It was nestled between the two buildings, the pool, and therefore when you swam, the top corner of either buildings would sit at the tip of your vision upon the background of the sky and view of the greens that were planted around the compound. It was just about to rain and she, she wanted to do a few laps before it pours, so she stepped into the pool, right leg first, and then the left until all of her body was immersed in the water she pulled her upper body back to wet her hair before dipping her whole self in. Surprisingly the water was warm, for it was sunny on one end, and cloudy on the other, and so as she began doing her laps, she swam back and forth between the sun and the clouds.
She had always wanted to swim in the rain, and so she swam slowly immersing her head in the water with each stroke until she noticed the raindrops creating small ripples on the surface as she looked up from under. She loved watching the water broke, and that is why the breaststroke was most appealing, apart from being the simplest, it was to her, the most graceful, for when the hands parted the water to make way for the body before the head pulls up to the surface, the water broke its stillness with quietness, and such grace. The same way when the raindrops hit the pool, and broke its still surface into ripples. She knew she should get out now, before the rain got heavy, but it was a sensation she wanted to enjoy for a little longer, swimming towards the sun, and then the clouds and watching the ripples from under the surface before she pushes her head back out. So she swam on.
It was moments like this, she felt at least a little glimmer of hope that life could be bearable. The trouble with her is that she was a romantic deep within. A head filled with stupid ideals, they always tell her. She wasn't really of this world. He once told her that she was a rare treasure, a hard find, and she was, she was out of this world. She does not belong here. It was right there under the water, when she saw the fierce bolt of light rip through the sky. She swam slowly, taking in the feel of the water as it wraps around her, maybe this is how it feels to be flying. She closes her eyes and swam until both sides of the pool turned cloudy and it began to pour. And she stayed underneath the surface for a while, to watch the still surface broken completely by raindrops and breaststroke.
And then it was time, and she got out, walked in the rain back to her apartment and took a long hot shower. Long enough so she could dream a little more before she had to dress, open the door and walk back into the world. The world of broken dreams, and half forced smiles, where horses were cars and princes were just a fairy tale, and where she had to live the best she can, with all she had, until, she went home to where she belonged.
She was not from here.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Life skids...
Emotions tied to disasters wane and fade, and the picture on the screen reverts to everything else that is wrong with the world. The daily headlines can seem mundane some days, especially on the day after.
I dread birthdays. It is often so pregnant with expectations, and that is, to my dear heart, a crisis waiting to happen. What happened to the innocent enjoyment of birthday cakes and presents? God knows. The fear of being disappointed maybe.
But I had a good birthday. And I could have gotten caught up in the revelry of me. My ego fed, and I am at my high. The countless birthday wishes, and after all these years I still wonder, what is the point? After that day, I would need to go back to being whatever age I was, doing whatever I was doing, and life goes on.
When I say life goes on, I mean you realise you are not the centre of the earth, and that you are really not all that special, in fact, you are like, everybody else.
Then it hit me. It was not the birthday I dreaded. It was the anti-climatic day after, when all things stop revolving around me and I need to face the reality that life goes on, and its not about me. And I have to rely upon my own confidence to carry me through instead of relying on others to remind me I am loved. Carrying myself on upon the well wishes and sweet remarks of others. Letting them dictate and tell me that I matter.
After all, isn’t that what everyone wants - To matter?
We are often so addicted to feeling. Feeling good, feeling bad, feeling sad, feeling blue. And in the million things going on in the world feeling makes you feel like a part of it. Does it not?
And the emotions tied to the disaster wanes across the world, and at the end it was only those that have lost in it that it will remain, strong. And he or she might feel alone once again, to pick up the mess. A strong sense of self-centredness stirs the anger that the whole world has to keep on turning. Why can’t they suffer with me, they ask.
But they did, the whole world stopped for a while and felt the pain.
And then life goes on.
Just like today, like any other day. It goes on and I must be glad that it stopped, that one day, just to celebrate my existence. And they that stopped to spend some time, however little, out of their busy lives to make me feel I matter, I should be grateful for.
I shall be. I shall be grateful.
I dread birthdays. It is often so pregnant with expectations, and that is, to my dear heart, a crisis waiting to happen. What happened to the innocent enjoyment of birthday cakes and presents? God knows. The fear of being disappointed maybe.
But I had a good birthday. And I could have gotten caught up in the revelry of me. My ego fed, and I am at my high. The countless birthday wishes, and after all these years I still wonder, what is the point? After that day, I would need to go back to being whatever age I was, doing whatever I was doing, and life goes on.
When I say life goes on, I mean you realise you are not the centre of the earth, and that you are really not all that special, in fact, you are like, everybody else.
Then it hit me. It was not the birthday I dreaded. It was the anti-climatic day after, when all things stop revolving around me and I need to face the reality that life goes on, and its not about me. And I have to rely upon my own confidence to carry me through instead of relying on others to remind me I am loved. Carrying myself on upon the well wishes and sweet remarks of others. Letting them dictate and tell me that I matter.
After all, isn’t that what everyone wants - To matter?
We are often so addicted to feeling. Feeling good, feeling bad, feeling sad, feeling blue. And in the million things going on in the world feeling makes you feel like a part of it. Does it not?
And the emotions tied to the disaster wanes across the world, and at the end it was only those that have lost in it that it will remain, strong. And he or she might feel alone once again, to pick up the mess. A strong sense of self-centredness stirs the anger that the whole world has to keep on turning. Why can’t they suffer with me, they ask.
But they did, the whole world stopped for a while and felt the pain.
And then life goes on.
Just like today, like any other day. It goes on and I must be glad that it stopped, that one day, just to celebrate my existence. And they that stopped to spend some time, however little, out of their busy lives to make me feel I matter, I should be grateful for.
I shall be. I shall be grateful.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
holes in my soul
The waves crash beyond their usual shorelines ravaging the proud stately cliffside homes that we once so seek after. We stared as the surpassing waves swallowed all in its way, merciless, and without prejudice. All was quiet. No one made a sound, no one spoke, no one screamed. If they were screaming it was on the inside, because shock has consumed all ability to move or make a sound. The sound of the waves crashing faded into the background as the deafening silence of breaking hearts rang in the ears of all like white noise. Unending white noise. And the inevitable sickness came next, the sickness caused by the helplessness and hopelessness that caused knees to weaken and finally when the hopelessness struck the deepest chord wounding the souls of the many that stood, the child cries in fear breaking the silence and forcing the reality to pierce open the grieve that was hiding behind shock. And the world cried, tears streamed as it broke into pieces.
The ones who have gone before them looked down from the heavens and held back their tears so it does not rain, but lightning bolts across the skies, and thunder shouted its loudest in years. The heavens are hurting, and must hold back for the world, as it breaks, will have to stand up again, for if it does not, its wounds will remain, gaping wide open. It is just the way it is.
The old lady stops crying and picks up the child. She turns around as the angry waves receded. She walked out and whispered to the child, its over now stop crying. She knew exactly what needed to be done, as if she heard the heavens whisper. Her aching heart braces itself for it has been broken many time before, it can hold this one last grief. She turns back to the people and said, let us pick up our rubbish. And the people stopped crying.
I know I am miles away, but some things wound so deep that it resonates, and I feel the pain. But did they not know, that their constant drilling has finally caused the earth to break? Did they not know that as the earth is sucked hollow, it will never be whole enough to hold us all. Did they not know, did they not know?
Our broken earth chokes. She means well, but how much more can she take before she breaks into a million pieces and leaves us all, homeless. When will they ever stop so that I will have the time to ease the pain and mend the holes in my soul?
The ones who have gone before them looked down from the heavens and held back their tears so it does not rain, but lightning bolts across the skies, and thunder shouted its loudest in years. The heavens are hurting, and must hold back for the world, as it breaks, will have to stand up again, for if it does not, its wounds will remain, gaping wide open. It is just the way it is.
The old lady stops crying and picks up the child. She turns around as the angry waves receded. She walked out and whispered to the child, its over now stop crying. She knew exactly what needed to be done, as if she heard the heavens whisper. Her aching heart braces itself for it has been broken many time before, it can hold this one last grief. She turns back to the people and said, let us pick up our rubbish. And the people stopped crying.
I know I am miles away, but some things wound so deep that it resonates, and I feel the pain. But did they not know, that their constant drilling has finally caused the earth to break? Did they not know that as the earth is sucked hollow, it will never be whole enough to hold us all. Did they not know, did they not know?
Our broken earth chokes. She means well, but how much more can she take before she breaks into a million pieces and leaves us all, homeless. When will they ever stop so that I will have the time to ease the pain and mend the holes in my soul?
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Stills...
The sound of thunder ripped through the wooden frames of the fragile house and she put the glass down after having stained it with her lipstick. She gathered her stuff and walked out but looked back before pulling the door shut. The old lady on the rocking chair smiled at her as she waved goodbye, and he put down the guitar and nodded. The ceilling fan consistently clicked as it turned and the room darkened quickly as the daylight outside gave way to rain. He took out her camera and quickly snapped a shot before leaving. It made for a great still. And then she promised to make it back soon, and he, the man with the guitar began singing his song to the old lady as she drove off in the rain.
She would have made it back as she promised, she could have, there was plenty of time, but the fact was she did not. She wanted to, but she did not. And now she has this still to remember that by. Remember the fact that she was a let down. She did not think the little old lady relied upon her word, and neither did she feel anything enough to drive out all that way again. She did not think she was important to the little old lady, but who is she to say, she gave her word, and failed to commit to the carrying out of it and now she sits in the grey room with a still before her she wished would carry a different emotion. A still she is now remembered by, in the grey room.
The man walked into the room and took a long stride toward her. He smiled as she looked around the room, lined across, from wall to ceilling, apart from a small space that was the door, with shelves filled with albums. He smiled as they flipped through the album together. He took out his guitar and started singing. She shouldn't be here in this room listening to her last song, in fact she should be out there doing something worthwhile. He held his breath as she stood up, and he nodded and hugged her. She had places to go, and she was not going to let him catch up with her. Not until she is finished.
There were many-a-things about her life that would make a bad still, worthy of the grey room, but who is she to think that there were more that made it into the white room. The write room, she could not get into until after the man with the guitar sang his last song. There were many-a-stills she wanted to alter, so why not she started now. She went back to the lake and picked up a fishing rod, and fished a big fish with the old man in the boat. As they rowed ashore, she caught a glimpse of the still photographer and his camera. Snapshot and a smile. She kissed the old man goodbye and walked off into the rain. He was contented and as he listened to the man with the guitar sing his life song, he faded and drifted into eternity. Many-a-stills the guitar man photographed, many a stills until now, she sat on the bed and rocked in her chair and waited expectantly for him.
He knocked on the door and took of his hat and smiled as he walked in. The white album, it was time, and tears streamed down her face because she knew. They flipped through it together and there was a knock on the door, and a young girl waved and smiled. She slipped in right beside her on the creaky floor of the fragile wooden house and held her hand as they chatted. She closed her eyes, and the guitar man, he showed her a few more pictures, and he began singing his song. She drifted and faded and smiled as she saw good memories frozen on still, and her favourite one was when she caressed the sweet baby girl, the one she decided to keep. She opened her eyes as he sang the last chorus and she caught a glimpse of that once sweet baby girl. The beautiful young woman, tears in her eyes, kissed her and whispered, I love you. As he strummed the last line, she closed her tired eyes and she whispered, I love you too sweet baby girl, of all the still that were my life I am most happy when I see the ones with you. She drifted to eternity and the young woman stood up, and walked out into the rain. And the guitar man put his guitar down, and took out his camera, and snapped. Shot a still that was the last in the little old woman's scrapbook.
The young woman will have her turn and she will find herself relieved for the many choices she makes for it is funny how many stills in her life have been caught just in the nick of time, he smiled as he placed the still in her scrapbook. Stills, fond memories, parts of life that have been frozen and kept.
She would have made it back as she promised, she could have, there was plenty of time, but the fact was she did not. She wanted to, but she did not. And now she has this still to remember that by. Remember the fact that she was a let down. She did not think the little old lady relied upon her word, and neither did she feel anything enough to drive out all that way again. She did not think she was important to the little old lady, but who is she to say, she gave her word, and failed to commit to the carrying out of it and now she sits in the grey room with a still before her she wished would carry a different emotion. A still she is now remembered by, in the grey room.
The man walked into the room and took a long stride toward her. He smiled as she looked around the room, lined across, from wall to ceilling, apart from a small space that was the door, with shelves filled with albums. He smiled as they flipped through the album together. He took out his guitar and started singing. She shouldn't be here in this room listening to her last song, in fact she should be out there doing something worthwhile. He held his breath as she stood up, and he nodded and hugged her. She had places to go, and she was not going to let him catch up with her. Not until she is finished.
There were many-a-things about her life that would make a bad still, worthy of the grey room, but who is she to think that there were more that made it into the white room. The write room, she could not get into until after the man with the guitar sang his last song. There were many-a-stills she wanted to alter, so why not she started now. She went back to the lake and picked up a fishing rod, and fished a big fish with the old man in the boat. As they rowed ashore, she caught a glimpse of the still photographer and his camera. Snapshot and a smile. She kissed the old man goodbye and walked off into the rain. He was contented and as he listened to the man with the guitar sing his life song, he faded and drifted into eternity. Many-a-stills the guitar man photographed, many a stills until now, she sat on the bed and rocked in her chair and waited expectantly for him.
He knocked on the door and took of his hat and smiled as he walked in. The white album, it was time, and tears streamed down her face because she knew. They flipped through it together and there was a knock on the door, and a young girl waved and smiled. She slipped in right beside her on the creaky floor of the fragile wooden house and held her hand as they chatted. She closed her eyes, and the guitar man, he showed her a few more pictures, and he began singing his song. She drifted and faded and smiled as she saw good memories frozen on still, and her favourite one was when she caressed the sweet baby girl, the one she decided to keep. She opened her eyes as he sang the last chorus and she caught a glimpse of that once sweet baby girl. The beautiful young woman, tears in her eyes, kissed her and whispered, I love you. As he strummed the last line, she closed her tired eyes and she whispered, I love you too sweet baby girl, of all the still that were my life I am most happy when I see the ones with you. She drifted to eternity and the young woman stood up, and walked out into the rain. And the guitar man put his guitar down, and took out his camera, and snapped. Shot a still that was the last in the little old woman's scrapbook.
The young woman will have her turn and she will find herself relieved for the many choices she makes for it is funny how many stills in her life have been caught just in the nick of time, he smiled as he placed the still in her scrapbook. Stills, fond memories, parts of life that have been frozen and kept.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
The cloud called arrogance and the momentary lapse of the iris...
At the beginning of your life it is easy to say how you would live it, but Maysa never thought she would be standing right here, stuck right in the mud she so adamantly insisted she would never step on. But like I always say, it is often too early to say I will never, until we have gone through it and really turned away. Because at the beginning of your life it is easy to be stuck in the cloud of arrogance where you think you are better than everyone else. Maysa basked in that cloud a minute too long, and then she stumbled and found herself right in the mud.
Truth be told I couldn't say I didn't want to stick out my self-righteous finger and wave it about in that I told you so fashion, after all I wanted to say serves you right but when I took a look at her face I cannot help but remember me. And so I relaxed my judgment muscle. That was a dark place I hate to see again, but each time I walk close to that tunnel my muscles tighten and I swear I could feel the creepy crawlies under my skin. And there were days I felt them crawling out of my pores. I never know if I am over that stretch yet, maybe I am in the field of daffodils, just some rainy days, or maybe I am still stuck in the mud, dreaming about the field of daffodils, God knows. I certainly hope it is the former. But was I strong enough to extend my hand to her, I am unsure. So I watched her, hoping she could pull herself up.
I must have a conscience apart from my cold heart for I often see her face when I go to sleep at night. And I find myself walking back to the spot where she is stuck just to see if she is still there. So everyday I watched her, and everyday I walk down this road from the fields of daffodil to this swamp, just to see. And not that I am helpful, I just stare at her. I am still unwilling to extend my hand. I guess I have always been non-committal and I must say I have seen many drown in that black hole, sometimes I shout out loud enough for someone else to hear and help, but never have I wanted to get myself wet, nor stick my feet into that mud. I didn't want to start sinking in. Conscience without the courage. I can laugh out loud, not that it is funny, but it is my life story. And that is why I keep coming back to this swamp. There was something I needed to conquer.
So to hell with it, many nightmares and loud voices in my head later I managed enough courage to step onto the mud. But I should've known that in her desperation, she pulled me down into the mud with her. And so now I am stuck in the mud with her. I cannot say I am not angry with her, angel-faced or not. I do not dare tell you the amount of swear words that raced through my head at more than a hundred kilometres an hour, faster than I could control anyway. And I cannot say I did not think of her in the worst possible light. But I let her hold onto my hand and I closed my eyes and mouth so tight, just so I would not let out the best of the anger that is seething inside. There were names I could think of to call her that I think only the devil can carry but hey, I was angry. So I stayed still and silent for a while. Until I began to feel the creepy crawlies, not around me, but crawling out from inside me, and what a disgusting being I can be. And then the weather turned to grey and the thunderstorm came, whether it was just inside me, or all around me, I did not care to think about, but where I was concerned there was a thunderstorm. Yes, the dark place I never wanted to be, she managed to drag me back there. I tell you I could wrestle god a million times over for letting me come here.
And then I guess I have a ltitle bit of strength in me after all to fight back the creepy crawlies. I turned to look at her angel face and smiled. And she, relieved there was someone with her cried many a tears. So we joked and laughed to relax the muscles and when night came we hoped and prayed that someone would get us out. But as I closed my eyes to sleep in the moonlight, in the swamp, my head went ahead of me. And I began to trace my steps back to the time, where I was alone in the swamp, and how I managed to find my way to the fields of daffodils. And as I traced I spoke aloud, so she could hear me speak.
At that time not so long ago, I was stuck in the mud alone. I was on my way to fields of gold, when a momentary lapse of the iris pulled me away, I know. The dark little elves said that this was a short cut to heaven, and so I walked across the swamp, and then I walked right into the mud, and got stuck under, five feet seven. The elfin men laughed and sang as I sat choking in black sand and then they left me there, at my own imagination's mercy. I struggled and wriggled to my dismay, I went deeper under, and I realised that I needed help to get me back up and over. I closed my eyes and the white knight appeared to me in a dream, and said dear one you remember me, the one who told you where you should go, no shortcuts you can take, onto the fields of gold. And he fed me with visions and dreams of the fresh green field of daffodils and I ligthened up, and hoped all night, that I could get out. I won't take no shortcuts no more, I said to mr knight. And alright he said, and to my delight, he came to my rescue. He struggled alright, in those white tights, and his horse had mud up to his knees. And yet he fought so gallantly and swiftly made it, with me. And I rode off on the back of the knight and I was oh so glad, when he sat me down on the side of the road, on dry, and hard land. Are you not taking me with you I asked him earnestly. He said, dear one, you have to walk, it is just the way it is, there are no shortcuts to fields of gold, and there for you i will wait. So I walked hard and long, and it seemed almost an endless plight. But guess what, dear one, I said aloud, I got there, nice and dry. The fields of daffodils is not just a dream, it is real indeed. and guess what I whispered to her, there is a house, with your name on it. She smiled and hope brigthened the day and she asked me how she could go. I breathed in and whispered, my darling girl, there is no shortcut to the fields of gold. Relieved, I got up so effortlessly and made my way home again, and she I know will make it home, and I will meet her at the gate. Conquered I have my darkest fears that the daffodils were a dream, for I know now what is real, and what more now so does she.
Then the man in white, rode past me, and smiled and I clapped with glee, he said, you must have told someone about me, for she called out loud and clear, white knight come save me. I understand now the reason why I lurk around mangrove swamps. Because I have stories to tell, of fields of gold, daffodils, white knights, and my own journey home.
Truth be told I couldn't say I didn't want to stick out my self-righteous finger and wave it about in that I told you so fashion, after all I wanted to say serves you right but when I took a look at her face I cannot help but remember me. And so I relaxed my judgment muscle. That was a dark place I hate to see again, but each time I walk close to that tunnel my muscles tighten and I swear I could feel the creepy crawlies under my skin. And there were days I felt them crawling out of my pores. I never know if I am over that stretch yet, maybe I am in the field of daffodils, just some rainy days, or maybe I am still stuck in the mud, dreaming about the field of daffodils, God knows. I certainly hope it is the former. But was I strong enough to extend my hand to her, I am unsure. So I watched her, hoping she could pull herself up.
I must have a conscience apart from my cold heart for I often see her face when I go to sleep at night. And I find myself walking back to the spot where she is stuck just to see if she is still there. So everyday I watched her, and everyday I walk down this road from the fields of daffodil to this swamp, just to see. And not that I am helpful, I just stare at her. I am still unwilling to extend my hand. I guess I have always been non-committal and I must say I have seen many drown in that black hole, sometimes I shout out loud enough for someone else to hear and help, but never have I wanted to get myself wet, nor stick my feet into that mud. I didn't want to start sinking in. Conscience without the courage. I can laugh out loud, not that it is funny, but it is my life story. And that is why I keep coming back to this swamp. There was something I needed to conquer.
So to hell with it, many nightmares and loud voices in my head later I managed enough courage to step onto the mud. But I should've known that in her desperation, she pulled me down into the mud with her. And so now I am stuck in the mud with her. I cannot say I am not angry with her, angel-faced or not. I do not dare tell you the amount of swear words that raced through my head at more than a hundred kilometres an hour, faster than I could control anyway. And I cannot say I did not think of her in the worst possible light. But I let her hold onto my hand and I closed my eyes and mouth so tight, just so I would not let out the best of the anger that is seething inside. There were names I could think of to call her that I think only the devil can carry but hey, I was angry. So I stayed still and silent for a while. Until I began to feel the creepy crawlies, not around me, but crawling out from inside me, and what a disgusting being I can be. And then the weather turned to grey and the thunderstorm came, whether it was just inside me, or all around me, I did not care to think about, but where I was concerned there was a thunderstorm. Yes, the dark place I never wanted to be, she managed to drag me back there. I tell you I could wrestle god a million times over for letting me come here.
And then I guess I have a ltitle bit of strength in me after all to fight back the creepy crawlies. I turned to look at her angel face and smiled. And she, relieved there was someone with her cried many a tears. So we joked and laughed to relax the muscles and when night came we hoped and prayed that someone would get us out. But as I closed my eyes to sleep in the moonlight, in the swamp, my head went ahead of me. And I began to trace my steps back to the time, where I was alone in the swamp, and how I managed to find my way to the fields of daffodils. And as I traced I spoke aloud, so she could hear me speak.
At that time not so long ago, I was stuck in the mud alone. I was on my way to fields of gold, when a momentary lapse of the iris pulled me away, I know. The dark little elves said that this was a short cut to heaven, and so I walked across the swamp, and then I walked right into the mud, and got stuck under, five feet seven. The elfin men laughed and sang as I sat choking in black sand and then they left me there, at my own imagination's mercy. I struggled and wriggled to my dismay, I went deeper under, and I realised that I needed help to get me back up and over. I closed my eyes and the white knight appeared to me in a dream, and said dear one you remember me, the one who told you where you should go, no shortcuts you can take, onto the fields of gold. And he fed me with visions and dreams of the fresh green field of daffodils and I ligthened up, and hoped all night, that I could get out. I won't take no shortcuts no more, I said to mr knight. And alright he said, and to my delight, he came to my rescue. He struggled alright, in those white tights, and his horse had mud up to his knees. And yet he fought so gallantly and swiftly made it, with me. And I rode off on the back of the knight and I was oh so glad, when he sat me down on the side of the road, on dry, and hard land. Are you not taking me with you I asked him earnestly. He said, dear one, you have to walk, it is just the way it is, there are no shortcuts to fields of gold, and there for you i will wait. So I walked hard and long, and it seemed almost an endless plight. But guess what, dear one, I said aloud, I got there, nice and dry. The fields of daffodils is not just a dream, it is real indeed. and guess what I whispered to her, there is a house, with your name on it. She smiled and hope brigthened the day and she asked me how she could go. I breathed in and whispered, my darling girl, there is no shortcut to the fields of gold. Relieved, I got up so effortlessly and made my way home again, and she I know will make it home, and I will meet her at the gate. Conquered I have my darkest fears that the daffodils were a dream, for I know now what is real, and what more now so does she.
Then the man in white, rode past me, and smiled and I clapped with glee, he said, you must have told someone about me, for she called out loud and clear, white knight come save me. I understand now the reason why I lurk around mangrove swamps. Because I have stories to tell, of fields of gold, daffodils, white knights, and my own journey home.
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