Twenty months later.. .. ..

The only antidote i've found to the emptiness of existence is opening up the dream space within my waking life, ie, escapism. I'm not an escapist because i'm passive, but because all you lot don't make sense to me & i'd rather replace the absurd with the abstract. It's not the happenings that i fail to understand, for everything within the world does happen for a reason, it's rather the point of sheer presence that i just don't seem to get. Sometimes it's crisp & clear, like the flick of a lighter amidst the depths of exquisite silence, but it's always an ephemeral moment that flees my mindspace shortly after it's born, and i'm left there stripped of all constant but change, and bare of all belief but in transience, for timelessness is exclusively momentary, and truth is but a fleeting instant, which i think has just made an appearance as i serenely exhaled, but eventually vanished along with the fumes.

Fragments of a vision

I am a single mother of thirty something, with a child, a little boy whose name I do not know. Night time is befallen over the cottage where we live, in some faraway place full of rustling trees. The boy does not speak. Not that he does not want to, he could not speak, he does not know how to speak. For a second it occurs to me that it's all my fault; because I myself am deadly silent, and I figure that I have never spoken with him before. It is well clear from the befallen silence that I had long given up on words, and that I had decided to raise a mute child.

#2

I am a very old lady, and the signs of age are sculpted all over me. I am sitting on a chair in the open fields, but there are no traces of a home anywhere in sight. I have no idea how or when I got there. Every single wrinkle on my face, and every single white hair on my head is a different tale to be told; but I remember none of them, because time has devoured my memory, just as it did to my home & every other thing there once was. All I have left is the chair I am sat on, and the sound of the trees in the field rustling.

At this point I am not so sure what I'm waiting for; I could be waiting for death, and I could be waiting for life.

#3

Tree branches are growing out on me. They are coming out of slits on my arm. There is no blood, no pain, nothing, just tree branches fast growing right before my bare eyes. I am sort of terrified. Or not quite terrified, I am rather left in awe. I observe my treeful arms for a while, and then I close my eyes & take a deep breath.

#4

I am a tree. Silent, still, and perfectly rooted in the soil. I can feel the wind, and I can feel the contentment of being rooted in Earth, of having a home. I am comforted at the fact that I do not have to speak, I do not have to remember, and at the fact that no one is going to take my home away from me. You would say I am dead, but I have never felt more alive. I arch up a little, and I remain standing there in eternal peace.

It's Been A Long Night's Dream

It's those seconds that matter the most. The seconds in between dreaming & waking; the ones in which your dream's melody starts to fade out as silence fades in until it echoes no more; the ones in which the faces of your dream start to dissolve beneath your eyelids, wash out until they vanish into thin air; the ones in which your dream born emotions begin to fleet away from you heading back to their fantasy world. Hold on to them, grab gently but firmly for maybe, just maybe someday they'll pull you there awake.

Ticking Clocks

The last thing I ever remember doing to a ticking clock was smash it down. But last night was different, I was caught off guard. I was drifting off into indefinite space

& so the ticks were not rhythming my present but rather rhyming my past; the past which I woke up to find I had been sleeping with all this time, when all I really wanted was

to wake up from sleep in the arms of another.

From the Depths of Inner Silence

It's this tiny thin thread between being & feeling. Right at this moment, I am, but I don't feel anything.

Just for the Dream of It

There's lovers turning into strangers & strangers turning into lovers,

there's one self & multiple selves & endless change.

There's one story, there's mine side of it & yours,

our version of it & theirs.

There's new stories arising from old stories & the world is born.

There's things I do & things I don't remember,

things I will & things I won't do again,

things I miss & things I try not to.

There's me, there's you, there's him,

& her, and her & him, there's them, there's us.

An us that is, an us that never was,

& an us that never will be again.

There's lost, there's found, there's one casting me out,

& one taking me in.

There's days, there's weeks, there's months,

& there's years to come...or not.

There's time, there's timelessness, there's eternal now,

& a never happening then.

Breathe in, breathe out, fade out & fade back in.

I only hear what you say in terms of silence,

gaps in between utterances,

& I tell what I've got in words unspoken.

It's the first of December, there's passing thoughts sometimes.

I'm hiding, right here, just for the dream of it,

and they cannot see me, not in my mind.

Right Then & There

He intimidates me. It feels like three mighty decades are staring back at me every time he looks me in the eye. I face every breath he's ever taken, everything he's ever seen & everything he's ever done. I stand before his glorious story; vulnerable, weighed down, and scared of all the unknown bits of it. But when he smiles, the ice mountains melt & I peacefully float in running rivers & streams.