Heathens

Dancing in the forest, to the tune of old gods humming

There is magic in the air.

Our naked feet dance, carrying us round and round in a circle, our steps deliberate, their pattern pre-meditated, their motion meaningful.

The music we make is an echo of a time long gone by, the song the gods of olden days breathed into this world when it was naught but an infant, the lullaby a mother would sing when putting her child to sleep, the verses a shepherd would hum under his breath to ward his flock. Healing. Protective. It is unending. It dwells under the surface, deep within. One can still hear it when shutting off the noise and opening the senses to the unexplainable.

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Space Cowboy

There is something else about having a smoke all the way up here, amid the stars. A special kind of enjoyment. A treat for the senses right at the edge of words properly making it justice. I watch the nebula we’re sailing by eyes wide open. You’ve maybe seen a thousand different nebulae of unimaginable colors and shapes, but the thousand-and-first is no less jaw-dropping. With my butt comfortably seated in my commander’s chair and legs kicked out in front of me, a tumbler of scotch lodged in the other hand, this is my own personal theatre. Living the life. Inhaling death one short, slow lungful at a time to the backdrop of Guns n’ Roses’ Sweet Child of Mine braying in the loudspeakers, while watching a big-ass asteroid sail within a hairbreadth of the cruiser.

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Lucidity

He’s arrived at a dead end. No more light at the end of this road,  where the asphalt forks into gloom and gravel. He squeezes the steering wheel, black-gloved fingers creaking, deliberating his decision for the thousandth time. Tired of the inner dialogues by now. Eager to move on. Lowers the window, the warm spring air spilling inside, mingling with the sweat and the scents of McDonald’s fries and the too much beer he’d had. He sits for a moment, watching the nighttime insects flutter to and fro, drawn to the car’s headlights. He has stopped the engine but left them on. Somehow it’s easier to concentrate with lights on. Also, he’s never been too fond of the dark. Ok, now. Where to go from here? Continue reading “Lucidity”

The Garden of Singing Stone

There exists a garden of stones that sing, on an island lapped by the sea. You wouldn’t know of it, until you find yourself seeking it out. Its existence feels a closely guarded secret, almost, shared by a small circle of initiates. You won’t hear the stones’ call, unless you stand next to them and brush your palm across their weathered, craggy faces. It’s a magical garden. A gateway to another time when the world was young. It may enchant you. You may find it a mere curiosity. You will remember it either way.

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Daintily

Through the night, she dreams dainty dreams. She dreams of some other, not the one next to her. Such is the fate of her choosing, yet she does not have a say in who will own her night, tonight. Eyes wide shut, the mind sheds inhibitions, dreams betraying secrets too shameful to admit to in broad daylight. Conventions unbound, possibilities endless, she dreams of other faces, in familiar/new places, exploring the hidden spaces where iron will and desire so often tangle under the bedsheets.

Why is resistance always so conspicuous by its absence?

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Blackheart

The peculiar nature of the human condition is that their hearts can break, heal, and break all over again. It makes me pause. I oft wonder at it but still, I find it all so very amusing. Humans weep, cracked asunder, and their tears become just another element that enters and erodes the edifices they erected, not unlike the wind or the rain. It is their frailty that defines them, it molds who they are and who they aspire to be, in their short lifespans. It spurs them on to do great things, each a small attempt at erasing insignificance. And then it conspires to turn them and forces them to tear all their accomplishments down. With time they feel they do not have, their hearts heal. Then, they repeat it once more.

They call me Blackheart, and they mean it as an insult. Blackheart in his black obsidian tower. Stoneheart, unfeeling. A heart black as sin. I embrace it, truly. I do not have a heart, at least not how humans define it.

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