It hurt with such a ferocity that he thought it must surely be a fatal stab.
If his hands were not covering his chest, clamped down tight over the heart he feared would explode out of his chest and lie withering and fading and oozong out its horrible red on the ground then he would, by now, have bled to death; he felt sure of it.
Such cripping pain! Such agony!
I shall die, he thought, surely I shall die; no man can endure such a pain and live. God, end this pain, end it now - I cannot live - it's much too much.
Resigned, he took his hands away from his body and spread them helpless and inviting to the side.
He was amazed to discover that rains soon came and washed the blood away while his heart still beating in its place remained.
Despite the pain it was only a flesh wound, after all.
Monday, 30 March 2009
Saturday, 28 March 2009
A Conversation Between a Girl and her Alarm Clock
The alarm clock screeches through the beauty of the dream like a siren piercing the stillness of a summer night.
“Wake up!” it screams to her.
“But I don’t want to wake up….I was happy; it was beautiful.”
The face of the alarm clock seems to sneer. “You were dreaming. The dream is over now.”
“It can’t be. You’re wrong. The time is wrong - don’t lie to me, I shan’t believe you.”
There is a quiet in which the clock seems to take pity on her as she lies there, befuddled and bemused, incapable of realising what is so very obvious, the dream still clinging to her like lover’s kisses, her eyes part closed, remembering, her body in rapture posed.
But then it screams again and she is jolted wake wards.
“Wake up! You cannot spend your whole life dreaming!”
She is about to tell the clock about the dream, about who she met there, about the smells and the sounds and the sensations, but another blast from its bell cuts her short.
“Save your words,” it says, “and get up. He has already risen - look how the space beside you is empty - he is living and breathing and laughing and loving in the real world. Get up and do the same. He enjoyed it immensely, I’m sure but he has forgotten you, you who are crumpled bed sheets and ragged hair. Get, up, you fool.”
“Wake up!” it screams to her.
“But I don’t want to wake up….I was happy; it was beautiful.”
The face of the alarm clock seems to sneer. “You were dreaming. The dream is over now.”
“It can’t be. You’re wrong. The time is wrong - don’t lie to me, I shan’t believe you.”
There is a quiet in which the clock seems to take pity on her as she lies there, befuddled and bemused, incapable of realising what is so very obvious, the dream still clinging to her like lover’s kisses, her eyes part closed, remembering, her body in rapture posed.
But then it screams again and she is jolted wake wards.
“Wake up! You cannot spend your whole life dreaming!”
She is about to tell the clock about the dream, about who she met there, about the smells and the sounds and the sensations, but another blast from its bell cuts her short.
“Save your words,” it says, “and get up. He has already risen - look how the space beside you is empty - he is living and breathing and laughing and loving in the real world. Get up and do the same. He enjoyed it immensely, I’m sure but he has forgotten you, you who are crumpled bed sheets and ragged hair. Get, up, you fool.”
Teardrop on the Table
There’s a teardrop on the table. It landed in such a perfect circle and in such a perfect way that I am sorry there was no-one there to see it.
That teardrop landing was of filmic proportions; it was a classic, a masterpiece, a one-off, so delightful that I would have laughed, had I not been the one who had shed the tear.
For an instant, the chaos in my head ceased and the voices stopped their incessant babble and the lights ended their flashing and the pain evaporated like steam from a bubble bath until there was nothing but the teardrop, a perfect circle upon the table.
I wiped away the teardrop and erased that emotion.
The moment could not last.
Moments never do.
That teardrop landing was of filmic proportions; it was a classic, a masterpiece, a one-off, so delightful that I would have laughed, had I not been the one who had shed the tear.
For an instant, the chaos in my head ceased and the voices stopped their incessant babble and the lights ended their flashing and the pain evaporated like steam from a bubble bath until there was nothing but the teardrop, a perfect circle upon the table.
I wiped away the teardrop and erased that emotion.
The moment could not last.
Moments never do.
Friday, 20 March 2009
It Never Dies
If it is real, it never dies.
It may change and alter, just as the leaves turn gold and bronze and fall from their branches when autumn comes, but it will never truly die; not if it is real.
If it is real, it will remain.
It may change from a clear liquid to cloudy water when paint soaked brushes are placed in it, but it will not disappear.
If it is real, it will endure.
It may find itself torn, like the full skirts of a ripped summer dress when the wearer is reckless, but it will not completely break.
If it is real, it never dies.
It may change and alter, just as the leaves turn gold and bronze and fall from their branches when autumn comes, but it will never truly die; not if it is real.
If it is real, it will remain.
It may change from a clear liquid to cloudy water when paint soaked brushes are placed in it, but it will not disappear.
If it is real, it will endure.
It may find itself torn, like the full skirts of a ripped summer dress when the wearer is reckless, but it will not completely break.
If it is real, it never dies.
Sunday, 15 March 2009
A New Dawn
It was a seismic shift, felt from eons and oceans away.
Not a change or an alteration, but a shift of earth moving proportions. Or this is what it felt like, at least.
Many, many moments before the change actually occurred, it was perceived, felt and, sadly, understood; the suspicions had been proven, the doubts verified, the questions answered in a morbid and unfortunate way.
A seismic shift.
One cannot argue with changes in nature, any more than one can argue with changes in the human heart.
Not a change or an alteration, but a shift of earth moving proportions. Or this is what it felt like, at least.
Many, many moments before the change actually occurred, it was perceived, felt and, sadly, understood; the suspicions had been proven, the doubts verified, the questions answered in a morbid and unfortunate way.
A seismic shift.
One cannot argue with changes in nature, any more than one can argue with changes in the human heart.
Saturday, 14 March 2009
Real and Rare
I am not here.
And, strangely, this is a rare time when I am not looking ahead. But nor am I looking back.
I have moved myself, through time and space.
I have arrived at happiness.
I wondered why it was so profound and far-reaching, why it did not want to let go, why it lingered around me, like an additional aura.
It was because it was happiness, delirious happiness, of the very real and rare kind.
I have returned to it, waiting nurtured in its arms, for the next blissful wave of it to crash over me.
And, strangely, this is a rare time when I am not looking ahead. But nor am I looking back.
I have moved myself, through time and space.
I have arrived at happiness.
I wondered why it was so profound and far-reaching, why it did not want to let go, why it lingered around me, like an additional aura.
It was because it was happiness, delirious happiness, of the very real and rare kind.
I have returned to it, waiting nurtured in its arms, for the next blissful wave of it to crash over me.
Thursday, 12 March 2009
Disposable
I am utterly disposable; a bubble gum wrapper, a snowflake in a jar.
My mind is a semi-vacuous haven for butterfly thoughts with short shelf-lives and cobweb creations which fall apart at the touch.
My debates are half formed and ill thought out. My sentences fade away into nothing, their point having been lost on the air. My inner music is shiny, plastic, over produced nonsense and the synthesizers have drowned out the beautiful cacophony of guitar and piano.
I am wasted and wasting disposable babble and all I really wish to dispose of is this in itself.
My mind is a semi-vacuous haven for butterfly thoughts with short shelf-lives and cobweb creations which fall apart at the touch.
My debates are half formed and ill thought out. My sentences fade away into nothing, their point having been lost on the air. My inner music is shiny, plastic, over produced nonsense and the synthesizers have drowned out the beautiful cacophony of guitar and piano.
I am wasted and wasting disposable babble and all I really wish to dispose of is this in itself.
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