Fishermen and kings

The little boy was full of charm. His father was sure he would be the man he had never let himself be. Deep down within himself is the repressed charm he once had as a little boy and now he was just a handsome frame and a tower of strength, responsibility and a living body of met expectations. His father's expectations, his mother's, society's, now his wife's. His life was an ad really, picture perfect with exaggerated good bits. He has the dream car, the dream house, the top job.

All except for the dream girl, whom he thought he would never stumble upon again. Until his heart skipped a beat. Six o'clock sunday, that was when he saw her again, and that was when his heart skipped a beat.

He told her story. She never really ever told me about her pain but I knew, he begun. I could tell, he said, it emanated like body odour from her and her eyes, were the saddest set I have ever seen. But I, I was drawn to her, he said.

Over coffee, he and I talked of castles in the air and wooden clogs, and his eyes glazed a little as he told his story, her story. It began when the knight in him wanted to rescue the damsel in distress.

She would tie her hair up in a pony bob, he smiled as he told me. Her hair was too short for a ponytail. But I was naturally drawn to her, not because she was particularly warm. On the contrary, she had a rather hollow, superficial facade and a cold brash demeanor often setting a distance between herself and another with a wall filled with quick wit, humour and sarcasm. But I was not convinced and feel an intense adventure each time I spoke to her to find her heart, her soul.

She was an adventure and her heart I wanted to conquer.

When I saw her, said he, I thought she was the girl. The dream girl I wish and would wait to marry, and have a picture perfect life with. But she was quite the mean girl. I would have been at her beck and all, for I was that much in love and each time I see her pony bob and her delicate face my heart would ache to do all I could to be close to her and to make her smile. She never smiled easy. And her words like a knife would pierce through make me quite the small man. And he waned a little.

As the word small man escaped his lips I have to say I disagree. To me, he was quite the outstanding man. Visionary and bold, dynamic and quite the leader. And when they were together it was great to see, it was much like a knight and his beautiful lady.

Yet, she was quite an adventure. The adventure. But some dreams were only dreams. Or so it would seem to him when he was a young man, and his heart grew weary awaiting, for more than her, the picture perfect life was what he thought he was after. And a picture perfect life was what he left her to go after.

My heart sank much, I must say, for the romantic in me thought they would be. The sparkle in her eye, and the pony bob, was all a knight needs, but at one point he chose the easy way out, he chose the path arranged, the path expected and not the path that could be.

His lady at home, she was gracious and warm, ready to stoke his fiery ego, ready to have his children. And he chose the picture perfect path. And it was picture perfect, but his heart stopped beating a little. Because as beautiful the wife at home could be, he turned to me with wistful eyes and told me, he misses that pony bob and sparkle, the pony bob and the sparkle that made his heart skip its beat.

I guess, he could not spend his whole life in an intense adventure of searching for her heart, her soul, for that would be a sacrifice of the picture perfect life. Only because he felt he could not save her and that was because he never saw the tears he brought to her eyes that night he left.

It was his son, that stumbled upon her feet at the cobbled walkway along the street. She laughed as she picked him up and placed him on his feet again and as she looked up, pony bob and sparkle in her eye. He approached and picked up the boy and as he caught her eye, his heart skipped a beat. And they engaged in a conversation that made him wanting for more and they engaged in many more conversations that stoked the knight in him that was ready to fight, to rescue.

And so he invited me in and we picked up the conversation, from when I was the lady, and he was my knight. From the heartaches he caused and never knew about, and the bruised ego he nursed, and had moved happily along from. And here I am, sipping my coffee, in my pony bob and wooden clogs.

Fishermen and kings, I told him that day, I often saw in my dream. Pirates and thieves they often steal my ship. But I, I walk on with my wooden clogs, walk on. And it was that night, I poured out my heart, and he saw me cry.

And in that moment, he deeply desired to embrace me, his dream girl with the pony bob, and sweep me off my feet into his life, but it was only too late. He realised his dream girl had a soul, only it was way too late.

And I smiled as he picked up his little growing boy instead, who asked him innocently daddy what could I be? and he replied, be all you really want to be, but whatever will be, he looked at me with his wistful eyes, marry the girl of your dreams.

I turned to walk out and I cried a little, because it was too late, but I gotta put on my wooden clogs and walk on, I should have poured my soul when he was still waiting, and told him he did rescue me that dark night. I should have poured out my heart to him, and come out of my black cocoon. I did, only it was way too late, and my knight already had a lady, and I had become the lady the knight bypassed, but I know, some day my prince will come.

Red, white, blue, Mraz....

It is slightly grey outside but the colours that fill spaces within were far from grey. He pulled on his white shirt and she, she was red and blue as she sipped coffee and watched the rain. He sprung down the stairs and made himself a cup of coffee using that brand new nespresso machine, his new toy. He was definitely not grey.

The mood was, Mraz, and she turned the music. Weather like this filled her head with beautifully formed words and she must write. Often they just filled her head and stopped at being ideas, today she wanted those words to flow and unfold to build a story, and flow they did. She smiled. Something that definitely brightened his day. She felt slightly proud, as he sipped the coffee sweetened with honey, and took at bite of the brown bread. His tongue tingled with excitement at those tastes for liking for natural foods was something he had to acquire, he said, for the chinaman he was. In time, acquired them he did, and to her, being the yellow chinaman had nothing to do whatsoever with the appreciation of things, just as they are.

She held the opinion that people never left things as they are as much anymore, neither do they like things just the way they are anymore. Simplicity is a waning trend, and deemed old school, old fashioned. As her yellow chinaman preferred elaborate foods, over processed with too much sugar, refined of course and she must admit taste pretty good, her home never contained much of such. She just wanted to come home to simplicity, and seeing how he came home to her every night now, he seems to have found the same pleasure in simplicity. She was not much of the over processed, refined kind of lady. Guarded she was, because, when people saw her, and not like what they saw, it was her whole being they did not like, and that filled her with much stress, not being liked.

She recalled a conversation that partly seeded a cold war she is in with a dear friend, still dear no doubt. Something about painting her face with things called make up, and doing something about her hair. She was somewhat sick of needing to change into something she was not. It was not fair, because that dear friend was dear to her, just as he was, flaws and all. And she tried hard at that too. Loving people the way they are. Why do they go and refined and process themselves into something they were not, or hide behind paint and straightening tongs? She just found it hard, to constantly live up to standards that did not come naturally. Lip stick fades with every drink, and hair straightened by them tongs crimp and frizz up again with time, unsustainable. And then he spoke of her art, and yes, he was right, sometimes to earn some, we need to conform some, but he accused the very heart of her for being, not good enough. She oft found those girls with bright red lipsticks, and processed hair, grey. She was yellow on the inside, red and blue on the outside, far from grey. To conform, was to turn grey, like the weather. And his wanting to turn her grey angered her a little. She brushed it off, for he was colour blind, but I guess in time, it did seed a cold war. Sadly.

She turned back into the yellow chinaman in white and blue chewing on brown bread and sipping honeyed coffee and smiled. Something the yellow chinaman chewing on brown bread, acquiring tastes for something closer to natural form, simple, warmed her heart. Because it meant, she did not have to try to bend over backwards, slap powder on her face, and pulled those curls straight to please his eyes. To him she was beautiful, the way she is. And she was, because of that, even more so.

swimming in the rain

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.

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.

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?