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.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)