hello, goodbye, what is your point Mr.darcy?

That is not the point, his voice rings in her ear. That was what he always said. She never got his point, never, but in the beginning, that did not matter. 

They lay, side by side staring at the ceiling and the sinking realisation drills deeper into his rational mind, and her bottomless heart. And as the core, the centre of that hard sharp fact reaches a depth that verifies its hard truth, they both saw that they their worlds are miles apart, and she, began to feel a rising feeling that, despite their hand-holding, and love-making, they each stood alone, on their own side of the world. And the ceiling spun, like the drill that is drilling into the depth of her, hot tears streamed quietly from the corner of her eyes, and her world, the one where she built with happy memories of him and her, crumbled. They may not be, after all. 

"Yet each man kills....." 

That is not the point, his voice rings in her head. That was what he always said. She never got his point, never, but in the beginning, that did not matter. Days have passed since they talked, not about anything worth talking about anyway. What to have for dinner, what they are doing in the weekend, nothing they say to each other really mean anything, make any dents, build up, or break down. I guess maybe that is why they decided, to argue. And then the minute they started arguing, they argued, but at least they felt each other's presence. Of course he always had a point, and she never did, to him, she never did, feelings are not a valid point.  And so we hear him say over and over again. 

"Yet each man kills the thing he loves...." 

That is not the point, his voice rings in her head. That was what he always said. She never got his point, never, but in the beginning, that did not matter. That is not the point, the words rang in her head, over and over and over again. 

What happened Darcy, what happened? Elizabeth had feelings, that is what happened. She lay, on the ground as he stared, angry at her selfish ways, doing only what she felt. He could not understand, the realities of her that feels because he was a rational thinking man, always managing to exercise self control, always managing to calculate risks, and walk straight. She was always running, jumping, flying, but tears stream down her face as she asks him, is that not why he loved her in the first place? But that was not the point. Not the point. Not the point... 

And in that moment, where her anger, frustration, pain, sadness, and all within her overwhelmed her, surged up from inside and grew to surround her, more and more, for he refused to acknowledge it, ate her, she ran, and jumped and hoped very hard she could fly. 

But she could not. And so there he stood, staring at her as she lay on the ground, five floors below, frowning at her selfish ways, and his hatred welled up from within him. The hatred he had rationalised burst through his rational man, and he shouted, with all his might, curses no one dreamt he could say. And the broom hit the fan. 

"yet each man kills..." Each woman too I say. 

But that was not the point, the point is, she is now dead. 

And all she wanted was to prove, her point. 

Yea, selfish I say. 

On whose part? Mr.Darcy and hers, I guess. Both. 

Hello, you say, goodbye, said I.

.......

“Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word. The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword!” Oscar Wilde

Chad Scholoft and the pink butterfly

It was an awfully small window in time their paths crossed, and yet they met, Chad and Maya, and for that she was glad, because he showed her the pink butterfly could fly.

It was rather trapped, the pink butterfly, and Maya watched it every single day, helpless. She was often like that, helpless, and staring, often wishing the could help but she often froze indecisive of how, or what to do, or maybe it was the fear of what could happen if she helped that froze her. So she sat and stared at the fluttering pink thing inside the glass box.

She pondered her life, often feeling much like the pink butterfly. Fluttering around, frustrated, seeing the world beyond the glass box, and yet resolved to flutter around its four corners. Dejected the butterfly would rest, in the corner on the top right of the box, because there was where it felt the least trapped. No matter how hard it fluttered its wings, it hit the glass ceiling of the box, much like her, dear Maya.

When Chad walked in and saw the pink fluttering wings he felt it. The hero in him jumped at the knowledge that he needed to reach out to smash the glass box, so he wrapped his fists tightly around the handle of the umbrella he was carrying. Funny he had that, for he hardly carried an umbrella, or anything that would burden him, or stop him from moving quickly. He slowly approached the glass box and watched the pink butterfly flutter. 

Smash the glass will you? She pleaded. He looked up and his eyes met hers, he recognised that anxiety, that urgency in her voice. Wait, he whispered, she has to be ready to take flight. Maya was starting to get impatient. The pink butterfly was idle today, and it fluttered and flew, and rested at the top right hand corner of the glass box. He released the grip on the umbrella a little bit and shook his head, maybe tomorrow. She shrugged.

They walked off into the sunset in opposite directions him patient, and her, angry that he had not rescued the pink fluttering insect. She of course could not do it herself. She did not know how, just like how she flew around in her head daily revisiting her dreams, in the four corners of her mind, reluctant to let herself do them. She had been idle for years now, fluttering each day, before resting at the top right hand corner of her own little glass box. Waiting.

Day after Chad met Maya at the glass box, and waited, patiently. He was familiar with this, he knew if he smashed the box out of time, the butterfly would never have taken flight. So he hoped and urged daily for the little pink thing to gather enough ferocity, enough courage, enough energy. And day after day Maya just hoped and wished Chad would smash the glass box.

Chad often wondered why Maya did not smash the box, she needed to, for the pink butterfly was hers to free. He would accompany her anyhow, for it was he, and only he that could show her how. Everyone else was accustomed to being stuck in the box, he was the only one in her life that helped her remember there were things other than the glass box. He knew that. So he met her daily at the glass box, and reminded her, not of the possibilities she knew, but of how, he could live beyond the box.

He sat, wistful looking at the sun, and opened the window wide enough for the sun to enter in. Just a few months ago he was trapped, he thought. But one day he thought he wanted different, and he climbed through the window and never looked back. He hoped that Maya would like him, climb through that window one day. She was trapped much. She should jump, just like he did. 

Maya often felt like a bird in the cage resolving to believe what she was told, that she has to make the best of the cage and be grateful for being fed. And he, there was a point in time where he would have broken down, shattered to tiny little shards, yet he’d find himself reassembling the pieces and move on, as if nothing had happened. 

It was one day he was resolute, and he somehow cajoled enough will in his body to listen to that innate call. With the energy and one moment of passion he saw through the window at the lies he has been told about life. About how he should continue seeking to please others. And in that one moment of anger he jumped with all his might and shattered the glass box, to pieces. 

The pink butterfly was restless that night. Something stirred and it all of a sudden knew, it rested on the top corner of the glass box to muster enough strength for tomorrow. For tomorrow will be different.

Chad set out as usual, in his straw hat and bermuda shorts towards the glass box. The weather was stormy, and he had to make many-a-stops and by the time he got there it was way past sunset. He slipped down the road into the the little alley and down the hill behind the coconut trees towards the sandy beach, it was almost sunset and he could see her shadow. He approached quietly and watched as Maya swiftly swung the umbrella into the glass box. He stopped and watched as she whispered to the fluttering pink butterfly that it was free to fly.

Maya had decided on different. She had put on her yellow dress, and her green flip flops. Something in her was resolute. She had walked towards the door, but instead of turning its knob she turned to climb out the window. And now, in that calm sunset, after the thunderstorm Maya, with umbrella in her hand smiled, and beside her fluttered the pink butterfly. 

Little did she know, it was smiling, and so was Chad. 

And they walked off into the sunset, in opposite directions, but he knew they will meet again, outside this glass box because that day, she jumped, with all her might.

(this entry is dedicated to Ali Imran K and the words in italics are his. thanks for reminding me Ali :) )

Tripping in Amsterdam

Can paper cranes fly to carry you and I up towards the blue blue sky, will we see the fairies skip as you take cherries for a sweet trip to amsterdam and back. Except you never came back and tears don't stream down my face no more, never did, not since the day you left, and I am left behind with paper cranes in a bottle, and no they do not fly. Paper cranes do not fly, and she knew that long before she started folding them.

Maya never stopped folding them paper cranes though, no matter how the truth resonates within her soul, now hollow enough to sound like a drum when that reality hits it. The drumbeats never annoy her though, she just dances to it. It is amazing really that a girl with a hollow soul still dances. But I guess she never stopped dancing, and that is the thing, she never did stop, even after he died, half past nine, in the middle of her folding the 99th crane in high hopes that, despite the truth, it may bring them some salvation. She never stopped dancing to the beat of reality.

Funny that, because if I were her, I would have stopped dancing, but she even took a trip to amsterdam, flew halfway around the world to california, and then back down to where cherry trees blossom in October, and bear fruit in December just so she can get high on cherries, just like how they both used to do. I guess maybe because it meant more to Maya to keep on going, keep on dancing no matter how monotonous the bass of reality is. But think about it, all pop songs have the same beat. So does life, and as Maya says, so does death.

His family held a grudge against her for packing up and leaving, with the cranes, the day he died. She never came to his funeral you know. Never visited, not even once. She just packed her bags and left. And they thought she bore a heart of stone, because she never cried a tear. Not a single one. Not when they all found out he was destined for death, not even when he died. Not a single tear that girl cried. Heart of stone.

Trains to Maya are a common thing now. She gets on and off them and on them again, sits in the same stance, at the same seat, staring out the window, cigarette in her right hand  and playing with the ends of her long black curly hair with her left index finger. No one ever sits next to her, unless of course if the train is full, but she often chose routes that are uncommon, or travelled at ungodly hours that it was hardly such. 

Most of the time people left her well alone. I guess it was her face, she often looked far away, and not to be disturbed. As if she were withdrawn to the very back of her mind, contented, and something in her eyes seem to plead strangers never to draw her into this world. It is true, she was often withdrawn, in the place where they were still them, and they were still singing songs of joy together. For her memories were sweeter than her present, and to draw her back to this reality, might change the beat of the drums she was contented bobbing her head to.

And then the window opened. Just one day, and a crane flew out of the bag out of the train, into the sun and her eyes caught a glimpse of the bird, the paper bird that flew. And in that one moment, it was as if the drummer called reality paused, and skipped a beat, and it all went silent. And in those silent moments, she picked up her bag and walked out of the train, up the hill, and down the valley in those brown leather boots and she crossed the bridge and walked on until she saw the green meadows and the grey, grey headstones.

She stopped right at the stone that bore his name. Took out the bottle of paper cranes and threw them hard, breaking the glass bottle and chipping the corner of the grey headstone before the wind blew hard and lifted them cranes off the ground. And as the 99 and a half cranes took flight her heart broke and tears streamed down her fair face, her heart broke a million pieces and she felt it, she felt a pain so deep, she never knew how it was possible she could still stand. And I thought she had a heart of stone. 

It was in that instant when the sun shone into that dark dark heart and colour came back to fill the grey scenes before her eyes, and the silence was broken, but not by the drone drumbeats that accompanied her dancing through amsterdam. She heard music, it was in that instant her ears heard music again.

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.