The Curtain and Window

Once there was a curtain. He was very proud of himself because he felt his role so important. He said so to the window, "Look, see. I have colour and sway in the wind when you are left open. I have such grace and culture. What have you, dear window, you are but opaque panes of glass. No one notices you, you are transparent."

The window replied, "Indeed that is the case. But people will look through me and they will never look at you. Who ever heard of looking at curtains to being something of any value?"

This sort of bickering went on for a long time, the back and forth going on for weeks, months, then years. Then one day the old curtain having been hung for more that 10 years was losing colour and getting tattered. The old curtain was thus replaced by a new one. Its colour even more vibrant that the old curtain.

The new curtain said to the window, "Dear old window, see how beautiful I am. My colour reflect the colour of the sun and I serve such fine purpose as to block out the sun when it is too bright, or let the sun in when our master wishes it."

The window replied in turn as he had with the previous curtain and also added, "Think about the old curtain having been replaced. One day you will be replaced too."

With that the curtain was silent. But that evening, while the children were playing in the street, a baseball went astray and crashed through the window and shattered it into pieces.

Moral of the story: All things are replacable.

Room For Nothing

                                                                                            by my crappy phone camera

I was tidying my bookshelf. I rearranged them by their genres; classics, thrillers, horror, children's books, biographies. I methodically removed all the books and wiped out all the dust on the surfaces. I then replaced them in a better, tidier order.  In the end, there was one whole unfilled compartment. I had more space! I looked at it and thought what I should put there. I was at once excited by the prospect that I could get more books to fill this space. But this excitement subsided as quickly as it came, giving way to a pang of guilt. I have so many books that have not been read. For me to fill this space with even more books would be excessive. The reason I was tidying the bookshelf in the first place was because I did not have enough space!

Now there is an empty space on my shelf. The spaces to its left and right are filled with books, this space in the middle lay barren. I stared at it and felt uneasy. How did I end up with the empty space smack in the middle, not the compartment to the left or the right? The empty space seemed wrong. A compartment should serve a function. An empty compartment on the shelf seemed unclean, blasphemous even. Space is provided to me and I put nothing there? The emptiness just did not make any sense. Other compartments being filled to the brim with books. Why should this compartment be empty? What made you so special? What made you different from the rest? Did you not know that you serve a purpose? To hold things, to keep things in order. This compartment had the tenacity to be empty? If I have an empty space would that mean my life is empty, that I am living a hollow existence? What the hell am I thinking? This is not right, not right at all! The longer I stared at the space, the stranger and more uncomfortable I felt. The roaring voices continued to pound at my mind.

Why? Why? Why...Why Not?

Then all at once there was silence. I stared at the empty compartment. The gaping hole stood out amongst the other compartments filled with books. The empty space that is not filled, does it yearn to be filled? No, it yearns NOT to be filled.  As I continued staring transfixed, calm came over me. Again I asked myself, why is this space empty? Why do I not use it?

But it IS being used, for emptiness. No, not emptiness. For nothing. It is my personal room for nothing. Things will always fill spaces. It is altogether far more difficult to keep spaces empty than it is to fill them. It is totally my choice for it to be filled or not. This nothing space is escape from the encroaching stress and incessant noise of life. It is space for possibilities. It can be anything I wish it to be. It is space for new things and experiences. The room for nothing is my liberation, my freedom. I had room for nothing, so I need to make room for nothing.

...Snowman...

The Black Cat

                                          acacello

Once there was a black cat. He did not care much for superstition. So one day just to prove it to himself, he walked across the road, up the road, down the road and in all other directions he could think of, crossing his own path over and over.
He had nine lives.

The next morning he went down to have breakfast. A bowl of milk with colourful treats in it. He finished the lot in one gulp. The cat overdosed on Froot Loops.
So he had eight lives.

Fearing of milk and food in the bowl now, the cat tried to catch a mouse. But the mouse was mightily hungry, and the cat ended up being mauled by its meal.
Then it had seven lives.

Then to clear his head, he went out and climbed atop a tree. A plane fell out of the sky and hit smack right into the branch he was on.
Down to six lives.

He pulled himself out of the wreckage and tried to lick himself clean. He choked on his own fur.
Five lives left.

He coughed out the clump of fur and at that moment the door from the crashed plane flew open and landed on him.
Arriving at four lives.

He stretched himself out from under the door and saw who it was that blew the plane door out. Chuck Norris. The cat had a heart attack. When he came to moments later, Chuck Norris was in front of him, staring at him. Chuck Norris walked past the cat. The cat dropped dead, because Chuck Norris did not get bad luck when black cats cross his path, black cats get bad luck crossing Chuck Norris' path.
Lives three and two gone.

He woke up and thought of his miserable day. What a horrible day. One life left. He stood still and waited. He waited for an hour. Two hours. Three hours. Six hours. Nothing else happened. He was safe. He took a step forward, stumbled on his own leg, and broke his neck.
Black cat dead.

Moral of the story: Do not cross a black cat's path, even if you are a black cat.....unless you are Chuck Norris.

Any Other Wednesday Morning

                                                                               photograph by FillyBlynn

He walked into the cafe and scouted the joint. Not too many broads. At the corner he spotted a decent looking bird, a blond in a cute blue dress. He walked over to her table.

"This seat taken doll?," he asked.

"Umm...." the girl said.

"It is now," he said again. He slid himself to the seat opposite and made himself comfortable. He leaned forward and held both of the girl's arms.

"The name's Harry. What's your name doll?"

"Mary...Clark."

"Mary. Mary. Sweet name. Look into my eyes, Mary. Aren't they the most beautiful eyes you've ever seen? You're just falling in love now, aren't ya."

"Err...," she said, not sure what else to say.

Mary looked around to see anyone was looking at their table. Everyone seemed to be carrying on with their business.

"Tell me, Mary. How would you like to be my date today?" Harry asked.

She shifted in her chair and did not know what to say to him. She steadied herself.

"No...no. I can't. I have something to do," she said.

"Come on, now. Surely you have time for ol'Harry. It ain't everyday you meet a handsome stranger in a joint like this is it. Come one now. Come with ol'Harry, he'll show u grand time."

"But I..."

"No. I won't take no for an answer now. Let's go."

He flashed her a wide grin and a wink and led her by the arm outside. Mary grabbed her handbag just in time with a swipe at the table.

---

Mary swung once around the table, then slumped back into her seat. She looked at the other people again. They were all still chattering away. She let out a deep sigh. Nobody even bothered that she was talking to herself, no one noticed her friend Harry. What a boring bunch.

What Did He Say?!?

                                                                    graphic by Hardy-Herring

One upon a time in a forest far far away. a little chick was born. He was different from all the other chicks. While they chirped away, the little chick was silent. Not a chirp, even a single chirp ever came out from him. For this he was made fun of. Even the older roosters and hens found the little chick strange for being so quiet.

Because of this, the little chick's parents were very protective of him and always kept him close by. His mother told him he would grow up to be intelligent and special. His father told him he would grow up to be big and strong. But he still did not see how he could be intelligent as he still could not chirp a single chirp no matter how hard he tried. He also did not see how he could be big and strong as he was still the smallest chick no matter how hard he tried to grow. He was only glad that his parents loved him very much.

And so as time passed the little chick grew up to be a rooster. His father was wrong as he did not grow up to be big and strong. He was a tiny rooster. But what he lacked in size and strength,  he made up in speed and agility. The hens and roosters he grew up with never had a kind word for him. Even the little chicks now would tease him too. So his speed and agility served well to help him run and dodge the bullying he always faced. His mother was partly correct that he was an intelligent rooster, though he still could never chirp, and for that matter, not produce a single cock-a-doodle-doo. As hard as he tried, only strange gurgling sounds would come out.

Even though he was all grown up, he was still alone and spent most of his time wandering the forest alone. One morning he stumbled upon a group of hunters. This was the first time he ever saw human beings. When he was with his parents, they would never have allowed him to venture so close to hunters because more than anything, the hunters loved to catch wild chicken for dinner. But the rooster having never seen human beings before was curious and moved closer. He was extremely silent and given that he could never make a single sound, he found it rather easy. The hunters were speaking very loudly to each other. They seem to be disagreeing about something. The rooster was very interested in the hunters. and so decided to follow them around.

The hunters had just started for the day. They would venture into the forest hoping to catch something  for dinner. The rooster thought they must not be very good hunters as they went through the whole day without catching a single thing! That may be due to them shouting at each other all day long, scaring away all the animals in the forest. It was the most exciting day the rooster had had in a long time.

The next day, the same bunch of hunters returned again and went into the forest. And again the rooster followed them from behind. And again they did not catch anything on account of the raucous they were making. This happened the next day, and the day after also. The rooster so obsessed with the hunters, followed them every day.

However on the fifth day, something peculiar happened. While listening to them shouting at each other, he found the human sounds forming and bubbling in his head. And just like that, the sounds from the hunters changed to something clear. He could understand what they were saying! And boy, did he wish he did not understand. Because what they said was simply nasty and awful. Let's just say they revolved a lot around the word Fuck!

"Fuck this tree!" said one hunter tripping over a branch.

"Fuck the stupid birds!" said another because they still could not catch a single thing.

"Fuck the sun!" said the next wiping away the sweat on his face.

"Fuck you George!" said one to the other who bumped into his back.

"Fuck everything!" said the one in front.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" said the one trailing behind.

The rooster hearing all this rude nastiness decided to block it all out and stop listening. And as simple as that, the words now deflated and fizzled, and once again, all he heard was the hunters making angry noises again. The rooster was relieved of this. As the sun went down, again the hunters ended  the day with empty hands. The rooster decided to return to his brood to rest for the night.

Just as the hunters were leaving a sly fox entered the forest. He had traveled from the chicken farms but could not get any food there. Even for all his slyness, the farmers had grown wise to his ways and so he could not find any way to get in. The fox was now desperately hungry.

He went deeper and deeper into the forest and finally came across the brood of chicken. And it was just in time for dinner. Oh, how his mouth watered. He imagined the delicious chicken, some plump and juicy, others lean and tasty. All of them wonderful.

The sly fox was patient and planned his attack. He would wait till they were all asleep and roosting. Then he would jump on the lower branches and climb up the tree to pick any chicken as he pleased. So he hid until the sun went all the way down and the moon was bright in the sky.

The fox shifted from tree to tree in amazing stealth, as only a fox as sly as him could. He saw in the moonlight a low hanging branch and hopped onto it. Then the next branch. And another. Then several more until he saw three chickens roosting on a branch together. He sneaked up on them very quiet and slow. He was close now. Two more steps. And he was there. He raised a paw ready to strike...


"Fuck!" someone shouted.


The fox jumped in fright and almost fell off the tree. But he was just able to wrap himself around the branch at the very last moment. He stabled himself and looked around. He listened for footsteps and there was none. He thought he must have imagined it from being too hungry. So he approached again ready to strike. This time...

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" came from the forest.

The fox jumped again. There was not mistaking it this time. There was a hunter around! The three chicken stirred with all the commotion. They saw the the fox and started making the loudest raucous any chicken had ever made. Imagine finding a fox ready to eat you right beside where you were sleeping. The noise woke up all the other chicken and they started clucking too.

The fox in a state of panic, leaped down from the tree and made a mad dash for it. The thought to himself it wasn't worth risking his neck being strung by hunters over dinner. He ran and ran until he was all out of breath and stopped. He thought to himself then, what luck he had that even the chicken in the forest were guarded.

Back at the brood, some of the hens and roosters who were light sleepers had heard the hunter's noise and pleaded all the chicken be quiet so they would be safe from the hunter. They heard thescreaming of the hunter continue to go on.


"Fuck! Fuck!" it cried.


Then the mother hen noticed the human voice was coming from right beside her and it frightened  her terribly. She cocked her head in the direction and was ready for flight...


"Fuck!"


She saw the noise was coming from her son. She woke her son up and asked him to be quiet and stop frightening all the other chicken. He stirred from his nightmare of the nasty hunters he was following the past few days.

By then all the curious chicken had gathered around the tree of the rooster and his parents. The father explained what had happened to them. The elder hens and roosters were mad and asked the son to be banished from the brood. The rooster's parents pleaded them not to as he was their only child. Then three chickens stepped forwards and explained that if it was not for the rooster they would have all been eaten that night by the sly fox, and they were thankful for his unique gift.

So, the rooster was not banished. Even better, they all treated him with respect after that and did not tease him anymore. There was none more proud than his parents to see their son find his place in the brood. Indeed his mother was right when she told him he was unique, for although he did not cluck nor cock-a-doodle-dooed, he was all very well to say

Fuck!

With You Always

                                                                                                                            graphic by Zhban4ik

 
I know you love me. I love you too. Maybe you do not know me well.  But I am sure you feel me. Do not be jealous because I am loved by many. I love you as much as the others. Perhaps I should explain better. I shall share with you a little bit about myself, knowing a little of what I am perhaps would help you understand better what I am, love me a bit more for it.

The young ones come to me when they watch scary movies and later when they cannot sleep from nightmares. They look for me under the bed, in the closet, outside their half shut windows. I love children. They are so innocent, so easy to please. Just a little effort, half a shadow or an ugly face, and they are terrified. Lovely, my most appreciative audience.

But you grown ups, oh you silly bunch. Don't think I have forgotten you. You try to put on a strong face but deep down inside I know you feel it. Simple thrills don't do it for you anymore. All the more pleasing for me to be a little creative. The deep lingering feeling when you don't know what lies behind the door. The drip...drip...drip of the faucet late at night when you know there is no one around. Well, that's not quite true. I am around. You walk slowly and quietly towards it. As if that would make any difference. Okay, I will play along. After all, there's much fun to be had in the anticipation. Then you shut the faucet tight, it yields a little and the dripping stops. You turn and get back to your business. But just as you turn, it starts dripping again. Oh what lovely. What ever could it be? You know you shut it tight, heck you just fixed the damn thing several weeks back. You look at it and it stops. You stand there silent listening some more. Then what do I do? I come out of the faucet and strangle you to your watery death, watching your eyes bulge with more and more white and you skin turning purple. You struggle all over in spasms. Or do I emit a sharp edge and slice your throat over and over till your skin is so exposed, there is no more skin, only a lovely crimson patch. But no. I do not do any of those. Don't doubt I can do it, because I can. But  like I said. I love you. It wouldn't be any more fun if you simply just died would it. No, just having you think those things makes me happy enough. Oh, you really love me too don't you. Why else would you think what I would do with you.

You embrace me when you are uncertain, not knowing the future, when they question intentions of others. Oh I am always there for all, cradling you in my arms. Just accept me, I will always be there, whether you like it or not. Even if you don't love me. I will be there.

Hear me out. Let me profess this love to you. At night, I hug you. Some nights lightly, some nights real tight and snug. During the day, I know you are busy. So I keep quiet and let you go about it but when night comes, I will come to you again. I gave you your time, it's not fair you do not tend to me even after your busy day. On your way home, you look to the left and to the right. What are you looking for? I am there always with you. When you walk the dark dingy street, I will walk with you. Along the side walkway, the light brush of the bush which grew astray. It sent a shiver through your arm and down your spine. I felt it too! It felt lovely. I know you thought of me then. You look around, you couldn't see anyone. But you really should know, I was with you.

Oh, sometimes you are so silly. Which makes me love you more. What I love most about you is sometimes you surprise me, you delight me even though I do not even try. Calling me at the most unexpected times, though I am always happy to oblige. I will always come running without fail.

So fear not....I mean do fear. For I will always be with you.

The Sun

                                 graphic by upadanasaddha

It was pitch dark. Dark and still, waiting. To prickle the most stark contrast, for the most grand entrance. Then he came. The sun, He peaked across the horizon and slowly rose up to bask the new lands in His golden glow. He let everyone enjoy His magnificence. Slow but steady He said to himself, they love me I will let them feel my glory. He concentrated very hard to shine brightly and move at the regal pace for everyone on Earth to notice Him. Then by noon He had risen to his throne on the highest peak of the clouds in the sky. There He sat looking over the world. He was proud and happy with himself. Now everyone can see Me. So he looked down on the world and all its people. But everyone paid no attention to him. No one looked at him and he asked why? Why do they not love me? Perhaps if I shone more my beautiful warmth they will notice me more. So the Sun shone harder and hotter. And forests burnt and the sea boiled. Then people started complaining and crying over their plight. Why does the Sun punish us so. The Sun was so angry, that His gift was so unappreciated by the people that He said fine, I shall not shine so hard then, then they will miss me. From this lands froze and crops did not grow and many of the people died. Again the people cursed the Sun for being so cruel and tempestuous. And the Sun was so angry at the people that he decided to leave altogether. He said goodbye to all the people. He came down from his throne and slowly descended across the horizon. Then it was pitch dark again. But know this. The sun, he is fast to anger and fast to forget. And for as proud as he is, he is lonely. So tomorrow again he begins his toils for another day.

Forever and After

I think of the day we lay by the beach and stare at the sea, stretching to the left and right as far as my eye can see. I look at you, stare into your eyes. Even in our old age now, the twinkle in your eye it never fades, and the smile on your face even through all these years, it looks the same. I grab your arm and hold you close. I cannot be happier and do not regret, because I have you. And that is all I need, because I love you.

I recall the day I met you so many years ago now. It was a Thursday afternoon. You had that same smile on your face, sweet and unassuming. You were sitting in the public library at the table across from mine. I dare not speak to you. How weird for me to just walk up to you and speak. You must think I me weird. But I could not take my eyes off you. and continued staring stupidly. Your long black hair smooth as silk pinned on one side. I assure you, if it was any other girl I would just walk up and say something. But you were different, I just could not find the words, they seemed caught in my throat. And wasn't I surprised when you stood up and walked towards me. My heart beating like a jackhammer, my tongue rolled up in my throat. I thought I was going to choke and have a hear attack at the same time. Maybe you were just walking away, why would you notice me. But you did and you sat write next to me and started talking to me. I was so nervous I could hardly remember the words and what we were talking about now. All I remember now is your lovely eyes and smile. I was mesmerized.

It gave me strength. After that afternoon with you in the library, I believed I could do anything and I could stop. For once, I thought I could stop and did not have to find the rush anymore. I truly did. I spent the next 2 days absolutely happy, not another thought in my head. Then I remembered something grievously stupid. I had not taken your number. How am I to ever find you again? My heart sank into my stomach. What now, I met the love of my life and now I shall never see you again. No. This cannot be. I must see you.

And I really did try hard after that. After classes, I would stop by the library every chance I could in hopes you would be there. What did you do? Where did you live? Where did you come from? Why did it not come up in our conversation? Maybe it did, and I just was too nervous then to hear anything. So  I waited. I waited and waited, and I was sure to be there every Thursday afternoon. I did this for 2 month and you were not there.

Then the thoughts, they started coming back again. The urges, I saw it everywhere I went, I could not help it. I tried not to think of it, but every time I did I would start thinking of you. And that hurt even worse. So I resigned myself again to my dark thoughts. The urges, they became too strong. I saw it, smelled it, taste it all around.

Then one night, I was walking home one evening and  it was dark. The street lights seemed very dim. So I barely saw him at first in the alleyway, but then he called up in his drunkenness for money. He wanted more to drink. I just ignored him and he started shouting abuses at me. I continued to walk on. I turned to look back and saw this object flying towards me. I dodged and the object grazed past my arm and crashed a couple of feet in front of me with a crash of broken glass. I looked at my arm. It was bleeding. My heart started racing and I really could take it no longer. I looked at my grazed arm and touched the red liquid trickling out. The blood, oh the blood. Delicious blood. Sweet as sugar but irony too. I couldn't stop. I sucked at my arm. I was gone now in euphoria. I no longer heard the abuses the drunkard was shouting. I walked slowly towards him, so as to not scare him away. Then when I was close enough, I made  for his head and slamming him to the ground. I pulled out my pocket knife and sliced his jugular. Oh the sweet red nectar, it just kept flowing out. I craved it again. I needed it. And the screaming, I loved the scream.  But his scream receded into gurgles after several moments, drowning in his own blood. It made me feel alive again. I drank and drank, to my heart's content. When I stopped, I was satisfied. It was 2 months since my last drink. Then I remembered why I stopped, because of you. And I was sad again. I made my way home after and slept a restless sleep.

Of course there were others after that man in the alley. There was the late night waitress, the old man on the way back from bingo night, the night jogger. Oh, and also the little boy by the river. They were all delicious of course. But every time after drinking I would think of you. No matter how hard I tried, it always came back to you.

So you know how I felt, when I saw you again. Two years later in the cafe around the corner from my apartment then I saw you again. You were sat at a table across from mine with your friends. I thought to myself, there is no more time for nervousness. This was as good a time as any to be brave. I found you again and would not let go of this miracle. I went up to you and said hi. And you looked at me with your intense eyes. For a moment, I stood there silly as you looked me up and down. I opened my mouth trying to speak.  But again, the words escape me. You made it easy, you remembered me. You apologized and said your goodbyes to your friends, grabbed my arm and led me away. We spent the afternoon sitting on the bench by the river talking, then I walked you home. At your door, I remembered to get your number this time. And just before leaving, I looked into your deep brown eyes. I leaned over, our eyes slowly closed and touched your soft warm lips with mine. We kissed for the very first time. And I knew then, you were all I needed from that moment on.

Of course I still think of it from time to time. Oh, the sweetness of the blood. I even remembered once you cut your hand with the kitchen knife. I rushed over and sucked at your thumb and you laughed. Oh, how sweet it was! The sweetest I ever tasted. But even then, no, never again. I would never harm you.

The sun is setting now. Falling under the sea and the redness fills the sky. And I look at you and kiss you. It still feels the same way as the first time I kissed you. I cannot be happier and do not regret, because I have you. And that is all I need, because I love you. Forever and after.

Darkness Found

by one lost in light

                                                                                           photograph by photogramme

In the morning, I could see clearly the bronze house in front. Oh, such charm. I know where I am going. The long flat road, it is long but at least the path is clear. I can make it. I will make it. No respite. To no end do I move to fulfill my dream.

After a long walk, I made it. Moving closer, I saw my name etched on the bronze front door. Through the window I saw pleasant furnishings and bountiful of food. I stopped but did not enter, for up ahead beyond the valley, I see a house of silver.

At noon, I could see even more clearly the silver house in front. Oh, such wondrous beauty. I  know where I am, where I am going. The footpath is winding but it is still fairly simple to maneuver. I can make it. I WILL make it. Do not tarry. To no end do I move to fulfill the longing and wanting.

After traversing the difficult broken roads, I made it. Moving closer, I saw my name again etched on the silver door. Through the window, I saw an extravagant space decorated with fineries and a great feast set out on the dining table. I stopped again but did not enter, for up ahead in between two great mountains, I see a house of gold.

At mid afternoon, I could see the golden house in front. Oh, such magnificence. The sun emanating the warm glow of gold. I know where I am, whence I came, where I am going. The thick maze of trees and dangerous mountain paths may prove perilous. But I can make it. I MUST make it. Be vigilant. To no end do I move to fulfill the obsession and addiction.

After struggling through the dense forest and steep rocky roads, I made it. Moving closer, I see my name again on the door. I stopped. For to my surprise, it was not a house of gold but a house of straw. I looked through the window and found a straw bed, a loaf of bread and pale of water. The afternoon sun tricked me, casting its beautiful glow directly behind the straw house.

At sunset, it became increasingly difficult to see. I look behind and see the the bronze and silver houses dissolve into nothingness in the sinking light. I know whence I came, where I am, and I felt regret. I did not know where I was going. I could not make it. I had failed. In defeat, I entered the straw house.

At night, I could not see anything. The darkest unwillingness conceivable thrust upon me. There was no moonlight and even the stars shun their blinking stares from me. Sitting on my hard straw bed, I ate my meager dinner and what little water was left, I saved. My spirits plunged into great depths that I did not even know possible, for the great wanting of more have left me with even less.

In my greatest moment of despair, I looked out from the straw window and there came a realization. All around there was. All there IS. Darkness. Silence. Everything else was gone. Everything. But there was no panic. No fear. No anger. There was acceptance. Nothing more to be thought. Nothing more to feel. The warmth and safeness enclosed wholly upon me. In that darkness, there was peace.

At dawn, I stirred with a plain mind. I went outside and could see, clearer than I ever saw. There were great trees and bushes of wild fruit, planes of grain behind the straw house and a mountain stream. The house of bronze and house of silver lay in the low grounds and valley. But I no longer found need or want for them. I knew whence I came, and there was nowhere I wanted to go. I was where I wanted to be. At the straw house, I found something of infinitely greater value than bronze, silver and gold combined. I found happiness.

Transparently Opaque

by the flux

Eyes wide open staring into space. I cannot see anything, blinded by the constant stream of nonsensical thoughts. The incessant white noise, barraging my mind. Thumping, thumping. Clawing on the walls of my chalkboard skull. My eyes strain even more to see, to not see. To have clarity, to know nothing. I breathe for it to be quiet. Please be quiet. Breathe deep. Silence please. Silence now. Silence with eyes wide open. Frozen in a moment in time where past and future do not touch me. Is this voluntary or am I pushed to the edge of sanity? Frozen on my own volition or am I paralyzed by thoughts. But at least there is silence. Silence even for a little while.

But it is just a little while. The little creaks on the edges. The mind it plays tricks again. The walls break, the silence break. White noise come flooding back again. Flooding through, flows of the duality. Duality which sustains my condition. Duality which slowly killing. The past nudges me to recall, to feel the misery again. It says, "Do you remember? You made a mistake. You failed." The present it has nothing to say. It is silent. Then the future continues on, "What do you do now? Where do you go? Consider. Consider. You must consider! Your end will come, you world will crash. Be careful. Please consider." The present again says nothing.

The present, it will never says anything because there is nothing to say. Past speaks of the past what has been and cannot be altered. Future speaks of things to come which may or may not come to pass. Still, the screaming duality has left me here. Immobile and eyes wide open. Void of motion, of action. The present has no voice, I have no voice. It has given up. Have I given up.

Lucid Sands

by the not-so-lucid mind

Golden sands surround me. Spreading sheets lay soft on the ground, layer upon layer of silk. Little grains of  millions. The vastness and minuscule detail of something so big made of something so small. I grasp onto it hard, and the grains slip through my hand and fall back to join the rest. The coarse matter, something so harsh yet fluid.

I sit down and close my eyes. The warmth envelop me and I breathe in the salty air. The warmness pulse through me. It starts from my back and moves down my spine and extends to my arms and legs, calm waves of the heat moving through and washing out. Sweat runs down my temple. I do not wipe it away, I have no want to do so. I am comfortable here.

The wind wisps and I hear the echoes carried from the infinite spaces around. With shut eyes, I imagine the far reaches of the world. In the far North there would be the cold ice caps. Ah, the whiteness. The cold. And an involuntary shiver runs through me, but it subsides almost instantly and the heat runs through me again. To the east, the great jungles of Asia and the forests filled with strange creatures. To the west, the great cities with their people-filled streets. The crowd, the noise, the stench. I am happy to be away from these. To the south, I do not know. I have not been there.

But I am here, no more I imagine of where I am. It does not matter. I am here. I am nowhere. And I am at peace.

Then the voice of consciousness says, "Fuck! Stop this fucking nonsense. You are going to die out here."

The Sad Boy

                                                    graphic by *perselus

There was once a boy. His name was Harold. He did not have a happy life. His mother died giving birth to him and Harold was left with his father who was a heavy drinker. Harold was not cared for and beaten by his father often. When Harold was old enough to go to school, he would get teased by the other children because he was always bruised and wore dirty clothes. His teachers paid no attention to Harold thinking him a naughty boy and always getting into fights with other children. Harold would remain silent at school for fear of getting teased further. This however made it worse as they started calling him Harold the Dirty Dunce. After school, Harold would return home and search for what little food his father might have spared from drink. Harold would sometimes go entire days without food and this made him awfully hungry and sad. At the end of the day, often times Harold would cry himself to sleep. Other times he would be too hunger stricken to even cry. He would be awaken during the night with a heavy crash through the door and have the unpleasent chance of a hiding from his father due to whatever reason, might it be not lighting a candle for his father's return or leaving the windows openned. Harold lived a sad life and he felt himself such a miserable creature. On a very cold day in the winter of his tenth year of living, Harold put on his ragged shoes and walked onto the frozen lake. Harold found a spot of thin ice and jumped on it several times. The ice broke and Harold plummeted through into the icy cold water. He swam hard to where the ice was too hard to break through. He closed his eyes and waited for the cold to seep into his being. This was the end of Harold's sad life.

However, it was not the end Harold had hoped. His spirit had so long been sad and miserable, this weighed so heavy upon him that he was not able to move on. He wandered back to his school for he knew not what else to do. He saw the kids playing gaily. No one missed Harold. He regretted never playing with the other children and was always an outcast amongst them. Harold felt a deep sadness envelop him he burst into tears for his plight.

After the tears subsided, Harold came to realization of a strange sensation. Or rather a lack of it. For once, in a long time, he did not feel hungry. Nor did he feel pain from the bruising, nor weariness, nor afraid. Harold let out a sharp yelp and quickly covered his mouth for fear of it being inappropriate and him being teased again. He looked around and no one seemed to have heard him. He let out a little scream and looked around again. None of the children paid any attention. Harold smiled to himself and was overjoyed. He ran around screaming as he never screamed before letting out all the years of kept emotions. He circled around all the children like an aeroplane and screamed at their ears as loud as he could. He also screamed at the teacher's faces who ignored him as much. His spirits were much lifted.

With his new found freedom, Harold ran all the way back home. He found his father lying passed out on the floor having fallen off the kitchen stool. Harold knelt down beside his father. He looked at his father's wrinkled face and patchy hair, aged years beyond what it should be. Harold did not feel resentment or hate towards his father, only sadness their lives had not turned out well. Harold placed his palm across his father's heart and wished their lives could be different. He felt wetness on his own cheeks and tears rolling down his face. The teardrops fell upon his father's face. Harold shut his eyes tight squeezing out all remnants of tears and fell to hug his father tightly. He finally felt at peace, letting go of all the sorrow in his life. The tears he cried released the last of Harold's sorrowful weight and he smiled a genuine smile. For the first time of his being, Harold was happy.

I Don't Like This Game

A long hallway quaintly lit with warm yellow light complements the cream-colored wallpaper. Soft thuds follow delicate footsteps pressing down on the soft woolen carpet. A slim figure moves at a steady pace with slight swishing from the red and white polka dot dress against the ground. Finally stopping in front of a door, similar to the rest of the whitewashed wooden doors lining the hallway. Her left hand reaches to turn the brass knob.

The openning door reveals a well-lit bedroom. She walks towards the antique dresser and puts on a record. Stringed orchestral music fill the space. Looking into the mirror, she corrects a curl of her blonde hair. She then checks her makeup. A slim oval face, fair and smooth accentuated by slight pink blush. She powders her delicate button nose. Lips slightly smudged which she corrects with a peach-colored lipstick. Looking behind her shoulder, an imposing figure lay silent on her posted bed. She carefully makes her way towards it. The figure lays sprawled wide on the bed, facing upward. A man of about 30 years, short brown hair and slightly unshaven.

The female figure climbs onto the bed, sits atop the man and slaps him across the face. "Wake up, sleepyhead," she says with a sweet smile.

The man groggily stirs and finds himself staring up at this beautiful creature. His face still searing. He tries to speak but find his speech muffled. He reaches at his mouth. Bits of thick thread has sewn them shut. Peach lipstick smudging the edges. The man struggles in desperation. The female figure pulls an overhanging rope hard, and the man's limbs are jerked hard towards the four corners of the bed. Then ties the rope securely against one of the posts.

"Shhhh...honey, be silent now." She reaches under the bed and pulls out a small kitchen knife. The knife's blunt edge runs along the buttons of the man's white cotton shirt. She pulls the buttons out one a time revealing his strong chest and abdominals.

"Let's play doctor. This time I will be the doctor. You can be the patient." She kisses the man softly on his sewn lips and flashes a sweet smile. The man thrashes from side to side trying to break free. To no avail.

She presses the side of the knife on his face. Cold steel runs a shiver across his body. She slowly tracks from his face down to his neck and finally reaching the center of his chest. Now turning the knife on its tip, the pointed edge presses against the man's chest. She softly pokes him, him with wide eyes staring at her and the knife. She slowly applies more pressure, holding the knife with both her dainty hands. Gradually laying her whole body weight, the knife slowly plunges into the man's chest. Dark red blood splurges on the polka dot dress. The man gives out a muffled cry.

"Something is wrong with your heart." She then drags the knife to the right, carving out the left chest cavity and leaves the knife stuck. Holding the edge of the chest piece, forcing it open. There lay the beating heart, pumping hard. She puts her left hand over the heart and grips firmly. The man breathes excessively with nostrils flaring trying to get more air. She starts to slice through the arteries connected to the heart, one by one. More blood oozes with every severed artery.

With the last artery cut, wide vacant eyes stare back at her. She pulls out the heart and throws it into the metal bin.

"There, all fixed."

 Flipping herself beside the body and letting out a great sigh of contentment. With the record still playing, she drifts into slumber. Bedtime.