It’s a glorious sight.
The field ripples like molten gold, rich, prosperous, joyful. A celebration of nature it is, of life triumphant. And yet, there is utter, chilling silence too.
Two Lovers
Two lovers lie entangled on the mattress, biding their time. Taking a deep breath, the kind you take right before plunging into the water and knowing you might become trapped under it for a while but still planning to resurface. They do too – there ought to be a tomorrow waiting for them.
Desert Rose
“Is this a mirage?” The words are stillborn, incapable of squeezing past the cracked, water-starved lips.
It must be.
Continue reading “Desert Rose”
Timelapse
Yet another sunset crawls by. It’s a striking sight, straight out of some mad 19th-century painter’s imagination while he attempts to render how the end of the world will look like, in an aquarelle of yellows, oranges, and reds. Looks like someone set off fireworks across the entire line of the horizon. The picture belongs in a museum, or at the least on someone’s social media feed. That’s where these things go now, don’t they? Into someone’s Saved images collection. Do people ever go back and flick through those, I wonder? Do they just swipe onto the next picture or stop to drink in the details? Like the person, me, sitting – no, slumped on the bench. Probably not. I’d crop myself out of the picture if I was the photographer. Like I cropped myself out of life.
Joy of One
Just a touch of joy I feel, looking down upon the sea of sleepers. It is pitch black, except for the few lightbulb islands I spy strewn across the horizon while I idly hover above. The sleepers did good work today and now they rest. They did my work. Some of them, anyway.
Heathens
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.
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.
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.
Like a Broken Record
There’s something wrong with what I’m hearing, the same few syllables on repeat now, for the umpteenth time. Like listening to a broken record. Not sure whether the problem is the loudspeaker or if it’s you. Tell me something I haven’t heard before. No?