Thursday, 23 April 2009

Shooting stars

He sat on the edge of the world, hands by his sides, his legs swaying slightly back and forth.
The scene before him was breathtaking, the sun rolling under the curvature of earth, staining the sky shades of yellow, orange, red, purple, till it hit a deep lilac and then a blue of night ever so rarely noted.

But despite it all, his face had a subtle sadness in it, only visible in the slight sloping of his eyebrows, the gentle dip of his lip edges, and the light creasing of his forehead. His wings were folded neatly, the feathers clean and slick, a silver radiance reflecting the vanishing light.

As a sigh escaped his being, he looked down at the stars that twinkled awake in the new born darkness, and started to count the shooting stars.
He whispered names as they streaked by, each one weighed down in its letters, falling one after the other, tumbling from his mouth to nowhere the eye could see. Each ending just as the their corresponding trail of light withered and extinguished.

More than a few names later, he brought up one leg onto the ground, pushing himself up with his arm till he was fully stood, head still slightly lowered towards the ether. His wings shivered slightly, ruffling in an attempt to relax.

Burdened, and tired, he rubbed his face, sighed once more, and accidentally allowed a tear to escape and roll down his face.

I cannot do this anymore, forgive me, he whispered this time louder than before, looking to his right.

Without even flinching, his wings opened up suddenly, the fronds of feathers unhinging and separating in what seemed like a couple of movements till they were full breadth. They embraced the breeze in their stalks, giving it a slight whistle.

And he fell.

He did not jump head or feet first, he simply fell forward, allowing the arms of gravity to pull, and the blanket of wind and cloud to envelope him.

Faster and faster, his fall took him, till he was blurred. Faster and faster till he burst into a flame, a flame brighter than ever.

In a garden, a girl laying on the grass suddenly smiled and pointed at the sky.
"Look, a shooting star!" she exclaimed, a smile gracing her lips, its light mirrored in her eyes briefly before being claimed by the night.

Thursday, 16 April 2009

Saturday, 11 April 2009

Bruise beautifully

You bruise beautifully baby.
Rainbows line your skin
Under the darkest of skies, the fullest of moons
Is there gold at the end you think?

You bruise beautifully baby.
Every cloud has a silver lining
A bit of colour in a world of black and blue
See? You do it without even trying.

You bruise beautifully baby.
Wipe the tears from your eyes, because
at least you bruise beautifully baby.

Wednesday, 8 April 2009

Dreams of cars and snow and crashes

I had a dream last night.
It was more like a nightmare.

No monsters, no demons, just enough discomfort to make me twist and turn till the anxiety finally sprung my eyelids open at 2 a.m in the morning.

I had a dream about driving, I had a friend in the car, someone I hadn't seen for a while, and someone who had caused some discomfort in recent months.
I was driving my car, going somewhere I'm not sure where. And I was speeding slightly, the feeling was that I had to get where I wanted to go.

I'm winding on mountain roads, and there's snow, and for some reason this surprises me, and I attempt to slow down. But it's too late, the car is swerving and twisting left to right to left, and I have no control whatsoever. I can tell there's not enough momentum to gravely harm me or my friend, but the car becomes a priority, and I'm worried about hitting it badly.

By the time I get the car under control, it's only a few minutes before once again the car is beyond any command. And the feeling was horrible.

I see the edge of the road, and it looks like I'm headed there, a cliff that overlooks a deep deep ravine, and the only option I have is to crash into a parked car.

And I do. I get out of the car, look at the damage, it's been destroyed from the left side. My friend gets out of the car inspects the car, and begins to talk to onlookers who have come to check on us.

It's snowing, and cold, and I realise my car is missing wheels.Three in total. This takes over my thoughts, and I begin to look at the road we had come from, skid marks in the snow, wet dirty slush christening the slight uphill, and someone shouts that one of the wheels is further down. I run down, my breath fogging up and drifting into my eyes, cold wind pinching my cheeks.

I see one wheel on the side of the road, and its dismantled into two parts. I may not be a mechanic, but I know wheels don't do that. The inner balloon tube is a weird flower shape, and as I look on, I find another one of the inner tubes off the road, dangling from a tree coming out from the side of the mountain.

What exactly possesses me to reach for it, I'm not sure, but the next thing I know, I'm kneeling on the snow on a cliff side, the cold damp seeping through my jeans, reaching out for it.

I can hear my breath, and the warm blood pulsing through my neck as I stretch and stretch and I feel feeble and weak and I begin to lose balance. The anxiety of being in a car crash is adding up, images of my car side crumpled, the fear as I attempted to keep it all together, the helplessness. I'm upset, and distressed, and I wake up.

My phone is blinking blue, I check and find a message, reply in a groggy daze that I just had a nightmare, and turn over to my other side, thankful that my car is parked at the end of the road, thankful that it's not snowing, and thankful that I woke up before I felt any worse.

I read that among other things, dreaming about car accidents is a sign that one feels they are not in control of their lives, or a situation, whether the situation has or will happen.

Why are my dreams telling me what I already know?
A rude awakening at 2 a.m. doesn't make things any clearer, just more disturbing, with a twist in the stomach and slight fear as a cherry on top of a rotten dessert.

I guess I'll be more careful driving my car these next few days. And I'll check my wheels too.

Sunday, 5 April 2009

Little Miss Muffet in the desert

In this city of sand and fake life, I sit in the peculiar cool of building shade. The trees they stand tall, but despite being real, they seem frozen and a sham, green statues unhappily planted in pots and plots cut out of concrete, forced to bring a bit of green and verve to a metal and glass kingdom built of dreams bought by clammy back pocket wallets.

The people they are like the trees somehow. It's a weird sensation to walk here a visitor, among those who live here. They function normally, almost too normally. Stepford wives with a damning and horrible twist. Perhaps this is just my feeling. I'd rather not find out.

I sit on the patio furniture that's orphaned from an actual patio, and listen to my music, drowning out the talk of work, social scandals and sighted fashion faux pas', sipping on a milkshake with artificial berry flavouring.

"And along came a spider and sat down beside her..."

It must've landed on my hand from a grey office windowsill, craving a bit of warmth, a tiny little thing, with 8 legs that wouldn't measure up to a fingernail. And I crack a smile.

It walks around the playground of my hand, as I twist and turn my wrist to keep it in view and keep it level headed. Even spiders feel gravity.
It sits on my tip of my finger and decides to change the scenery, but not leaving me completely, it dangles on its silk, weaving it slowly to gain momentum, and hey presto, a swing set to go with the palm playground. I hold it up and watch it shorten and lengthen its rope to swing smoother in the light breeze.
Thinking it perhaps would like to get off this merry go round of a ride, I offer it a table top, but the glass is not as appealing, and it scurries up its life line towards my finger. Fair enough spidey. Fair enough.

It takes a few more strolls along my love line, my health line, a little promenade on my soul line, and life line before once again venturing to the edge of a digit and dangling for a quick swing.
This time, I need to let it go.
I place it softly on a fake straw chair, and it reluctantly disappears among its weaves, once again to roam a fake plastic, metal, and glass jungle, an ambassador of what is real, a lion among cats.

Time to look for another real Little Miss Muffet.