No big deal

When I was little, I once slipped and nearly fell into the valley.

We were traveling along the western coast, me, my Dad, his two best friends, and their families. It was the middle of summer, and everywhere it was scorching hot. It was an annual thing, the three families on a coastal road trip. Mothers with their sun hats, us girls in frilly frocks and the fathers looking more relaxed than they did all year round.

On this particular afternoon, we had stopped at the high point of a mountain pass. We stretched our legs, admired the scenery. We watched the river flow far beneath us in the valley. We drank some water, we cracked our backs, we laughed. We may have clicked some photographs. And then, I slipped and nearly fell into the valley.

It happened so fast that no one screamed. One by one, they turned to stare at the spot I was standing before disappearing out of sight as if they were watching a magic show and were waiting for a rabbit to be pulled out from a hat. One by one, the faces appeared, peering down from the side of the road.

I still remember my Dad’s face. It was not worried. He looked down at me, a few feet below, where I hung on for dear life to a creeper growing out of the side of the mountain. My Dad had known I was safe. He lay flat on the road and gave me a hand. His friends did the same thing, and together they pulled me back up.

When I had both feet back on the ground, my Dad smirked at me. There was no dramatic hugging and thanking God I was alive and well. I smiled back at him, got into the car, and we drove on, just like folks on a vacation, chattering about film stars, the weather and whose turn it was to play songs on the cassette player. Nothing amiss had happened that day. Life goes on, and sometimes a kid nearly falls into a valley. No biggie.

Smokescreen

Only one thought has weighed on me all day long. Do I want to be the writer or the story?

You tell me you are writing me, and I long to be written about. I am the story you were born to write. And since I cannot write my own story, I shall wait. I shall wait for the writer to meet the story.

Meanwhile, I went to a café today, sat outside on quaint wooden chairs, drank some smoke and inhaled some caffeine as the gentle evening breeze caressed my face and the mosquitos danced and welcomed the darkness. A storytelling workshop was going on inside, and a turbaned fellow in folk attire narrated his story, his voice rising to a crescendo and then falling to a whisper as the audience listened in rapt attention. Old people, I thought, observing the white heads lining the window.

A part of me, I will admit, was curious. I wanted to go in and see if the story could move me as deeply. And yet another part of me wanted to be invisible. I could not bear the thought of walking inside in the middle of a story, all eyes on the young newcomer. I could not bear the burden on engaging in social activity without the convenient façade of digital personas. And so I lit another cigarette, and another, and hid behind my laptop and my writing, letting the mosquitos suck my blood and wishing I was the smoke curling up into the fading light. A crescent moon was rising, and with it, my shame, and inside the lights grew brighter, illuminating wrinkled faces and the sound of humans in harmony.

Artificial lights

It was a brightly lit evening and we drove through town, chasing drunken taillights and liquor highs, caffeine stops and neon signs, Steven Wilson to keep the head buzzing and some Warren Zevon to mellow our moods and I asked you why this night seems to go on forever and you just smiled and put your hand in mine, and I forget what your exact words were but you told me what my heart already knew. We were following the dancing lights, or maybe the lights flickered in rhythm with our dance, mimicking our frolic, matching our frenzy, the city was alive just for us, writing poetry to our music, watching as our words mingled together, poetry and prose, music and lyrics, a glorious symphony playing out beneath artificial lights, witnessing a fusion of mangled souls mirrored perfectly unto each other.

Tumor

I know you. I know you well, almost as well as I know the back of my hand, or how my tongue knows the edges of my teeth.

You are the lone tear that rolls down my cheek without warning. You are the characters I create to escape my bleary present. In fact, you are all my characters fused into a grey nebulous mass at the back of my mind. You are their voice, their story, their tragedy, their laughter, their strength. I know you; I created you. I know your purpose. I know your beginning. I know your reason to exist.

I wanted no part in your creation. But I had no say in it. And now look, you are no longer a wisp of thought, a broken consciousness. You are a tumor, little grey one.

Now I know. Finally I understand. I will be the first to go. I will go first, so that you survive, so that you outlive me. Not because I want a part of me to stay behind, but because you shall have meaning. Because when you end me, you shall break free.

Smiles

I was sitting in my usual corner in the café, when I noticed something interesting. A woman was sitting at the table opposite mine, quite unnoticed by me until the person she was waiting for showed up. The door opened, he walked in and she flashed him a brilliant smile that shone in the semi-darkness – pearly white teeth, dimpled cheeks and wrinkles around her welcoming eyes.

I cannot remember the last time I smiled that way, or was even smiled at with such delight. I realize I greet people with curt nods and save my smiles for the moments that are truly deserving. And now those moments have simply passed me by, waiting, hoping and finally surrendering. I have amassed my own smiles, my own unabashed laughter, affection and naiveté. I realize I’ve been trading silly for sullen and smiles for scowls.

I do not remember leaving a trail back to my store of smiles. Maybe I can trade my frowns again. Maybe I shall dance in the rain again. Maybe someday I will smile for no reason and make that my moment to treasure.

Glow

Inch by fucking inch, ants crawl over the burnt flesh of my fingers. They take their time; it’s not like I can move my fingers or even flex them. Left with a throbbing hand and not much to do, I thrust my other hand down my pants and masturbate. Using my left hand feels unfamiliar and amateur, but I get myself off fantasizing about a stranger groping a shy young girl on the subway. Sick. Twisted. I know. There’s more where that came from. Perhaps it means I was abused as a child and have daddy issues. But no point dwelling on these things. The sky glows orange, then pink and my eyes fade out onto a portion of wall which reflects the changing colours. Words come to me then, words that dance before my eyes, shapeless words forming, burning, rearranging, searching for something worth fighting for. Words that fight sleep, words that scream at the walls of my mind, words that whisper to the voices inside my head, words that coax my fears to come out and play and words that are too shy to be tasted by my tongue.

Unicorn shadow

Our shadows tangle
into an obscene dance
thousand caresses take flight
in half a second’s glance

I’d mistaken midnight nudity
as penchant for the perverse
but your soul sucked out
the poison in my verse

and my silhouette
bathes in the moonlight
it stands tall and pure,
yet eclipsed by the night

Is this how you see me –
just a unicorn shadow,
a darkened face in
a distant window?

But I’d rather be a silhouette
than a mere reflection
I’d rather be words
than a lilting temptation