon that pedestal to give tribute to the little old lady and I watched in amusement. For me she was but a small part of my life. She was my Monday morning coffee companion. My Monday mornings were the most depressing of all days. Usually waking up with the blues these mornings were devoted to the homeless shelter where the most depressing of all faces bearing sad stories were soaked up by my raw soul and by the late morning, when it was time to walk out again, I often found that all hope had been quite zapped from me. The little old lady, the one who saw my baggage carrying soul. On one of these morning I found myself being the recipient of a charitable act from a homeless hob of a lady in the form of a take away coffee, company and a wholesome heartfelt conversation. From that Monday onwards I bought the coffees, but she never failed to be there, just for me to pour my raw and sore soul.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
The morning turned to noon and the voices that related similar stories to mine streamed. As the middle aged single mother with a baby on her hip stepped down the yellow dress floated slowly towards the pedestal. The heels of her boots clucked pleasantly against the wooden floorboards of the old church. Her voice began strong and confident as she animatedly drew the crowds in as I began to enjoy the slight warmth from the slice of sunlight that shone through an opening in the morning mist. The afternoon sun was beginning to show through the grey clouds and I took a deep breath as she took hers to swallow the lump in her throat. The cool air however suspended and hung tight as the silence was broken by her gentle whispery voice.
For me, to wake is an achievement. She paused and searched the crowd and looked into each teary eye that was on her. To steer myself away from overdosing on another sleeping pill, or cutting myself with another blade is my daily challenge. Darkness often has a tight grip around me and to get a glimpse of hope, in any form at all I consider a miracle. Like any cancer patient in pain, for me, to live a day without pain, and to break my lips into a smile, is a day better than any other. A pained yellow dress, bearing pains of humanity like any other.
The drizzle turned back into rain as all ears turned to listen to her story. It was almost as if the whole city stopped to hear her story. Each ear linked to a heart that hoped to be inspired by the voice of that yellow dress in leather boots. Each heart hoped very hard that the little old lady did not live a life of nothing, despite having nothing, and so each silence, each breath, in that cathedral was filled with expectancy of a story that will tell us what we hope. That each life, means more than less.
Her gentle whispery voice continued. The quiet orphan girl, who found charity not in the social worker, nor the homes of the hundreds of foster families she had breezed through. She found charity not in the cold hard school teacher nor the nun that failed to take a moment to stop judging her for wanting nothing other than to find relief in death. She found charity not in the employer who thought she was giving her the biggest favour in helping her find a career. Charitable favours, in those she saw. But the charity that held her tight to the promise to wake up each day was given her by a little old lady on the park bench at cathedral square. In that trivial little lady, who found time in her triviality to see an aching raw soul among the millions that pass her by. There before her was a little old lady, a cold wintry afternoon and lukewarm coffee. In a cup of take away coffee, company and a wholesome heartfelt chat the girl found reason to trade her black dress for a yellow one. The lady taught her to see through the coloured lenses of hope and through the little old lady's lenses she saw for the first time, the world in colour. The girl in the yellow dress whispered from the wooden pedestal. She always told me life was more than less, that trivialities, are the big matters. Each life is more than less.
I looked around the art gallery at every shot and scene of the photographs that were displayed around the hall. On the right were black and white and grey figures, apart from the single figure on the park bench at cathedral square, and on the right were coloured figures, apart from the single black and white figure on the park bench at cathedral square. In the centre of the room a row of photographs, in black, white and grey, and a small space on the park bench at cathedral square. A small space that screamed loudly indeed. The single space that used to colour hopeless faces. That is why, in the absence of the single coloured figure, is a space too big to ignore.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
She left a space bigger than just the absence of Monday morning coffee, and in that space I was inspired. She left a space bigger than I could imagine, and in that space she was inspired. I smiled as she packed up, slung the camera on her right shoulder and shook some hands as she turned to walk out.
That little old lady was not much to look at. In the cathedral that morning the picture was painted. She was more than a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. She was more than just another homeless hob. The little old lady, when she lived, coloured a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine. The little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
As the rain turned into a storm and the thunder began to roll, the crowd huddled closer, undispersing. She drew her knees up towards her chin and lit a cigarette. The ginger cat huddled closely beside her. I watched her eyes attentively as her eyelids fluttered slowly. The cold air closed in tightly around me as I approached the cathedral building and walked around in search for an open window. I crouched to sit on the ledge of one close to the pulpit and peered in. Taken by the sight of tears streaming down the faces of the strangers I listened attentively to the words of each person as they told the story that painted me a clear picture of the little old lady.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
I observed every detail of that tall distinguished gentleman closely. His voice boomed loud and clear as I listened attentively. His white hair was neatly combed and his black leather shoes were shiny. The well-fitted black suit complemented his well-built body perfectly. There was an expectancy in the silences when he paused. He slid his right hand into his pocket and his eyes searched the crowd. He was articulate, intelligent, and appropriately humorous. The man, who most recognised, I gathered had a social status and a bank account coveted by many but as his words gushed out and his voice began to quiver I saw behind that integrous stature, the raw soul that was touched deep by the little old lady.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
Stranger upon stranger stood upon that pedestal to give tribute to the little old lady and I watched in amusement. For me she was but a small part of my life. She was my Monday morning coffee companion. My Monday mornings were the most depressing of all days. Usually waking up with the blues these mornings were devoted to the homeless shelter where the most depressing of all faces bearing sad stories were soaked up by my raw soul and by the late morning, when it was time to walk out again, I often found that all hope had been quite zapped from me. The little old lady, the one who saw my baggage carrying soul. On one of these morning I found myself being the recipient of a charitable act from a homeless hob of a lady in the form of a take away coffee, company and a wholesome heartfelt conversation. From that Monday onwards I bought the coffees, but she never failed to be there, just for me to pour my raw and sore soul.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
The morning turned to noon and the voices that related similar stories to mine streamed. As the middle aged single mother with a baby on her hip stepped down the yellow dress floated slowly towards the pedestal. The heels of her boots clucked pleasantly against the wooden floorboards of the old church. Her voice began strong and confident as she animatedly drew the crowds in as I began to enjoy the slight warmth from the slice of sunlight that shone through an opening in the morning mist. The afternoon sun was beginning to show through the grey clouds and I took a deep breath as she took hers to swallow the lump in her throat. The cool air however suspended and hung tight as the silence was broken by her gentle whispery voice.
For me, to wake is an achievement. She paused and searched the crowd and looked into each teary eye that was on her. To steer myself away from overdosing on another sleeping pill, or cutting myself with another blade is my daily challenge. Darkness often has a tight grip around me and to get a glimpse of hope, in any form at all I consider a miracle. Like any cancer patient in pain, for me, to live a day without pain, and to break my lips into a smile, is a day better than any other. A pained yellow dress, bearing pains of humanity like any other.
The drizzle turned back into rain as all ears turned to listen to her story. It was almost as if the whole city stopped to hear her story. Each ear linked to a heart that hoped to be inspired by the voice of that yellow dress in leather boots. Each heart hoped very hard that the little old lady did not live a life of nothing, despite having nothing, and so each silence, each breath, in that cathedral was filled with expectancy of a story that will tell us what we hope. That each life, means more than less.
Her gentle whispery voice continued. The quiet orphan girl, who found charity not in the social worker, nor the homes of the hundreds of foster families she had breezed through. She found charity not in the cold hard school teacher nor the nun that failed to take a moment to stop judging her for wanting nothing other than to find relief in death. She found charity not in the employer who thought she was giving her the biggest favour in helping her find a career. Charitable favours, in those she saw. But the charity that held her tight to the promise to wake up each day was given her by a little old lady on the park bench at cathedral square. In that trivial little lady, who found time in her triviality to see an aching raw soul among the millions that pass her by. There before her was a little old lady, a cold wintry afternoon and lukewarm coffee. In a cup of take away coffee, company and a wholesome heartfelt chat the girl found reason to trade her black dress for a yellow one. The lady taught her to see through the coloured lenses of hope and through the little old lady's lenses she saw for the first time, the world in colour. The girl in the yellow dress whispered from the wooden pedestal. She always told me life was more than less, that trivialities, are the big matters. Each life is more than less.
I looked around the art gallery at every shot and scene of the photographs that were displayed around the hall. On the right were black and white and grey figures, apart from the single figure on the park bench at cathedral square, and on the right were coloured figures, apart from the single black and white figure on the park bench at cathedral square. In the centre of the room a row of photographs, in black, white and grey, and a small space on the park bench at cathedral square. A small space that screamed loudly indeed. The single space that used to colour hopeless faces. That is why, in the absence of the single coloured figure, is a space too big to ignore.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
She left a space bigger than just the absence of Monday morning coffee, and in that space I was inspired. She left a space bigger than I could imagine, and in that space she was inspired. I smiled as she packed up, slung the camera on her right shoulder and shook some hands as she turned to walk out.
That little old lady was not much to look at. In the cathedral that morning the picture was painted. She was more than a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. She was more than just another homeless hob. The little old lady, when she lived, coloured a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine. The little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Frere jacques
Art thou asleep father john? Awkward for her, the dear li'l sixteen year old. All alone in rich prissy france and all she knew of that language was that song she sung the children to sleep each night, frere jacques ferre jacques dormez-vous dormez-vous...and even that she hummed the last bit, for it was rarely she recalled those words. Sometimes she reverted back to english morning bells are ringing, morning bells are rining, ding ding dong, ding ding dong.
She crept into his office, father john. and sure enough he was asleep. afraid to wake him she crept back out again and back to the seminary. dear little miss muffet who likes strawberry shortcakes. Too afraid to wake father john. and so she lay in bed and her thoughts went all arond the mulberry bush so tempted to unroot it. She diverted but then all she could hear were the children singing ring-a-ring-a roses again and again. Drove her nuts. She had to leave before mary mary quite contrary came around to water them gardens. she had enough. So she packed them bags.
Dear little sixteen year old whose grandfather's clock just stopped, and gone was her guardian and only relative, for she was nobody's child. She was sent to father john. father john was nice, except he was asleep most of the time, and when he was awake, he took not much interest in the real world, all he talked about with her were of big fishes, and jack's beanstalk, fee fi fo fum, the next door lady lives in a shoe. Probably because the only real thing he remembers was the london bridge falling down, and no he didn't want to reminisce on that. Who would?
And so she packed her bags and ran to catch michael as he rowed the boat ashore, to see if he could row her back out again to the other side of the river. and then she ran pass humpty, who seemed to keep insisting he saw the cow jump over the moon, she could care less. She wanted something real. So she ran pass mary whose carpet bag seemed too light to hold that horse she just pulled out of it, and dear mr chimney sweep lifting his hat off to her greeting her - supercalafrgalistic god knows how u spell it. And then jack spratt argued with his wife, and sure enough she passed the old woman who lived in her shoe. Good grief! And then pop went the weasel as it ran pass her, and she thought, father john! he must be awake now. she must go back for she's just been a bit silly.
So she turned around, and left her silliness behind. and trotted back to neverland where peter pan was a really good friend. and there he was father john, wide awake and smiling, protecting her from dear handsome georgie porgie who thought he could kiss all them gals. Peter piper there again, with all them rats behind him, and there in father john's office, two new friends, just like her, dear gretel, gingerbread still in hand, and her brother hansel. Hansel was to cook for them. How lvoely. And then she passed by mary who was quite contrary as she walked back to her room which was beside the little girl who always wore a red riding hood, who always told of how her grandma was eaten by a wolf. NASTY!
She crept back into bed, and closed her eyes, exhausted. How glad she is to be back in frere jacques' care.
and then tomorrow, awaits her and unlike oliver twists' dreadful meals, hansel always cooks up some lovely pot-roast. blessings indeed.
Golliwog in, Golliwog out
He sat and sipped his coffee as she watched intently, a milllion thoughts firing the her mind. her mind, the atelier of most things in her life, whether or not concrete. A million thoughts fired, as he sat and sipped his coffee. Like an art, his coffee sipping. not delicate, and yet, not quite brash, nor bold. it's artful sipping.
The gallery owner was overseas and she had managed it quite badly. Point of conversation this morning as he sipped his coffee was the Roslyn gallery. The amonut of debt was unthinkable. Bad management, how it could be so destructive huh? She nodded. The sipping turned brash as he frowned at her disatisfied at her nonchalance. She sighed, this time resolved to let go for she knew what was in her heart, no need to explain, no need to explain. She was interested, and what he said was interesting, she just did not react the way he wanted. This time, she let go. The golliwog peered in.
Take the golliwog out.
She watched him intently. Golliwog spoke, she swore the golliwog spoke.
Take the golliwog out!
Take the golliwog out!
Take the golliwog out.
And then in the attic. Salt-fish cafe, fish-cakes and salted coffee, the specialty. And the familar comfortable picture. Emotions, senses as you stare at the picture. Senses which washes your body with a sense of relief, and your mind almost immediately relaxes as you smile. And that the heart stopped as her lips curled with disgust, golliwog in the garden of the salt-fish cafe. Golliwogs in her attic.
Take the golliwog out.
Take the golliwog out.
She watched intently and peered in the window. The atelier of most things in his life, his mind. A window. Clear blue sky, noon-day sun. Emotions and senses washed over her body again. And there at the edge of the painting, the sillhoute of a quarter of a golliwog, running.
Golliwog, golliwog, gone.
Peer in.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
floating on black clouds
My lack of desire worries me, she says. To be honest, her lack of desire worries me even more and I see her floating up on black clouds. It worries me when she turns inside only to see a tar baby staring back at her, wrestling with it leaves her black and blue. It worries me to see her trudging along in her black canvas shoes with black shoestrings. I have witnessed it when the balance of all things in her little circle flips itself all out of proportion and she is balancing on a thin string amongst black clouds.
I want to scream, she says, in a strangely calm manner. I see red. It is when she screams silently I get worried. She is losing her grip and going back to a place where it is just her, alone, and she stops living. No one can get in, and she brings out her scissors to cut all strings. I see her retreating and I reach out. I try to hold her hand, so she can feel skin on her skin. Not tar. Isolation on black clouds turn all things black. Oh how I get worried when she starts seeing grey.
It has been a while since she saw grey. Life has been in colour for a while, and then the mat was pulled out from under her. I see her now struggling to stand, she is beginning to float.
Numbness radiates inside out, a numbness that aches, she says. And tears stream down my face. My extended hand may not be enough to pull her up from either side. The tar baby stirs and fights back and she has lost the energy to wrestle. I want to step in and kick it out, but how. I may drown in there with her. I want to stay out here, out where the black clouds are just a view, and I am still walking, not floating.
I am turning around, and hope, she follows me. After all, my hand is always extended.
I want to scream, she says, in a strangely calm manner. I see red. It is when she screams silently I get worried. She is losing her grip and going back to a place where it is just her, alone, and she stops living. No one can get in, and she brings out her scissors to cut all strings. I see her retreating and I reach out. I try to hold her hand, so she can feel skin on her skin. Not tar. Isolation on black clouds turn all things black. Oh how I get worried when she starts seeing grey.
It has been a while since she saw grey. Life has been in colour for a while, and then the mat was pulled out from under her. I see her now struggling to stand, she is beginning to float.
Numbness radiates inside out, a numbness that aches, she says. And tears stream down my face. My extended hand may not be enough to pull her up from either side. The tar baby stirs and fights back and she has lost the energy to wrestle. I want to step in and kick it out, but how. I may drown in there with her. I want to stay out here, out where the black clouds are just a view, and I am still walking, not floating.
I am turning around, and hope, she follows me. After all, my hand is always extended.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
honey coloured butterfly comes flying in
Her hope lens had faded a little and she was forced to see things through the other lens. The view always sucks from the other lens, because things are blur and everything is grey. Her hope lens gave it all colour so at this point of time all things were grey. Grey sucks the energy out of her.
The scale went out of balance again and as she looked out the window and some things seemed to slip out of place a little. Disorientated and a little lost she was. She needed to move forward because she walks on quick sand and stagnancy sucks her in right into the depth where darkness was the only real thing. She struggled to find concrete ground and yet there was never a spot that was such here on earth. Not fer her. The gound is never concrete under her for too long, soon enough she would see the quick sand the illusion of concreteness hides so well.
It sucks for her when her hope lenses lose focus and she is left on quick sand with grey vision. Her brain clicks from the technicoloured pictures back to grey as it drifts from memory to vision, and back to memory again. Long enough and she would forget which was real. Things before her seemed like an illusion and she began to question the purpose of it all again. It makes her want to run. Run so fast to beat the quick sand. She needed to run, fast, now.
Running does an amazing thing, it alters your vision. Picket fences disappear to reveal the complete picture if you run fast enough past it. But most importantly after a while, you are forced to look ahead, straight ahead, with all your might in order to keep running. You start to focus foward and the floating and fading things that surround start to appear once again in its concrete form. Not so much like peeled paint or melted icing no more. Running. She needed to run, fast, now.
There she is, she began, picking up the pace, she began running. Hope she's got the right shoes on. Oh well, if she doesn't she'd just bear with the pain until her feet got used to it. Hopefully she's going in the right direction, otherwise she'd just hit the dead end. Oh well, she can always turn back and keep running until she is heading the right direction again. After all it's all a journey. No matter.
I looked up and began to stand. I struggled to see through what was the small clear spot in my hope lens. All my vision began to focus in on that spot and I geared myself to get ready to run. It was time to run. And so I ran. And as I ran I saw a honey coloured butterfly come flying in. I began to run, run behind the honey coloured butterfly. Just because. And as I ran the heaviness lifted and the goo stuck to my skin began to wear off with the wind and sweat.
Let me run. Run after the butterfly I see through my hope lens. Then it'll all be ok, because what is fading, will look right again. My vision will be clear again, soon. After all, the quicksand isn't fast enough to catch me. It ain't, honey coloured butterflies fly fast. Fast enough. Let me run focused on the honey coloured butterfly I see through my hope lens and let me beat the quicksand and see the big picture again. The picture without the picket fences.
Honey coloured butterfly, beautiful blue sky and no fences to fence me inside.
I am running, fast, now.
The scale went out of balance again and as she looked out the window and some things seemed to slip out of place a little. Disorientated and a little lost she was. She needed to move forward because she walks on quick sand and stagnancy sucks her in right into the depth where darkness was the only real thing. She struggled to find concrete ground and yet there was never a spot that was such here on earth. Not fer her. The gound is never concrete under her for too long, soon enough she would see the quick sand the illusion of concreteness hides so well.
It sucks for her when her hope lenses lose focus and she is left on quick sand with grey vision. Her brain clicks from the technicoloured pictures back to grey as it drifts from memory to vision, and back to memory again. Long enough and she would forget which was real. Things before her seemed like an illusion and she began to question the purpose of it all again. It makes her want to run. Run so fast to beat the quick sand. She needed to run, fast, now.
Running does an amazing thing, it alters your vision. Picket fences disappear to reveal the complete picture if you run fast enough past it. But most importantly after a while, you are forced to look ahead, straight ahead, with all your might in order to keep running. You start to focus foward and the floating and fading things that surround start to appear once again in its concrete form. Not so much like peeled paint or melted icing no more. Running. She needed to run, fast, now.
There she is, she began, picking up the pace, she began running. Hope she's got the right shoes on. Oh well, if she doesn't she'd just bear with the pain until her feet got used to it. Hopefully she's going in the right direction, otherwise she'd just hit the dead end. Oh well, she can always turn back and keep running until she is heading the right direction again. After all it's all a journey. No matter.
I looked up and began to stand. I struggled to see through what was the small clear spot in my hope lens. All my vision began to focus in on that spot and I geared myself to get ready to run. It was time to run. And so I ran. And as I ran I saw a honey coloured butterfly come flying in. I began to run, run behind the honey coloured butterfly. Just because. And as I ran the heaviness lifted and the goo stuck to my skin began to wear off with the wind and sweat.
Let me run. Run after the butterfly I see through my hope lens. Then it'll all be ok, because what is fading, will look right again. My vision will be clear again, soon. After all, the quicksand isn't fast enough to catch me. It ain't, honey coloured butterflies fly fast. Fast enough. Let me run focused on the honey coloured butterfly I see through my hope lens and let me beat the quicksand and see the big picture again. The picture without the picket fences.
Honey coloured butterfly, beautiful blue sky and no fences to fence me inside.
I am running, fast, now.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
glass of water
I am standing staring at the glass of water. Stars in heaven aligned, and they never sounded so good. Them voices. I look away into the night and hear the voices sing, hear them sing as I stare at the glass of water, and the glass is sweating.
I used to rule the world, or did I? I thought I did, but in fact I am staring in a pool of mud staring at the glass of water. The pool of mud below me that looked like gold under a different light. Deceived, I hear them bells ring, and the choirs sing. My time will come, and I will have to allow the mud to suck me in. I stare at the glass of water, and the glass is sweating.
I don't think they know who I am anymore. The words I have said, sorta went blur. That is the thing, I often do what I don't wanna. Oh look I am stuck in the mud, are you going to take me out?
I tread there myself, softly, but slowly, and then the gears shifted and it is stuck in reverse, and in time my tears will stream. That is how it goes. I will lose something I cannot replace, maybe my sanity, maybe my innocence. Then it is gone, out the door. But it will be fixed. Eventually.
I stand and walk through the mud, eventually the rain will fall, and the ground will clear, and in time, I won't be standing in the mud no more.
I stare at the glass of water, and the glass is sweating. But in time, it will sweat no more. The sun will be up, and it'd be dry.
I used to rule the world, or did I? I thought I did, but in fact I am staring in a pool of mud staring at the glass of water. The pool of mud below me that looked like gold under a different light. Deceived, I hear them bells ring, and the choirs sing. My time will come, and I will have to allow the mud to suck me in. I stare at the glass of water, and the glass is sweating.
I don't think they know who I am anymore. The words I have said, sorta went blur. That is the thing, I often do what I don't wanna. Oh look I am stuck in the mud, are you going to take me out?
I tread there myself, softly, but slowly, and then the gears shifted and it is stuck in reverse, and in time my tears will stream. That is how it goes. I will lose something I cannot replace, maybe my sanity, maybe my innocence. Then it is gone, out the door. But it will be fixed. Eventually.
I stand and walk through the mud, eventually the rain will fall, and the ground will clear, and in time, I won't be standing in the mud no more.
I stare at the glass of water, and the glass is sweating. But in time, it will sweat no more. The sun will be up, and it'd be dry.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
It is just like that...
There are some things that just cannot be changed. Staring at it for the longest time will shift it, not. I have been staring at this box for the longest time, and the angles were still the same, and I do not want it that way, but yea, the box will be just that way. Yea, it will be just like that, sigh, just like that. The problem is, at this angle, I cannot open it, and if I cannot open it, I cannot have what is in it, and I want what is in it. I do.
Maybe I will just break in, but until then I will just hold onto it. Quite tightly.
Things in the past I so would love to fix, but crossed lines don't move, neither can they be uncrossed. Walking with it is the only way to fix it. I just have to take the load and walk through.
Oh fuzzy lines, and green leaves, where the tree falls, there it lies. Purple petals, and pink ballet pumps, where the tree falls, there it lies.
That is just the way it is.
Yea, it is just like that.
Just like that.
I am an adult now, and staring at myself in the mirror for the longest time will shift it, not. And so that pile of KIV-ed issues on my desk, I have to face, sadly. Much as I want them responsibilities to just fly away they stay, and if you haven't noticed, the pile grows. It damn well grows, and as much as I stare, it will still be the same. The pile still sits and no one else is going to take that seat, but me. No one else can, but me. My pile, my seat.
Maybe I will just overturn the table and run away, but until then I will just sit. Quite tightly.
And so I sit here, box in one hand, with lines I may or may not cross, and piles and piles of files to clean up.
I walk on.
Mummy cannot help no more, I am not a child. She has her own pile, and her own seat.
Oh fuzzy lines, and green leaves, where the tree falls, there it lies. Purple petals, and pink ballet pumps, where the tree falls, there it lies.
That is just the way it is.
Yea, it is just like that.
Just like that.
A hug from her would be nice though, wouldn't it?
Yes, that is just the way it is.
It is like that.
Just like that.
Maybe I will just break in, but until then I will just hold onto it. Quite tightly.
Things in the past I so would love to fix, but crossed lines don't move, neither can they be uncrossed. Walking with it is the only way to fix it. I just have to take the load and walk through.
Oh fuzzy lines, and green leaves, where the tree falls, there it lies. Purple petals, and pink ballet pumps, where the tree falls, there it lies.
That is just the way it is.
Yea, it is just like that.
Just like that.
I am an adult now, and staring at myself in the mirror for the longest time will shift it, not. And so that pile of KIV-ed issues on my desk, I have to face, sadly. Much as I want them responsibilities to just fly away they stay, and if you haven't noticed, the pile grows. It damn well grows, and as much as I stare, it will still be the same. The pile still sits and no one else is going to take that seat, but me. No one else can, but me. My pile, my seat.
Maybe I will just overturn the table and run away, but until then I will just sit. Quite tightly.
And so I sit here, box in one hand, with lines I may or may not cross, and piles and piles of files to clean up.
I walk on.
Mummy cannot help no more, I am not a child. She has her own pile, and her own seat.
Oh fuzzy lines, and green leaves, where the tree falls, there it lies. Purple petals, and pink ballet pumps, where the tree falls, there it lies.
That is just the way it is.
Yea, it is just like that.
Just like that.
A hug from her would be nice though, wouldn't it?
Yes, that is just the way it is.
It is like that.
Just like that.
in my place
I stare at her coldly, with my champagne in one hand, now warm, and my cigarette bud in the other, I stare. Coldly. I could hardly guess what she would do next. The dark room filled with the cold air from the open window and I shivered a little. The cold sweat from the champagne glass trickled down my arm and cause me to move so I can shake it off. She does the same and stares right back at me. Coldly. So so coldly.
I don't know if it was because she hates what I do, or the lines I cross, but it feels as if she and I are two different people. There was a time when we were one. With the same mind. But now we are two conflicted beings. Her and I. Opposites, and at times I wish I were just like her. I bet she wishes she were like me. But she cannot be. She cannot be.
So nowadays we sit and stare at each other coldly, we don't talk anymore. No more. It makes it too obvious, our differences and I cannot handle it. I wish for her beauty again, for her innocence but I have strayed far away and her beauty drifts further from me.
We are separated now. Her and I.
And the line between her and I, now is the one that I cannot cross.
I stand up and turn my back towards her. I bet you she did the same. The girl in the mirror, she turned her back to me. I knew she would.
I don't know if it was because she hates what I do, or the lines I cross, but it feels as if she and I are two different people. There was a time when we were one. With the same mind. But now we are two conflicted beings. Her and I. Opposites, and at times I wish I were just like her. I bet she wishes she were like me. But she cannot be. She cannot be.
So nowadays we sit and stare at each other coldly, we don't talk anymore. No more. It makes it too obvious, our differences and I cannot handle it. I wish for her beauty again, for her innocence but I have strayed far away and her beauty drifts further from me.
We are separated now. Her and I.
And the line between her and I, now is the one that I cannot cross.
I stand up and turn my back towards her. I bet you she did the same. The girl in the mirror, she turned her back to me. I knew she would.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
glass ball explosion
Late night. early morning. Coffee fix. Cornflakes with milk that tastes nothing like milk. Will attempt to find perfect milk for cornflakes. Contemplate going back to Apple and Cinnamon clusters with sour yoghurt. That tastes more natural. Wonder what they put in that milk, loads of sugar for one. Impure. Sick of impurity. Gross. Sick of the trivial. So draining. Fake smiles, ingeniune. Makes me puke. The glass ball that keeps my soul calm is starting to crack. Fed with a bit too much. Big platters of trivial crap. The last straw is the ingeniune comments on my newly acquired job. Trivial insincere glorification of the temporary. Grateful nonetheless for the wheels to keep turning. time to take the garbage out.
Early morning. Coffee fix. Things to do plague the mind. The soul learns to accommodate pressure. The glass ball cracks nonetheless. Cannot wait for the day I shan't need no glass ball no more. Annoying piece of thing. Learning, learning to see what makes glass ball break. Managing glass ball. Plate by plate. Sometimes it is good when it breaks. New glass balls can take so much more. Nevertheless, learning to manage the glass ball deposits are a good thing, then I don't have to come to this place that often. A place to hide when it explodes.
I run and knock on the door of the glass ball maker, yet again. My glass ball exploded today. I know because every movement hurts my flesh and it is starting to bleed. Bleeding makes me swear, and irritable, much. The pieces of broken glass is beginning to protrude through making it quite noticeable to the public. I need to take the garbage out. Painful process that, for the glass ball maker is a tedious one indeed, he never puts a new glass ball before removing each and every piece stuck in the flesh. I hate glass ball explosions.
Fake hugs, fake smiles does not sit well in my little glass ball, and yet the flesh is tired of sowing them in others. Today anyway. It is slightly tired. So the poor little glass ball is filled with intolerance of them fake smiles and fake kisses I reap. I wanna take the trash out. Trivialities of things that don't matter much. Shallow bottomed pans that stew no good relations. Intolerable. The tongue swears a little. The glass cracks a little. The lifts open and I enter to find every single button lit up. I get out and waited for the next. Today it bothered me, having to stop on every other floor because of some itchy fingers. Intolerant. Intolerant of shallow pans that stew no good relations. Intolerant. Intolerant of itchy fingers that cracks others' glass balls. Please I am pleading do not crack mine, itchy fingers, do not.
Non-functioning brains autmotically takes me along the road I usually take - which isn't the right way to where I wanted to go. Ok so take the long way there. Glass cracks. I hear it cracking. Oh it is not good. Not good indeed. Missing some. Loving some. Love soothes them cracks, for a while until the walking flesh lets in the annoyance caused by a broken parking machine, repeated fire drills, and a lot of walking, just to find a place to pay so I can get out. Swear words surface and the glass ball rattles. The glass ball rattles and the stomach begins to grumble as it yearns for the calm couch in front of Dr Dorian and his friends. It makes me laugh. Laughter soothes that glass ball which...
It rattles. And then I felt it. Gushing right through my body was an ache. And I know, the layer of flesh surrounding the glass ball is now beginning to bleed. Glass pieces embeds itself in the flesh as the glass ball breaks. Into a million pieces. There goes my poise. Soul stress breaksthrough to the flesh. Fair enough. It was the flesh that causes its stress anyhow. But now I have to clean up the mess again. A visit to the glass ball maker. Maybe later.
I sit and let bleed. I want hot soup and mother's hugs. They often soothe the walk to the glass ball maker. I want to throw my shoes at the glass ball maker and throw my trash at him. So I run there. I can't help thinking how much I hate empty faces, and broken spaces. I hate. I so veyr hate. I can't help thinking how much I hate to find rootless trees, and broken dreams. I hate seeing the half-filled glasses I could not fill. I hate the trivial things that make my glass ball break. Rubbish. Rubbishy rubbish like phony smiles and trashy itchy fingers. I wonder if the work of my hands are empty cans. Disgust. Once again. I hate. I so very hate. I think it's about time I empty my trash.
I run, sorry for the times I fill that glass ball with rubbish it cannot take. Maybe next time I will empty out the trash before it explodes. Freaking glass ball explosions. I so very hate.
Hello glass ball maker. *#@* $*#* (#(@ ((#(...
Sit down dear child, sit.
Oh boy...here comes the tweezers.....
Early morning. Coffee fix. Things to do plague the mind. The soul learns to accommodate pressure. The glass ball cracks nonetheless. Cannot wait for the day I shan't need no glass ball no more. Annoying piece of thing. Learning, learning to see what makes glass ball break. Managing glass ball. Plate by plate. Sometimes it is good when it breaks. New glass balls can take so much more. Nevertheless, learning to manage the glass ball deposits are a good thing, then I don't have to come to this place that often. A place to hide when it explodes.
I run and knock on the door of the glass ball maker, yet again. My glass ball exploded today. I know because every movement hurts my flesh and it is starting to bleed. Bleeding makes me swear, and irritable, much. The pieces of broken glass is beginning to protrude through making it quite noticeable to the public. I need to take the garbage out. Painful process that, for the glass ball maker is a tedious one indeed, he never puts a new glass ball before removing each and every piece stuck in the flesh. I hate glass ball explosions.
Fake hugs, fake smiles does not sit well in my little glass ball, and yet the flesh is tired of sowing them in others. Today anyway. It is slightly tired. So the poor little glass ball is filled with intolerance of them fake smiles and fake kisses I reap. I wanna take the trash out. Trivialities of things that don't matter much. Shallow bottomed pans that stew no good relations. Intolerable. The tongue swears a little. The glass cracks a little. The lifts open and I enter to find every single button lit up. I get out and waited for the next. Today it bothered me, having to stop on every other floor because of some itchy fingers. Intolerant. Intolerant of shallow pans that stew no good relations. Intolerant. Intolerant of itchy fingers that cracks others' glass balls. Please I am pleading do not crack mine, itchy fingers, do not.
Non-functioning brains autmotically takes me along the road I usually take - which isn't the right way to where I wanted to go. Ok so take the long way there. Glass cracks. I hear it cracking. Oh it is not good. Not good indeed. Missing some. Loving some. Love soothes them cracks, for a while until the walking flesh lets in the annoyance caused by a broken parking machine, repeated fire drills, and a lot of walking, just to find a place to pay so I can get out. Swear words surface and the glass ball rattles. The glass ball rattles and the stomach begins to grumble as it yearns for the calm couch in front of Dr Dorian and his friends. It makes me laugh. Laughter soothes that glass ball which...
It rattles. And then I felt it. Gushing right through my body was an ache. And I know, the layer of flesh surrounding the glass ball is now beginning to bleed. Glass pieces embeds itself in the flesh as the glass ball breaks. Into a million pieces. There goes my poise. Soul stress breaksthrough to the flesh. Fair enough. It was the flesh that causes its stress anyhow. But now I have to clean up the mess again. A visit to the glass ball maker. Maybe later.
I sit and let bleed. I want hot soup and mother's hugs. They often soothe the walk to the glass ball maker. I want to throw my shoes at the glass ball maker and throw my trash at him. So I run there. I can't help thinking how much I hate empty faces, and broken spaces. I hate. I so veyr hate. I can't help thinking how much I hate to find rootless trees, and broken dreams. I hate seeing the half-filled glasses I could not fill. I hate the trivial things that make my glass ball break. Rubbish. Rubbishy rubbish like phony smiles and trashy itchy fingers. I wonder if the work of my hands are empty cans. Disgust. Once again. I hate. I so very hate. I think it's about time I empty my trash.
I run, sorry for the times I fill that glass ball with rubbish it cannot take. Maybe next time I will empty out the trash before it explodes. Freaking glass ball explosions. I so very hate.
Hello glass ball maker. *#@* $*#* (#(@ ((#(...
Sit down dear child, sit.
Oh boy...here comes the tweezers.....
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Heart-box blues
Peach kissed the buildings. White strips cotton candy appeared among the greyish blue and I lay watching the colours reflected upon the windows of the buildings in view. The canopy of a tree stuck out amongst the wave of dusky green forest of trees that outlined the background. I guess I am blessed that she wanted to show me her beauty. Or maybe I looked for it. I looked for her beauty.
My heart box was heavy with many a feelings. Some light, some not so. Some weigh down and I have to tend to them before I can carry the box along. Thus is life and I have learnt to be grateful for the days where my heart box is light and so easy to carry.
My heart box has gone through many a things. As my fingers run across it I feel its bumps, scratches, bruises and indents. Inside it I find most of the time truths to be told about me. Some days it sends me messages, of certain feelings, and when I finally find the time to sit and examine them I find those feelings were not exactly what I thought they were.
Time must've passed just like that and I sit with the box underneath my right hand. There are days when I am ready just to give it away just like that but I know it is indeed the most precious thing under the sun for however far away it may be from me, its influence and impact upon me is real. My heart box is the wellspring of my life and over the years I have learnt to guard it. Many a people have sought to snatch it, even steal it from right under my nose and I sometimes allow them to. Sometimes I fight to keep it and sometimes I have to hide it to keep it from being broken. Its been broken many a times and I had to go back to its maker for fixing. Those are painful times for fixing the heart box is indeed the hardest task in the whole wide world.
I recently went back to its maker and I realised that he was the best person to bring my heart box back to. Over the years I have tried fixing my heart box with glad wrap, bubble wrap, even band aids. I have tried tearing it apart and putting it back together again. I have tried burning, welding, and each time is but a patch, not quite a fix. One day my heart box just broke. The crack I had tried to glue and then patch with layers and layers of masking tape just gave way and it broke in half. After several invitations from the maker himself I finally went to him. He sat me down, heart box in his hand and he tore it all apart. I was apalled. He cleaned out its insides, even right down to the deposit box at the very bottom and related to me how each damage, each tear, each scratch, each bruise happened. Some I have even forgotten. Funny how I ached inside and out. He knew each part well and I sat there wondering if I had come earlier, how much easier it would've been.
There was a deep crevice at the bottom right hand corner of my heart box. It had begun to rot, and termites had begun eating at it. I'd like to tell you all about it but to cut the long story short the crevice first appeared when I entrusted the heart box to quite the wrong person. A man who did not know quite what to do with it. He tried to fill my heart box with some of the junk from his and because it could not fit he thought it was a good idea to use his pick and hammer. So pick in hand he hammered until his junk fit. How uncomfortable was that. it wasn't until he left the box at my doorstep one day that I felt the weight of his junk. Of course I did not see the crevice. The last man let in some termites. Gosh it did hurt, now I feel it. My heart box had been well insulated with numbness then.
I had walked into many places without my heart box after that. But some people hunt for it with their pick and hammer. Such an unsafe world this is. But the maker told me the ones who have no idea how to care for their own heart box will never know how to care for another's. At one time of my life I was so sick of the pain my heart box causes me that I locked it up in a safe in a room in a house that I had no keys to just so it was far away from me. But then one day a friend found it, and returned it to me. What was I to do with such an ugly damaged thing? She told me to see its maker. I know this maker and he knew me, I have given him many a things but my heart box. So unable to do anything but notice its sorry condition I went to see Him.
Oh he was awaiting. Funny how he knew I was coming for he left the doors opened for me and told his secretary to send me right in. When I got there he took me to his private workshop and closed the doors. He put all things aside so he could tend to my heart box. After examining every damage, every crack, every crevice and bringing to memory quite painfully the cause of each I had become so tired I couldn't breathe. He gently sang me songs and gave me only the best hot chocolate I ever tasted I recovered only all too quickly. The work still had to be done and I sat in despair at the condition of my heart box as he worked patiently.
When the maker had finished taking the box apart he stood up and looked at me. He smiled tenderly and took my hand and bid me to stand. I stood and followed him. He told me stories, heart box stories and he told me stories of his own heart box. Many of which had a feeling so deep it resonated in my spincal cord. He smiled. Many a stories he shall not tell yet, he said, for I have yet to even understand deep within me the ones he had told me so far. We entered a room inside his workshop where rows and rows of heart boxes sat. He stepped up the ladder and reached for the one with my name and he handed the beautiful heart box to me. I felt the smooth fragrant wood with my fingertips. He opened it and placed in it all things beautiful. He placed in it a picture of me and him we took years ago. He placed in it many a dreams and a precious picture of me in my wedding dress beside my groom. He deposited these pictures deep and locked the doors. He kept the keys and I nodded. No one would touch these he whispered. He then gave it to me. My heart box. Brand new. I remembered thinking, many a heart boxes, new and unclaimed by the names that should bear them. How I would send them here if I see them.
Take good care of it, he cautioned, and use it wisely. In it contains many surprises, you have yet to discover. The heart box was made uniquely with the maker's sweat and blood. In it it contains a part of me he whispered, to carry with you. I handed the box back to him afraid of the damage that may occur with it in my hands and he held his hand over mine and closed my fingers around it. I trust you, his voice rang loud and clear.
So with my new heart box in hand I lived each day, but I go and see its maker nearly everyday. He would mend its cracks that still happen and polished its surface. He would empty and clean its insides and he would make sure no termites got in. Some days he would find a rotten thing here and there, things I have picked up, and placed there for a while and he would clean it out and deposited something new in its place. More and more I grew less and less afraid to walk out the door with heart box in my hand.
I had to see him again today, with my heart box in hand. See him about them feelings. He opened again the deposit box with his keys and showed me the pictures in it. He reminded once again of the chats we have had and showed me the deposits he had made. He then opened and dug deep into the bototm left corner which he had clearly saved for last and in there I found pictures I had carefully, tenderly, saved for they were precious. And in there right in the bottom was the picture I have been working in my mind to perfect. The picture of two lovers, perfectly, purely in love. A picture that I had been waiting to find. Many a times I have tried looking for this picture that matches the one in my heart box.
My maker showed me a few other pictures stored in my heart box. Pictures close to this one. And the last picture was so close it was almost perfect. I recalled the time that picture was taken. I wondered why I never lived it out. I looked at my maker as he shook his head at the thought that maybe I have passed that picture by. He pointed at the two lovers and I saw it. In the perfect picture the two lovers were looking deep into each other's eyes, in this one their gaze passed by each other. They were looking past each other. I understood. Sometimes I long so much for the special heart box space to be filled, but those two gazing past each other, their heart box spaces are meant for another.
I looked at Him and nodded. Why then is my heart box still blue. Because he occupies a heart box space. I reach in to take the picture out but the maker stopped me. He took the picture out and coloured it in, and he put it in another space where it fit perfectly. It is ok to be blue. He put the picture back in,there's plenty of space in here he whispered while he gave me a hug and sent me back out there.
Hot chocolate in my hand I thought. The imperfect picture was still quite beautiful, and even if it didn't fill the space I wanted it to fill, it filled another perfectly. I looked down at my heart box. It's ok but yes I still feel blue.
My heart box was heavy with many a feelings. Some light, some not so. Some weigh down and I have to tend to them before I can carry the box along. Thus is life and I have learnt to be grateful for the days where my heart box is light and so easy to carry.
My heart box has gone through many a things. As my fingers run across it I feel its bumps, scratches, bruises and indents. Inside it I find most of the time truths to be told about me. Some days it sends me messages, of certain feelings, and when I finally find the time to sit and examine them I find those feelings were not exactly what I thought they were.
Time must've passed just like that and I sit with the box underneath my right hand. There are days when I am ready just to give it away just like that but I know it is indeed the most precious thing under the sun for however far away it may be from me, its influence and impact upon me is real. My heart box is the wellspring of my life and over the years I have learnt to guard it. Many a people have sought to snatch it, even steal it from right under my nose and I sometimes allow them to. Sometimes I fight to keep it and sometimes I have to hide it to keep it from being broken. Its been broken many a times and I had to go back to its maker for fixing. Those are painful times for fixing the heart box is indeed the hardest task in the whole wide world.
I recently went back to its maker and I realised that he was the best person to bring my heart box back to. Over the years I have tried fixing my heart box with glad wrap, bubble wrap, even band aids. I have tried tearing it apart and putting it back together again. I have tried burning, welding, and each time is but a patch, not quite a fix. One day my heart box just broke. The crack I had tried to glue and then patch with layers and layers of masking tape just gave way and it broke in half. After several invitations from the maker himself I finally went to him. He sat me down, heart box in his hand and he tore it all apart. I was apalled. He cleaned out its insides, even right down to the deposit box at the very bottom and related to me how each damage, each tear, each scratch, each bruise happened. Some I have even forgotten. Funny how I ached inside and out. He knew each part well and I sat there wondering if I had come earlier, how much easier it would've been.
There was a deep crevice at the bottom right hand corner of my heart box. It had begun to rot, and termites had begun eating at it. I'd like to tell you all about it but to cut the long story short the crevice first appeared when I entrusted the heart box to quite the wrong person. A man who did not know quite what to do with it. He tried to fill my heart box with some of the junk from his and because it could not fit he thought it was a good idea to use his pick and hammer. So pick in hand he hammered until his junk fit. How uncomfortable was that. it wasn't until he left the box at my doorstep one day that I felt the weight of his junk. Of course I did not see the crevice. The last man let in some termites. Gosh it did hurt, now I feel it. My heart box had been well insulated with numbness then.
I had walked into many places without my heart box after that. But some people hunt for it with their pick and hammer. Such an unsafe world this is. But the maker told me the ones who have no idea how to care for their own heart box will never know how to care for another's. At one time of my life I was so sick of the pain my heart box causes me that I locked it up in a safe in a room in a house that I had no keys to just so it was far away from me. But then one day a friend found it, and returned it to me. What was I to do with such an ugly damaged thing? She told me to see its maker. I know this maker and he knew me, I have given him many a things but my heart box. So unable to do anything but notice its sorry condition I went to see Him.
Oh he was awaiting. Funny how he knew I was coming for he left the doors opened for me and told his secretary to send me right in. When I got there he took me to his private workshop and closed the doors. He put all things aside so he could tend to my heart box. After examining every damage, every crack, every crevice and bringing to memory quite painfully the cause of each I had become so tired I couldn't breathe. He gently sang me songs and gave me only the best hot chocolate I ever tasted I recovered only all too quickly. The work still had to be done and I sat in despair at the condition of my heart box as he worked patiently.
When the maker had finished taking the box apart he stood up and looked at me. He smiled tenderly and took my hand and bid me to stand. I stood and followed him. He told me stories, heart box stories and he told me stories of his own heart box. Many of which had a feeling so deep it resonated in my spincal cord. He smiled. Many a stories he shall not tell yet, he said, for I have yet to even understand deep within me the ones he had told me so far. We entered a room inside his workshop where rows and rows of heart boxes sat. He stepped up the ladder and reached for the one with my name and he handed the beautiful heart box to me. I felt the smooth fragrant wood with my fingertips. He opened it and placed in it all things beautiful. He placed in it a picture of me and him we took years ago. He placed in it many a dreams and a precious picture of me in my wedding dress beside my groom. He deposited these pictures deep and locked the doors. He kept the keys and I nodded. No one would touch these he whispered. He then gave it to me. My heart box. Brand new. I remembered thinking, many a heart boxes, new and unclaimed by the names that should bear them. How I would send them here if I see them.
Take good care of it, he cautioned, and use it wisely. In it contains many surprises, you have yet to discover. The heart box was made uniquely with the maker's sweat and blood. In it it contains a part of me he whispered, to carry with you. I handed the box back to him afraid of the damage that may occur with it in my hands and he held his hand over mine and closed my fingers around it. I trust you, his voice rang loud and clear.
So with my new heart box in hand I lived each day, but I go and see its maker nearly everyday. He would mend its cracks that still happen and polished its surface. He would empty and clean its insides and he would make sure no termites got in. Some days he would find a rotten thing here and there, things I have picked up, and placed there for a while and he would clean it out and deposited something new in its place. More and more I grew less and less afraid to walk out the door with heart box in my hand.
I had to see him again today, with my heart box in hand. See him about them feelings. He opened again the deposit box with his keys and showed me the pictures in it. He reminded once again of the chats we have had and showed me the deposits he had made. He then opened and dug deep into the bototm left corner which he had clearly saved for last and in there I found pictures I had carefully, tenderly, saved for they were precious. And in there right in the bottom was the picture I have been working in my mind to perfect. The picture of two lovers, perfectly, purely in love. A picture that I had been waiting to find. Many a times I have tried looking for this picture that matches the one in my heart box.
My maker showed me a few other pictures stored in my heart box. Pictures close to this one. And the last picture was so close it was almost perfect. I recalled the time that picture was taken. I wondered why I never lived it out. I looked at my maker as he shook his head at the thought that maybe I have passed that picture by. He pointed at the two lovers and I saw it. In the perfect picture the two lovers were looking deep into each other's eyes, in this one their gaze passed by each other. They were looking past each other. I understood. Sometimes I long so much for the special heart box space to be filled, but those two gazing past each other, their heart box spaces are meant for another.
I looked at Him and nodded. Why then is my heart box still blue. Because he occupies a heart box space. I reach in to take the picture out but the maker stopped me. He took the picture out and coloured it in, and he put it in another space where it fit perfectly. It is ok to be blue. He put the picture back in,there's plenty of space in here he whispered while he gave me a hug and sent me back out there.
Hot chocolate in my hand I thought. The imperfect picture was still quite beautiful, and even if it didn't fill the space I wanted it to fill, it filled another perfectly. I looked down at my heart box. It's ok but yes I still feel blue.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Revelry queen sees the empty tomb
City lights a-fading. That's how the view is from here. I watch as the thirsty faces seek to fill their hollow hearts and I see their hollow eyes bleed tears. Where would they seek solace for their lonely souls? The loud music causes an echo in the depth of their bodies. It scares a lot of them how quick this moment of slight pleasure that tingles their happy nerve will fade, and then they are left alone, hearing the echo of their own voices calling out for someone to hear them. My own heart turns and I feel it shrink to hide under my belly. It fears something real and raw.
I close my eyes as the music gains an auditory strength that shuts all things out. I retreat back to the space where no one can touch and I look around. Does love live within me?
See her run, she runs after love. But she runs not for love himself, she runs for the pleasure she may gain when she possess love. Love runs from her, for her pursuit of him is but artificial, she is unwilling to sacrifice for love himself. She is after his gifts. The pleasure, the romance, and when she exhausts the very well love himself is, she moves on. She sits in despair for she understands not, love must be obtained not for his gifts, love must be sought for the sake of himself. Love himself.
She closes her eyes as the music gains an auditory strength that shuts all things out. She is unable to retreat for she knows not how. Her heart has shut out all things good while shutting out all things bad. The calloused wounded entity in her chest cannot shout out its loneliest cries, the ones she screams silently in the darkest pain. It is heard not. Not by her, not by anyone. She continues to run, but she stands still. Motionless in motion.
I watch her light her fourth cigarette in such an urgency as if in it she would finally obtain a certain answer. I watch her kiss him with such an abandonment as if in him she would find a certain salvation. I watch her down her alcohol with such a thirst as if in it she would find a certain joy. I watch. I watch. I watch her give herself to him with such passion as if in it she would find a certain love. Love stands still watching.
I watch her light her fifth cigarette. Her hollow eyes searching around for something. Something is missing. She placed her palm on the face of him who lay beside her and sighed. His hand ran up and down her thighs as he sighed. The morning makes us see more clearly. The night of abandonment to each other had done less than fill the chasm within the each of them. The feel of another's skin on their naked bodies did nothing but make them feel completely used, they feel completely cheated for when morning came and as they looked at each other they only saw hollowness in the other. Nothing glorious such as love. Nothing sweet such as joy. Nothing fulfilling such as wholeness. And they thought the revelry was supposed to fill the deep chasm of emptiness.
I sighed a sigh that only can be sighed from a pain that is born so deep within my being. I watched. City lights a-fading. That's how the view is from here. I watch the thirsty faces seeking to fill their hollow hearts and see their hollow eyes bleed tears. I watch without them waiting. I stand about them waiting. I nudge them but that which concerns them blinds them and they heed me not. I am dying. Dying to tell them. Something is missing, she looks. She laughs. I touch her beautiful face and look at her eyes, and then wait until she turns to see me.
Of course something is missing.
I am outside her.
I close my eyes as the music gains an auditory strength that shuts all things out. I retreat back to the space where no one can touch and I look around. Does love live within me?
See her run, she runs after love. But she runs not for love himself, she runs for the pleasure she may gain when she possess love. Love runs from her, for her pursuit of him is but artificial, she is unwilling to sacrifice for love himself. She is after his gifts. The pleasure, the romance, and when she exhausts the very well love himself is, she moves on. She sits in despair for she understands not, love must be obtained not for his gifts, love must be sought for the sake of himself. Love himself.
She closes her eyes as the music gains an auditory strength that shuts all things out. She is unable to retreat for she knows not how. Her heart has shut out all things good while shutting out all things bad. The calloused wounded entity in her chest cannot shout out its loneliest cries, the ones she screams silently in the darkest pain. It is heard not. Not by her, not by anyone. She continues to run, but she stands still. Motionless in motion.
I watch her light her fourth cigarette in such an urgency as if in it she would finally obtain a certain answer. I watch her kiss him with such an abandonment as if in him she would find a certain salvation. I watch her down her alcohol with such a thirst as if in it she would find a certain joy. I watch. I watch. I watch her give herself to him with such passion as if in it she would find a certain love. Love stands still watching.
I watch her light her fifth cigarette. Her hollow eyes searching around for something. Something is missing. She placed her palm on the face of him who lay beside her and sighed. His hand ran up and down her thighs as he sighed. The morning makes us see more clearly. The night of abandonment to each other had done less than fill the chasm within the each of them. The feel of another's skin on their naked bodies did nothing but make them feel completely used, they feel completely cheated for when morning came and as they looked at each other they only saw hollowness in the other. Nothing glorious such as love. Nothing sweet such as joy. Nothing fulfilling such as wholeness. And they thought the revelry was supposed to fill the deep chasm of emptiness.
I sighed a sigh that only can be sighed from a pain that is born so deep within my being. I watched. City lights a-fading. That's how the view is from here. I watch the thirsty faces seeking to fill their hollow hearts and see their hollow eyes bleed tears. I watch without them waiting. I stand about them waiting. I nudge them but that which concerns them blinds them and they heed me not. I am dying. Dying to tell them. Something is missing, she looks. She laughs. I touch her beautiful face and look at her eyes, and then wait until she turns to see me.
Of course something is missing.
I am outside her.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Adrian's thoughts
He became the champagne that lay stagnant in his unforced grip. Sitting like a wish waiting for a shooting star. Life becomes yesterday, thoughts become formulas, dreams become the only place you think you're alive.
Not only does the universe circulate around me, I know things no one in the world knows. I'm a genius. Amazing. Such is this that analysis becomes a major part of my daily life. Why does that man wear jeans way too tight for him and a shirt ironed to minimalist perfection primed for daily use in the contemporary world of amazing fashion. I'm not telling. A true analyser never reveals his amazing and insightfully proficient thoughts. It's true. Don't get me wrong. I love telling people what I think, I'm all for it in fact. I'm a firm believer in what you don't believe. I'm not a rebel. Really I'm not. The scariest thing you can do right now is find out you're just like everyone else. In resisting yourself you leave your soul wasted. Now you will never know why you are left wanting something you will never understand.
by Adrian Ng
Not only does the universe circulate around me, I know things no one in the world knows. I'm a genius. Amazing. Such is this that analysis becomes a major part of my daily life. Why does that man wear jeans way too tight for him and a shirt ironed to minimalist perfection primed for daily use in the contemporary world of amazing fashion. I'm not telling. A true analyser never reveals his amazing and insightfully proficient thoughts. It's true. Don't get me wrong. I love telling people what I think, I'm all for it in fact. I'm a firm believer in what you don't believe. I'm not a rebel. Really I'm not. The scariest thing you can do right now is find out you're just like everyone else. In resisting yourself you leave your soul wasted. Now you will never know why you are left wanting something you will never understand.
by Adrian Ng
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
thin dying tree
The path ahead seems a little bit tough. Rocky roads and a slight incline had caused her to panic a little and the desire to turn back to the comfort of a warm bed and a hot shower began to show itself, even though ever so slightly. Apprehensive because the road seems long. The doubt of whether or not she was able begun to creep up and the flesh that is so quick to feel pain stopped.
She looks around and although she feels a tug at her thighs and was convinced she was walking on an incline there are no hills in sight. They were right, the paths are straight and flat. Her flesh tells her differently. Very differently.
There is a slight awareness of the nothingness around her. She has been so used to the fullness of everything around her that the sporadic spaced felt like a vast emptiness and it causes her to feel a slight uneasiness. The uneasiness creeps up and her mind gives in to the possibility that she may have been at that same dark place. Her perceptions warps and began to agree with this slight quiver within her mind. Her emotions well up as they begin to react by bubbling fear and doubt in the big melting pot.
She closes her eyes and turns her face upward so she could see some light. She tried to recall the comforting words He had said to her. The melting pot sizzles and she takes a deep breath. She rationalises that there is no point panicking. After all she's already here and He had said it'll be alright. She inches forward slowly shaking off the fear and doubts within her. Opening her eyes she sees that the darkness has lifted and it was morning.
The paths are straight before her and she could see for miles. Miles of dry parched land rolls before her. Evenly spaced throughout the broken land are wells surrounded by a small patch of healthy trees. The healthy trees were thin in numbers and the land is vastly dotted by a majority of dying trees. It is as if the sparsely grown trees are without the ability to root in and to drink from the well. Thin dying trees.
She walks forward and stops to touch a tree. The tree before her is quite a pretty sight. It is a frail tree it is pretty. Its leaves were glossy, its trunk polished and its fruits were big and shiny. She runs her hands down the trunk. She reached to grab a fruit and she pulls down a branch. The frail branch breaks at her touch. She pulls off the fruit on its end and takes a bite. The flesh of the fruit was dry and powdery, dry and it crumbles in her hands. Throwing the fruit down she leaned upon the tree. She hears a crack and immediately stands straight again. Looking down she sees the crack on the trunk of the tree. It is hollow and struggling to stand. She bends down to nurse the cracks and notices its roots just above the soil. Tangled roots that were unable to grow down deep, to obtain drink to nourish itself. In its search for water it had tangled up itself. The tree was dying. Thin dying tree.
Quite a sense wells up within her. A sense of sadness. Love for the tree wells up within her. Something foreign. Tears begin to well up in her eyes as she runs her fingers down the tangled roots. The tree is dying. The warm touch of a hand on her right shoulder brought her to the attention that there is someone else there. She turns ans see Him standing. He bends down and carefully untangles each root. She watches intently. He hands her a bucket and points to the closest well so she sets down her backpack and runs to the well. She fills the bucket and carefully carries it back to the tree. At His direction she pours the water down slowly around the roots. He continues to gently untangle the roots as she fills the bucket again. He carefully cuts off the dead roots and with His skillful hands He digs a deep hole in the soil. He whispers to her as she places the bucket down and she carefully held the tree as they place it once again upright in the ground. She held the tree straight as His strong hands directs the roots and plants it straight and downwards towards the source of water He knows is underground. He surely and securely covers the roots with soil and together they water the ground surrounding the tree.
They stay beneath the tree and laugh and eat together. They sing songs as they continuously prune and water the dear tree. They nurse the cracks in the trunks and comfort the tree. The tree one day broke into a smile and she looks up at Him and smiled. He puts His hands around her and gives her a tight hug. Then He places His hand firmly around her shoulders and nudges her forward. She moves forward surely secure in His arms. He stops and looks at her as He smiles.
The tree standing before them was quite a grand tree...
She looks around and although she feels a tug at her thighs and was convinced she was walking on an incline there are no hills in sight. They were right, the paths are straight and flat. Her flesh tells her differently. Very differently.
There is a slight awareness of the nothingness around her. She has been so used to the fullness of everything around her that the sporadic spaced felt like a vast emptiness and it causes her to feel a slight uneasiness. The uneasiness creeps up and her mind gives in to the possibility that she may have been at that same dark place. Her perceptions warps and began to agree with this slight quiver within her mind. Her emotions well up as they begin to react by bubbling fear and doubt in the big melting pot.
She closes her eyes and turns her face upward so she could see some light. She tried to recall the comforting words He had said to her. The melting pot sizzles and she takes a deep breath. She rationalises that there is no point panicking. After all she's already here and He had said it'll be alright. She inches forward slowly shaking off the fear and doubts within her. Opening her eyes she sees that the darkness has lifted and it was morning.
The paths are straight before her and she could see for miles. Miles of dry parched land rolls before her. Evenly spaced throughout the broken land are wells surrounded by a small patch of healthy trees. The healthy trees were thin in numbers and the land is vastly dotted by a majority of dying trees. It is as if the sparsely grown trees are without the ability to root in and to drink from the well. Thin dying trees.
She walks forward and stops to touch a tree. The tree before her is quite a pretty sight. It is a frail tree it is pretty. Its leaves were glossy, its trunk polished and its fruits were big and shiny. She runs her hands down the trunk. She reached to grab a fruit and she pulls down a branch. The frail branch breaks at her touch. She pulls off the fruit on its end and takes a bite. The flesh of the fruit was dry and powdery, dry and it crumbles in her hands. Throwing the fruit down she leaned upon the tree. She hears a crack and immediately stands straight again. Looking down she sees the crack on the trunk of the tree. It is hollow and struggling to stand. She bends down to nurse the cracks and notices its roots just above the soil. Tangled roots that were unable to grow down deep, to obtain drink to nourish itself. In its search for water it had tangled up itself. The tree was dying. Thin dying tree.
Quite a sense wells up within her. A sense of sadness. Love for the tree wells up within her. Something foreign. Tears begin to well up in her eyes as she runs her fingers down the tangled roots. The tree is dying. The warm touch of a hand on her right shoulder brought her to the attention that there is someone else there. She turns ans see Him standing. He bends down and carefully untangles each root. She watches intently. He hands her a bucket and points to the closest well so she sets down her backpack and runs to the well. She fills the bucket and carefully carries it back to the tree. At His direction she pours the water down slowly around the roots. He continues to gently untangle the roots as she fills the bucket again. He carefully cuts off the dead roots and with His skillful hands He digs a deep hole in the soil. He whispers to her as she places the bucket down and she carefully held the tree as they place it once again upright in the ground. She held the tree straight as His strong hands directs the roots and plants it straight and downwards towards the source of water He knows is underground. He surely and securely covers the roots with soil and together they water the ground surrounding the tree.
They stay beneath the tree and laugh and eat together. They sing songs as they continuously prune and water the dear tree. They nurse the cracks in the trunks and comfort the tree. The tree one day broke into a smile and she looks up at Him and smiled. He puts His hands around her and gives her a tight hug. Then He places His hand firmly around her shoulders and nudges her forward. She moves forward surely secure in His arms. He stops and looks at her as He smiles.
The tree standing before them was quite a grand tree...
Friday, January 9, 2009
Fly fly blackbird
The melancholic music plays as her thoughts lingered around the faces of those who have been so much a part of her life. The open door of the birdcage begins to occupy a larger part of her vision and she hopped towards it. The last time she was outside the cage she had forced her way open and the wind blew, the sun scorched and the many other birds pecked relentlessly at her. The blackbird returned to the comfortable cage battered and bruised. Wings broken, eyes sunken. She sat at the edge as she gathered all she needed to begin her flight. The faces around her lifted the doors of the cage that had caged her inside, alone.
There was a slight tinge of pain as she looked at the familiar faces with such a rush of affection. She walked by and saw the bearded old man on the bench with a broken guitar as he sang. His voice floated in and hit her eardrums and she stopped to take a seat. He smiled. Why are you always singing the same song Mr Pink? He raised his sunken eyes, and smiled. He continued to strum his guitar and sing.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take your broken wings and learn to fly
All your life you were only waiting for this moment to arrive
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take your sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life you wer eonly waiting for this moment to be free
Her heart broke into a smile and she sang along to the deep broken voice.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take your broken wings and learn to fly
All your life you were only waiting for this moment to arrive
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take your sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life you wer eonly waiting for this moment to be free
It is time, nearly , the ringing phones and the recent warm hugs from the dearest friends saying goodbye surrounded the atmosphere. The family that had always been there. The familiar sights, the smiling faces embraces the arms in her heart and the tug at the area between her heart, abdomen and lungs began to ache a little. It is time, nearly. All her bags are packed and she's ready, ready to go. She breathed in, a deep breath and know it'll be good.
She threw the rubbish in the green bin and looked back. Foundations built and promises of friendships, relationships that are nothing temporary. Her heart rejoices. She smiles at her everlasting companion and in His embrace picked up her backpack. Together, they walked.
Next time, her wings will not be broken and her eyes unsunken. Together they all walked, those faces around her, together they walked. Towards Him.
They will be okay. They will be good. Hand in hand they walked, with Him.
She smiles, the engine of the car starts and onward they go towards Him.
The love in her heart rose up and embraced each of them in a deep lasting embrace. Forever.
All your life you were only waiting for this moment to be free
Blackbird fly
Into the line of the dark black night.
There was a slight tinge of pain as she looked at the familiar faces with such a rush of affection. She walked by and saw the bearded old man on the bench with a broken guitar as he sang. His voice floated in and hit her eardrums and she stopped to take a seat. He smiled. Why are you always singing the same song Mr Pink? He raised his sunken eyes, and smiled. He continued to strum his guitar and sing.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take your broken wings and learn to fly
All your life you were only waiting for this moment to arrive
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take your sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life you wer eonly waiting for this moment to be free
Her heart broke into a smile and she sang along to the deep broken voice.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take your broken wings and learn to fly
All your life you were only waiting for this moment to arrive
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take your sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life you wer eonly waiting for this moment to be free
It is time, nearly , the ringing phones and the recent warm hugs from the dearest friends saying goodbye surrounded the atmosphere. The family that had always been there. The familiar sights, the smiling faces embraces the arms in her heart and the tug at the area between her heart, abdomen and lungs began to ache a little. It is time, nearly. All her bags are packed and she's ready, ready to go. She breathed in, a deep breath and know it'll be good.
She threw the rubbish in the green bin and looked back. Foundations built and promises of friendships, relationships that are nothing temporary. Her heart rejoices. She smiles at her everlasting companion and in His embrace picked up her backpack. Together, they walked.
Next time, her wings will not be broken and her eyes unsunken. Together they all walked, those faces around her, together they walked. Towards Him.
They will be okay. They will be good. Hand in hand they walked, with Him.
She smiles, the engine of the car starts and onward they go towards Him.
The love in her heart rose up and embraced each of them in a deep lasting embrace. Forever.
All your life you were only waiting for this moment to be free
Blackbird fly
Into the line of the dark black night.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
leap from the chasm
You are caught in the chasm between pleasure and boundless pain. Restless, unsatisfied... guiltily pleased and relentlessly saddened by the bad things that happen in the world. Separated couples, starving children, the plump lady there who runs only to miss her bus. You take petty joy in these bad things as only a hurting, vengeful soul does. Yet you sympathise and feel the slicing pain and angry for them! - as a comrade, someone who has gone through pain too.
Do you believe in love, adoration, loyalty, justice? Who knows what values you even hold these days. How could you look at pain and smile? Even if a little bitterly. It is horrendous that you should take even the slightest joy in such cruelty. You are fickle and nonchalant, hurting, hurtful, a pen loaded with poison.
You are not living for God, and you are not living for yourself. But you aren't sure that you are worshipping the devil just because you can't make yourself read the bible, just because you feel funny things about serious matters. Perhaps you are. Who knows.
If you had only brought your questions to one who could answer then.
But you didn't.
You tried everything and everyone but.
And you found...
nothing.
All this restlessness and strangeness yields to furious combustion. But you are afraid to say this to anyone. All the others around you are clueless surrounding shadows, anyway. Do they know better? Ha.
They're stuck in the same hole as you are.
Deny, deny, whatever you do - lie through your teeth, whistle in the storm, die with a laugh plastered all over your mouth.
There, over there... over...... what? Where are you again?
Is the sun rising or setting?
And is that a moon?
Or an owl...
Lost.
You are lost in a whirl of messy thoughts that don't make sense, your poor posture (slouched on a high stool by a low table), the cheap-sounding jingles blasting on the too-bright television. Distracted like hell.
You smiled your way through the day.
And at the end of the day, you were disgusted because all you really did was to lie. You always joined the crowds in calling the wolf bad, but you were really the wolf all along. Crud.
The day ended and you felt like you ended too.
Perhaps because today you reached hell. And realised Hell wasn't being covered waist high in pig shit, or being deep-fried like a human wonton. It was blinding darkness - darkness thicker than your winter jacket, suspension, being neither near the top or touching bottom. No perspective. No aims. No sense. No love. No hope. No dreams. No hate, no sadness, no feelings, nothing tangible. No life, no death, no heart, no soul, no spirit......
If you only realised at that moment, that heaven was just one step away...
One choice...
One whisper...
One shout...
One yielding heart...
Then you would have left your blinding path for illuminated freedom.
Then you would have found that living was afterall what you had wanted all along.
Do you believe in love, adoration, loyalty, justice? Who knows what values you even hold these days. How could you look at pain and smile? Even if a little bitterly. It is horrendous that you should take even the slightest joy in such cruelty. You are fickle and nonchalant, hurting, hurtful, a pen loaded with poison.
You are not living for God, and you are not living for yourself. But you aren't sure that you are worshipping the devil just because you can't make yourself read the bible, just because you feel funny things about serious matters. Perhaps you are. Who knows.
If you had only brought your questions to one who could answer then.
But you didn't.
You tried everything and everyone but.
And you found...
nothing.
All this restlessness and strangeness yields to furious combustion. But you are afraid to say this to anyone. All the others around you are clueless surrounding shadows, anyway. Do they know better? Ha.
They're stuck in the same hole as you are.
Deny, deny, whatever you do - lie through your teeth, whistle in the storm, die with a laugh plastered all over your mouth.
There, over there... over...... what? Where are you again?
Is the sun rising or setting?
And is that a moon?
Or an owl...
Lost.
You are lost in a whirl of messy thoughts that don't make sense, your poor posture (slouched on a high stool by a low table), the cheap-sounding jingles blasting on the too-bright television. Distracted like hell.
You smiled your way through the day.
And at the end of the day, you were disgusted because all you really did was to lie. You always joined the crowds in calling the wolf bad, but you were really the wolf all along. Crud.
The day ended and you felt like you ended too.
Perhaps because today you reached hell. And realised Hell wasn't being covered waist high in pig shit, or being deep-fried like a human wonton. It was blinding darkness - darkness thicker than your winter jacket, suspension, being neither near the top or touching bottom. No perspective. No aims. No sense. No love. No hope. No dreams. No hate, no sadness, no feelings, nothing tangible. No life, no death, no heart, no soul, no spirit......
If you only realised at that moment, that heaven was just one step away...
One choice...
One whisper...
One shout...
One yielding heart...
Then you would have left your blinding path for illuminated freedom.
Then you would have found that living was afterall what you had wanted all along.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)