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.
Saturday, 7 March 2009
The Shiny Bicycle
I coveted that shiny bicycle from the very moment I saw it, sitting at the front of the shop, resplendent, almost regal.
I was determined I should have it, determined it should be mine.
Eventually, my child’s wheedling got me what I wanted. It was better than all my Christmases, better than birthdays, better than anything I had ever had before.
I rode that shiny bicycle every opportunity I had. I rode it to school and I rode it home. I rode it around the streets until it grew too dark to ride. I rode it round the park until my legs ached. I rode it up and down the short drive before breakfast time.
I thought I should never tire of that shiny bicycle; I adored it and it was all that I could think of, waking or sleeping.
One day, I woke up and ate breakfast without first exercising my shining steed and walked to school with a light skip in my step.
The shiny bicycle was left slowly rusting in the garden shed, wondering, I fancy, what it did wrong.
I was determined I should have it, determined it should be mine.
Eventually, my child’s wheedling got me what I wanted. It was better than all my Christmases, better than birthdays, better than anything I had ever had before.
I rode that shiny bicycle every opportunity I had. I rode it to school and I rode it home. I rode it around the streets until it grew too dark to ride. I rode it round the park until my legs ached. I rode it up and down the short drive before breakfast time.
I thought I should never tire of that shiny bicycle; I adored it and it was all that I could think of, waking or sleeping.
One day, I woke up and ate breakfast without first exercising my shining steed and walked to school with a light skip in my step.
The shiny bicycle was left slowly rusting in the garden shed, wondering, I fancy, what it did wrong.
Friday, 6 March 2009
To Look Forward
He was always at the back of the bus, holding court in the centre seat, lapping up laughs won by his wit. Boys basked in his attention, girls blushed when he brushed passed them in the corridor. Too lazy for an athlete, too cool for a scholar, his popularity stemmed from the cult of personality.
It saw him through. No, it flew him on.
Those who were lucky enough to be reflected in his dazzle were held in similar awe. Those who attracted his attention as the butt of jokes, the prey of the prankster, still hide their scars.
He looks out of his house, The House With The View, the call it, locally, and looks out upon a different landscape than that which spreads out before him; he looks out on the landscape of his life.
And then he looks away.
Each night there is a little less whiskey in the bottle. Each night the pain creeps in a little further. Each night he feels a little lonelier. Each night the grinding tedium of his life becomes a little harder to bear. Each night he stays up a little later, looks back a little more.
If only he would look up, look forward, he would see that it is not too late, not too late at all.
It saw him through. No, it flew him on.
Those who were lucky enough to be reflected in his dazzle were held in similar awe. Those who attracted his attention as the butt of jokes, the prey of the prankster, still hide their scars.
He looks out of his house, The House With The View, the call it, locally, and looks out upon a different landscape than that which spreads out before him; he looks out on the landscape of his life.
And then he looks away.
Each night there is a little less whiskey in the bottle. Each night the pain creeps in a little further. Each night he feels a little lonelier. Each night the grinding tedium of his life becomes a little harder to bear. Each night he stays up a little later, looks back a little more.
If only he would look up, look forward, he would see that it is not too late, not too late at all.
Thursday, 5 March 2009
Walk Away
No-one would blame you for walking away.
I say that to myself. I say it to you. I say it to both of us.
Walking away would not only be easier, it would be more sensible, a smoother road, a less bumpy ride, a more predictable journey back.
But since when have I ever done what is easier?
Why, I’d place rocks in my path just to make the ride more exciting were there none there to begin with. I have to feel the pain to make the pleasure real. It was always thus, the heavens said so since I was a mere twinkle in an eye.
No-one would blame you.
Who knows, it could all have been a dream. There is no photographic proof, no irrefutable evidence, nothing that will last or linger. There is only the memory of heels on cobblestones and one hand held in another. There is only a mind’s snapshot of a ghastly green pub with its air heavy laden with inevitability, the flash of a mutual glance of understanding and the gentle inexorable ness of a first kiss.
The perfume that rubbed from my neck onto your shirt will now have been washed away. The champagne bottle is tomorrow’s recycled green glass, nothing more. My hair is brushed and sleek; your hands no longer entangled in its wildness. The sheets are freshly laundered, no doubt, already soiled by another tainted love, the terrace seats vacated, the words lost on the air.
There is a storm brewing here; I see it from the attic window. The clouds are heavy and blue with woe. The air is cold and stark. The flowers’ petals shrink back into themselves.
But I think this is not pathetic fallacy, as one would suppose, for the storm in my heart may already be over. Clearing up the wreckage is the task which faces me now.
I say that to myself. I say it to you. I say it to both of us.
Walking away would not only be easier, it would be more sensible, a smoother road, a less bumpy ride, a more predictable journey back.
But since when have I ever done what is easier?
Why, I’d place rocks in my path just to make the ride more exciting were there none there to begin with. I have to feel the pain to make the pleasure real. It was always thus, the heavens said so since I was a mere twinkle in an eye.
No-one would blame you.
Who knows, it could all have been a dream. There is no photographic proof, no irrefutable evidence, nothing that will last or linger. There is only the memory of heels on cobblestones and one hand held in another. There is only a mind’s snapshot of a ghastly green pub with its air heavy laden with inevitability, the flash of a mutual glance of understanding and the gentle inexorable ness of a first kiss.
The perfume that rubbed from my neck onto your shirt will now have been washed away. The champagne bottle is tomorrow’s recycled green glass, nothing more. My hair is brushed and sleek; your hands no longer entangled in its wildness. The sheets are freshly laundered, no doubt, already soiled by another tainted love, the terrace seats vacated, the words lost on the air.
There is a storm brewing here; I see it from the attic window. The clouds are heavy and blue with woe. The air is cold and stark. The flowers’ petals shrink back into themselves.
But I think this is not pathetic fallacy, as one would suppose, for the storm in my heart may already be over. Clearing up the wreckage is the task which faces me now.
This Is Why
You asked me why. Do you really need to ask? Can’t you see it?
Can’t you look into that place inside, the place where secrets hide and hearts beat, the place where fears are kept locked away and dreams are sometimes left neglected, the infinitesimally small cabinet that holds the key to who we really are, that blindingly true part of us that is so scarcely, if ever, seen?
Unlock the cabinet and open the truth; hold it up to the light, side by side with mine and you will see that they are the same, exactly, entirely and perfectly the same, so identical that they could be one.
When someone speaks your name, a spontaneous smile spreads across lips, when I hear your voice, I feel cocooned and safe, when you reach for my hand, the world spins backwards on its axis, when you look at me in the silence, everything else fades away like a retreating tide.
Do you see it? Do you see it now?
Can’t you look into that place inside, the place where secrets hide and hearts beat, the place where fears are kept locked away and dreams are sometimes left neglected, the infinitesimally small cabinet that holds the key to who we really are, that blindingly true part of us that is so scarcely, if ever, seen?
Unlock the cabinet and open the truth; hold it up to the light, side by side with mine and you will see that they are the same, exactly, entirely and perfectly the same, so identical that they could be one.
When someone speaks your name, a spontaneous smile spreads across lips, when I hear your voice, I feel cocooned and safe, when you reach for my hand, the world spins backwards on its axis, when you look at me in the silence, everything else fades away like a retreating tide.
Do you see it? Do you see it now?
Monday, 2 March 2009
Choked Words
He asked her to write something, something for him.
She wants to, but the words choke in her throat like ink in a pen which has been too long unused and the consonants sound harsh and vile and the vowels fly away like light clouds over a seascape.
Her head is empty of all words and wisdom and her heart is jumble sale full of clutter and confusion; every word she strings bead like on this necklace of thoughts jars her soul because it is wrong, it cannot express, it does not explain, it is not enough.
He asked her to write something. And she will.
But first she must try to decipher and translate the inscrutable language of the mesmerising spheres of brown; if she does not fully understand what it is that has been said, how can she ever respond?
She wants to, but the words choke in her throat like ink in a pen which has been too long unused and the consonants sound harsh and vile and the vowels fly away like light clouds over a seascape.
Her head is empty of all words and wisdom and her heart is jumble sale full of clutter and confusion; every word she strings bead like on this necklace of thoughts jars her soul because it is wrong, it cannot express, it does not explain, it is not enough.
He asked her to write something. And she will.
But first she must try to decipher and translate the inscrutable language of the mesmerising spheres of brown; if she does not fully understand what it is that has been said, how can she ever respond?
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