Wavering in the past, the present, the future and the imagination

What is the planet? What is the world? What is the solar system? What is this life? What are these intakes of breath, billion upon billions of them, every day?  What are the colours? What is the sky? What are the lives and the thoughts and the beating hearts? Who are they beating for – what are they beating for? What is the mind, what is the soul; what is psychological pain? What is sadness when it is heavy like rocks, what is joy when it lifts you to the edge of the universe? What is a journey, what are these words, why am I writing, why are you reading? How does your brain work – isn’t It beautiful? Isn't the way your fingers bend and the way you blink fascinating, the way your toes quiver, the way your insides squirm. The way no knowledge will ever be enough, the way we wonder and wonder. What is my purpose? My goal? My belief? I am intrinsically linked to the point of restlessness with something that I cannot comprehend. I’ve struck a chord in some dimension that no one even knows about. My life is spent wavering in the past, the present, the future and the imagination; spent half in mind and half in action, questioning things more than anyone could know. Thinking of things and feeling hopelessness, because as humans, it’s hard sometimes not to feel hopelessness when we’ve been presented with life, following each other, leading it, accepting it, and not questioning it. It shakes me, like a harrowing storm, to think so deep; ‘tis safer to stay on dry land: “life’s more painless, for the brainless.” But my mind, she has a mind of her own; I am filled with craziness; everything I touch, like skittles, turns to something odd, something strange, something perhaps ruined. Ruined in the eyes of the beholder, blundering my way through life, wondering if ever I will grasp what is to me an understanding. But we, as human, as simple masters of ourselves and yet brainless, stupid, insignificant nothings, created this word “understanding.” We placed letters together; we learned the concept; we shared the concept. But how is it a word, when understanding does not exist? Everything that you know, that you think you know, is not real. Potentially, none of this is real. None but pain, because that is blinding yet enlightening to the point where it can never fail, walking hand in hand with fear and hate to destroy us all. I have faith in humanity, yet I weep for humanity…I fail to “understand” humanity. I fail to understand myself, or what it is that we plan to do, to enjoy, to cry, to weep, to die. To keep on moving forward, ‘til tears have been shed for eternity, babies have been born ‘til the end of time and things have shifted beyond anything we in this snapshot of time, of this thing we call time, could know. Time, time, time, you slip away, you leave us; where do you go? Is there an intergalactic storage centre in the core of nature, of natural comprehension, where the time goes? Does it frolic amongst meadows, does it sing, does it feel emotion? Is it like sand from a sand timer; will we run out of it, before we run out of air? How do you explain things such as time which are real and fundamental but do not truly exist? How to define what it is to spend time, like it is currency, something you can own. No one owns time, time is unownable; time is in itself a Houdini, a terrific performer; an escapist. I’m taking your time, taking it, right now; as if time can be taken, as if time can be told. As if time has been old and young and born and shall die again. Where am I going with this? That’s not the question, for it seems we have no destination; the word destination is just as made up, just as fake, as what it represents. As false as our metaphors, as our similes, of our allusions. A hopeless destination: perhaps I should be filled with utter gloom, perhaps you’re feeling now like I have overstepped the mark; I have questioned too much. But there is no gloom; there is no need for comprehension, or destination. Enjoy the colours, the sky, the emotion, the air, the time, the feelings that shake your soul, the actions that clear your mind, the movements that evoke thought and happiness. Contentment is in those that accept defeat in all understanding and just wonder, and feel joy in something that is entirely out of reach. World - you are truly wonderful. 

Under the setting sun

Dusk was falling over the city, cushioning it in a soft and sleepy glow. The hot lazy streets were slowly coated in darkness as night descended. The city didn't hush, in fact, it seemed to brighten, and when all that was left of the light was a few streaks of sun on the horizon, it was unrecognisable.

The hot and humid day had faded, and at last the people could emerge from the safety of their shade. Music that seemed almost to have no source began to play, joyfully reaching out through the city, touching every corner, every window, every doorway. Exasperated parents tried desperately to control their excited children, but they still hung from their windows and waved at the people who had started to dance below. They laughed at the clowns – the men with painted faces who juggled and fought playfully with each other, rolling around in the dust.

One boy did not laugh. Dusty and dirty, perched on a rooftop, he watched the celebrations with cold hard eyes. So much happiness, so much fun, but yet he couldn't even crack a smile. Instead, a single tear escaped him, cutting a clean path down his blackened cheek. He thought about wiping it away and pretending that he hadn't let the wretched emotion affect him, but no one could see him. It had happened, despite his best efforts to contain it, but that was that. So he let the tear stay; an emblem of momentary weakness.

Quite suddenly, he leapt away from the edge, whirling around and running in the opposite direction. Lithe and nimble, he jumped from rooftop to rooftop, desperate to be rid of the music and the contagious feeling of joy wafting in the air. He ran until the light was all behind him and all he could see was darkness. The city wall was impressive, but this didn't faze him; he came and went as he pleased. Tonight it was especially easy to scale it, as the officers had left it unguarded and had gone off to join the party. He calmly climbed his tree, swinging onto the wall, daring even to pause and catch his breath before he leapt over it.

The sand, crumbling and silky, was there to catch him. It still held some heat, but nothing like the burning ferocity that it had during the day. He dug his toes into it and his lips trembled, almost as though he was willing more tears to fall. But none did, so he started up again running across the sand.   

Jessica's Cliff

It's windy up here - I'm telling you, it's windy, and I can't go down and I'm scared. My cheeks are red raw from the cold and my fingers have gone numb. Where am I going? I shall sit down here, in the frosty grass, in the gathering darkness, and decide. The water looks so nice from all the way up here, like a soft silky blanket on top of the earth, curled around the cliff edge. But it's so windy, that's the problem. The wind is really what's getting me.

Where am I going? Why am I here? Will they be looking for me, I wonder, down there in the town, so far back behind into the black? They should know this is the only place I'll come, they should know that this is where they'll find me. Momma will think I'm going to jump, of course she will. The water does look so nice, but no. I am not ready to die. I'll sit here, cold from the wind and decide where I'm going to go. Somewhere, that's for sure. But not up to God just yet.

I left because they were shouting again, always shouting and screaming. I ran out the door and now I'm here and oh, it's windy. I feel sad for Momma but I shan't go back, unless they find me and then I'll have to. And they really should, where else would I go? This is Jessica's cliff, this is her cliff I tell you, but it's not her wind. She jumped last year, the water looked nice to her too I suppose and now she's gone. But this is her cliff and this is where I go, but now I'm so cold and I've nowhere to turn to.

 Jessica, Jessica, I can't take their shouting, it's too much, make them stop, please. I'd go back then, I swear. Then Momma would be happy. She's always happy when I come back, but today I won't. I'm getting up, running in the black, not too close to the edge, down along the road. I'm down, it's warmer but Jessica's not with me. It was HIS wind, it has to have been, who else would send it? It was like cold blades against my pale, bare skin.

I'm running now, who knows where to. God does, I'm sure, but he won't tell me right now. Goodbye Momma, goodbye Jessica. I love you both very much.

White phantom faces

The white phantom faces whimpered and wept. She strolled among them, draping her darkness, cradling them close to her with those cruel long fingers. They flinched, but still seemed drawn in, fascinated almost. She was the only light in this god forsaken place, but yet darkness followed her like a faithful bloodhound. She smiled crookedly at her trapped phantom faces, but couldn't help but look beautiful. Like a God, they adored her; they unwillingly lay down their lives before her. Why?

All she did was hold them back. She trapped them here, in this darkness, that seemingly had no end or purpose. There was a whole world out there for them to explore, but yet they stayed and stared and cried at her, and she smiled back so lovingly with those perfect pearly white teeth every time. She was almost a sorcerer of some kind, she had them under a spell – a trance, yes – they didn't know what they were thinking. They knew no life without her, and were as faithful as the darkness that trailed behind her in the shadows.

And those on the outside, those who could barely peer in through the dim grimy windows, had no real understanding. It was too dark to really see anything properly, it was almost understandable if they missed her perfect glowing face from where they were looking. Just a bunch of faces, cowering over nothing, hovering together like newborn sightless kittens. How strange, how unnerving. But swallowed up on the other side, from the very jaws of a very real surreal danger, the faces can say nothing, do nothing. They just stare back through the windows and sigh, deep sighs that sound like howling wind on a stormy summer night shuddering through the trees.

After some time, the people will walk away. Something else will catch their attention, because humans are much like that. They will walk away, and the faces will fade from their memories. It was like they never existed, not in the real world. They were made in some fantasy dimension, and that was where they would stay.  

Dark defiance

Darkness had fallen heavily on the village, like fresh snow sent from the devil himself. A serene silence filled the cool summer air, and all was peaceful and calm. The birds rested patiently whilst the village slept. With the morning sun would come their morning songs.

A loud note broke the silence as surely as an axe through thick winter ice. One bird could not wait. He sang, his head tilted towards the black sky, his chest puffed out in pride. He threw his wings out behind him and sang from his rooftop; calling again and again and again. The other birds looked out from under their sleepy wings in horror and disbelief, watching this little creature so brazenly defy the rules.

Lights were starting to go on in the houses. The little bird had woken everybody up. One grumpy man in his pajamas spotted the bird and huffed; so this was the thing that was making all the noise. He picked up stones and flung them roughly at the roof, the first few missing, but the last one striking the bird, knocking him. He lost his balance and fell, shocked with the pain and the cruelty, but he remembered himself and flew upwards just before he hit the ground.

Gingerly resuming his perch, the bird watched the man victoriously stroll back inside, and he sang one last mellow note before quietening. His head faced the floor and not the sky, and his wings had drooped by his sides. The other birds turned away and went back to sleep, bemused by the whole event, and the little bird who dared to sing in the dark flew up and away into the night alone, unnoticed by anyone.  

You have nothing to say and I have no one to blame

Tears, like tiny spheres of crystal, are falling from your perfect white face. This was never meant to happen. I want to put my hands around your neck, press my mouth to your throat and tell you that everything will be fine - but why lie? I can see it, in the dark dim reflection of those hazel eyes of yours. You're frightened, frightened of me and what's going to happen, frightened of the future ahead. And I'm hurting you, as sure as stabbing a knife between your perfect shoulders and twisting it around and around. The hot blood is spilling over my fingers now, I can see that...but what can be done?

Tell me, what can I do? I put my arm around your tiny waist and drag you closer to me, your warm breath against my cheek. I feel calmer for having done so, but at the same time I feel more terrified than ever. My hands are shaking – I need to leave you alone. This was never meant to happen. You don't belong to me, you never did. I run a tentative hand through your soft brown hair and almost angrily wipe the tears from your face with my trembling fingers. I don't want them to be there, because they are my fault. This was all my fault, don't you see? You blame yourself, but had you never met me, never known me, none of this would have ever happened.

I just never thought I'd care about you. But standing there, leaning against me, your slender arms wrapped around my God forsaken shoulders, you are everything. I care about nothing more in the entire world than just protecting you. You have nothing to say, and I have no one to blame...what a pair we are. Inseparable, but yet we repel each other like pole to pole magnets. I cup your chin and delicately kiss the top of your head; it's now my turn to cry.

Our future, our beautiful future, destroyed by everything, smashed to pieces by our very society. I should leave you now, leave you before we both get killed, but your beauty is like a drug. I have to stay, even just to keep my eyes on your face and know that you were real, and that I didn't just dream you up. You are tense, and your face looks older than it did a week ago. You have aged in this time...this has taken things from you that can never be replaced. And it's all my fault.

The life of Mico: the station of doom

Mico had developed a fear of Leeds station, ever since that first visit, when he had been travelling to visit his elderly aunt. He had barely escaped with his life.

First, there was the train. It was hot, and the steamy oppressive air seemed to crush him, and begged him to close his eyes and sleep. He didn't notice when it started to slow down, and then suddenly he needed to get off. The doors were closing, but he made a dive and managed to throw himself in between them. Like the jaws of some great mechanical monster, they clamped down on him, immobilising him. He was held there at an awkward angle, trapped, to the great amusement of the passing commuters. Finally, it freed him, and he fell forward flat onto his face.

Wow, could things get worse? Of course they could. The machines. The bloody barrier machines. They accepted his ticket, but then spat it back out at him. When he tried again, the same thing happened. There was a que forming behind him but the machines merely barred his path; he could almost hear them laughing at his failure to outwit them. He ended up doubling back, passing a seemingly serene old man who then smashed his walking stick into Mico's shins for making him wait. His eyes watering with agony, he hobbled to a member of staff to explain his issue. With a raised eyebrow and an amused smile he was admitted through the dreadful barrier.

The door was within sight. This traumatic experience was almost over. But then, along came the crazy middle aged woman with the suitcase, rampaging down through the station like a hungry animal who had caught sight of prey. There was no time to jump aside, he was instantly bowled over. He was tall, but she had power and angry determination, so he lay dazed on the ground under the watchful eyes of the bored people around him. When he blinked and looked around, she had gone. Some people...

But back on his feet he kept going. A tap on his shoulder - what now!? No, he did not want to buy car insurance, he didn't even have a car. But then he looked up and saw the man who had asked him, towering above him with biceps the size of basketballs. Tattoos were scrawled around his neck and exposed chest, and his face was angry. Car insurance? Why, yes, of course he needed car insurance, how nice to be asked. Once he'd signed up using a fake address and fake bank details, he ran.

He ran, right into mad lady with the suitcase number two, over her bag and doing a sort of flip into the air, landing spread eagled on the ground. She was the colour of a watsit and also flashed tattoos, with fake eyelashes and pink lipstick to match. 

"Watch it, sunshine!" she bellowed, tugging her bag back to it's feet and hurrying off. Dazed, confused, and not sure he wanted to come to Leeds ever again, Mico got unsteadily to his feet for the second time.

Then he saw her. She saw him, really, and he caught her eye as she appeared to smile apologetically at him. Beauty was an accumulation of letters and did no justice to this delicate, angelic and wondrous human being. He approached her, barely knowing what he was doing - oh, she had dropped her purse, he would be a gallant knight and pick it up for her, and then she would love him forever, unconditionally.

Nope, instead she swung her arm and her fist connected with the fleshy part of his nose and he reeled backwards with blood spurting down his t shirt. 

"I don't think so, jack ass!" she yelled, grabbing up her purse and turning on her heel. Wow, an angry, scary witch had just erupted from the skin of the beautiful being. It was like the caterpillar to the butterfly, but in reverse. And so much worse because caterpillars are actually kind of cute and don't make you bleed uncontrollably.

Arriving at his aunts house, she gasped and grabbed his shoulders the moment she saw him.

"My god - were you mugged?" she peered up and down him; there was still blood all over his face. 

"No," he admitted. "It was just...Leeds station."