"I love you."
"Do you?" she asked, idly stirring her coffee, still staring intently at the T.V.
"Yes," he said dispassionately. "More than anything."
He stifled a yawn and casually picked a fingernail. He then proceeded to gaze absentmindedly around the room. Since this is just about the most exciting thing Jack will do, a description of the room is warranted.
it was tastefully modern, which is to say it was soulless - the exact replica of a model living room in a catalogue. A black leather couch sagged lazily into the floor. A simple coffee table in light wood rested on the darker wood floor. Tiny recess lights lit strategic parts of the room, while the flat-screen T.V. bathed the room in a paler glow. In the corner, a tall, sleek vase containing a taller, sleeker ornamental lily, like a delicate dancing figurine - solitary, silent and sterilized. Spartan and stylish, angular and precise, characterless and blunt, it was a room with no mystery, a room one could not possibly be captivated by or lose oneself in.
Jack-the-living-room-personified quite suddenly and unexpectedly began feeling strange. He began to suspect that something was off, something was not right. It was a half formed idea niggling at the back of his mind, some slight yet noticable dissatisfaction. For a moment he thought the lighting in the room was at fault, or that some piece of carefully aranged furniture was facing the wrong wall. But the faint yet feverish buzzing of an elusive and profound observation still lingered in his ears. He frowned.
For the first time Jack was close to becoming conscious of the long stifled cries or his own diminished and life-starved soul.
But a promise is a promise, therefore no, Jack will not be making fascinating remarks on the futility and emptiness of his life. He will be missing this chance to have an epiphany today, because as it turns out, he has a rather important dentist's appointment at four.
Dentist's at four. The memory effectively drove the shadow of a meaningful thought from his mind, a bit like a hand waving away a mildly annoying fly.
He took a crack at his relationship again.
"Kiss me."
"In a minute."
A pause.
"That's horrible."
"Really? It's not that bad. I've always enjoyed it. Haven't you?"
"Hmm?" She looked at him. "What are you talking about?"
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about these murders. A whole family in one night. Five people. Three of them children. Their bodies were mutilated. They just showed pictures. It was awful."
"Yes, I can imagine."
He couldn't.
Another short silence. A cartoon danced on screen advertising cereal.
"Well? It's been a minute," said Jack.
An inquiring glance.
"You said you'd kiss me. After a minute."
"Oh," she smiled.
She kissed him. The news came back on.
Silence. The buzzing again. He was uncomfortable. He looked at her. He wasn't comforted.
"I think wwe should break up."
She turned towards him, eyebrows raised.
"I thought you said you loved me."
"Probably imagined it," he shrugged. "And anyway, did you ever care?"
She looked at him for a few seconds with hollow intensity, mildly troubled.
"Of course. I've always cared."
She turned back to the T.V., frowning slightly.
Jack gave a satisfied nod. Neither, really, had he.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Sunday, September 7, 2008
When My World Stands Still
As I sit here simply wondering,
What, where, when, and mostly why?
With the blank light of the screen,
And my fingers on the keys.
I listen to a song in loop,
I stare into a corner.
I let the cursor stop and blink,
The music rise and fall.
I let my heart drown in the sound,
I let the dark room disappear.
I let the emptiness descend,
For then, my world stands still.
I do not bother with a rhyme,
For I am not inspired.
I do not bother to sit and think,
For time is thought in motion.
And since time is out to lunch,
I have nothing to feed my soul.
I wonder if this helps?
When the clock forgets to tick,
When people forget to breathe,
When our hearts just fail to beat,
When everything simply sinks,
Into despair, a kind of listlessness,
A kind of torpor of the being.
And the being is the Earth,
And the Earth is sluggish, heavy.
And you wear existence like a cloak,
Slipping from your shoulders.
Only it's departure is a different weight entirely.
This is when, for me, the world stands still.
I am not awake,
Nor am I asleep,
The cloak slips down, down...
It waits, it holds it's breath.
And when I try to slip out completely,
It plays with me, and holds on fast,
And then, quite as suddenly,
It throws itself back on.
The spell is broken, the wakening rude,
The world's heart beats around me.
The clock ticks on,
And life moves forward,
Now the world awaits me.
I feel cold.
What, where, when, and mostly why?
With the blank light of the screen,
And my fingers on the keys.
I listen to a song in loop,
I stare into a corner.
I let the cursor stop and blink,
The music rise and fall.
I let my heart drown in the sound,
I let the dark room disappear.
I let the emptiness descend,
For then, my world stands still.
I do not bother with a rhyme,
For I am not inspired.
I do not bother to sit and think,
For time is thought in motion.
And since time is out to lunch,
I have nothing to feed my soul.
I wonder if this helps?
When the clock forgets to tick,
When people forget to breathe,
When our hearts just fail to beat,
When everything simply sinks,
Into despair, a kind of listlessness,
A kind of torpor of the being.
And the being is the Earth,
And the Earth is sluggish, heavy.
And you wear existence like a cloak,
Slipping from your shoulders.
Only it's departure is a different weight entirely.
This is when, for me, the world stands still.
I am not awake,
Nor am I asleep,
The cloak slips down, down...
It waits, it holds it's breath.
And when I try to slip out completely,
It plays with me, and holds on fast,
And then, quite as suddenly,
It throws itself back on.
The spell is broken, the wakening rude,
The world's heart beats around me.
The clock ticks on,
And life moves forward,
Now the world awaits me.
I feel cold.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Raindrops
Raindrops falling from the sky,
Are split apart in death,
They always shatter on the ground
Yet they go up and fall again.
A raindrop is a raindrop,
Multiplied by two.
Do you think those raindrops,
Are in love, both one and two?
How sad and brief is love's embrace,
How sudden is their parting.
And fitting for their state and life,
In the end, they burst into tears.
How many raindrops do you see?
How many can you count?
How many of those can you catch and keep,
Within an outstretched palm?
How simple is the raindrop's life!
It simply has to fall.
How pitiful its simplicity!
For it must always fall.
Some say a raindrop is a tear,
Shed by an aging sky.
Some say a raindrop is a token,
Of a cloud's silent good-bye.
But still some say that rain is just
A symptom. Nothing more.
Of clouds that find the air too cold,
And so precipitate to the floor.
They fall to the ground and scatter,
They are swayed easily by the wind,
They may glint a bit, slightly in the sun,
But really, what does it matter?
A raindrop can be angry, strong,
A raindrop can be joyful.
A raindrop can be soft and sad,
Invisible, as glass.
A raindrop must fall to the ground,
For there it must finally perish.
It's fate is doom, it's life must end,
And yet, what does it do?
It glitters in the sun with joy,
It clings lovingly to its friends,
It is noisy when it feels the need,
It is quiet when it doesn't.
It lives its life without control,
But not with lifeless silence.
So if raindrops don't have poetry,
Then my friend, neither do we.
Are split apart in death,
They always shatter on the ground
Yet they go up and fall again.
A raindrop is a raindrop,
Multiplied by two.
Do you think those raindrops,
Are in love, both one and two?
How sad and brief is love's embrace,
How sudden is their parting.
And fitting for their state and life,
In the end, they burst into tears.
How many raindrops do you see?
How many can you count?
How many of those can you catch and keep,
Within an outstretched palm?
How simple is the raindrop's life!
It simply has to fall.
How pitiful its simplicity!
For it must always fall.
Some say a raindrop is a tear,
Shed by an aging sky.
Some say a raindrop is a token,
Of a cloud's silent good-bye.
But still some say that rain is just
A symptom. Nothing more.
Of clouds that find the air too cold,
And so precipitate to the floor.
They fall to the ground and scatter,
They are swayed easily by the wind,
They may glint a bit, slightly in the sun,
But really, what does it matter?
A raindrop can be angry, strong,
A raindrop can be joyful.
A raindrop can be soft and sad,
Invisible, as glass.
A raindrop must fall to the ground,
For there it must finally perish.
It's fate is doom, it's life must end,
And yet, what does it do?
It glitters in the sun with joy,
It clings lovingly to its friends,
It is noisy when it feels the need,
It is quiet when it doesn't.
It lives its life without control,
But not with lifeless silence.
So if raindrops don't have poetry,
Then my friend, neither do we.
Mist and Rain
The rain was churning the lake into a fine spray, a mist that swept into the city, a huge mass rolling in, ominous as the storm clouds above it, yet soft and silent. Slowly blotting out the buildings, one after the other, suddenly and quietly. Smothered lies the city now, and darkened is the sky. Some might stand with fluttering, frightened hearts, but not me. Not I.
The rain is all that cuts it, but the rain is only part of it. The mist is pressing up against the glass. It cannot enter, so it knocks. A raindrop. Now two. It cannot enter. The rain is stronger. It cannot enter. It knocks with abandon. Yet no one listens. No one pities. Both mist and rain want shelter from the wind.
The wind masters them, tosses them, blows them off course, first this way, then that. It is merciless and biting, cold and strong, and the rain is at it's mercy, as is the billowing mist.
So they knock at every door, both mist and rain, and the wind does follow. They smother all in search of shelter, not finding, they depart, leaving Church spires wet, and windows hazy.
They come towards me. I see them coming. I wait for their embrace. The streetlights are flickering, beneath the roiling mist. The sky is ringing with claps of thunder, and exploding into shards of lightning, beyond the approaching curtains of rain.
The mist is coming. It has drowned the world already. It presses against the glass. It knocks, quite gently, twice.
It raps quickly, desperately.
It breaks upon the window, battering it, hammering it, but not shattering it, no.
I open it.
A wave washes over me, as fresh and strong as one from the storm tossed lake that lies outside the city. A wet, cool spray. It surrounds me. The rain pours in. It drowns me.
I stand silent in a tempest that is terrible in its joy, its chaos loud, overwhelming. But I let it overwhelm. It is angry. Let anger pass.
The mist is all around me. It has fallen silent. My room is no longer my own. The mist becomes all I know, damp and swirling, slowly curling, around my legs, my arms and eyes. It has me. It holds me. It overwhelms me. It drowns me.
Ah, what a feeling! To be drenched in the rain, and drowning in the mist!
The rain is all that cuts it, but the rain is only part of it. The mist is pressing up against the glass. It cannot enter, so it knocks. A raindrop. Now two. It cannot enter. The rain is stronger. It cannot enter. It knocks with abandon. Yet no one listens. No one pities. Both mist and rain want shelter from the wind.
The wind masters them, tosses them, blows them off course, first this way, then that. It is merciless and biting, cold and strong, and the rain is at it's mercy, as is the billowing mist.
So they knock at every door, both mist and rain, and the wind does follow. They smother all in search of shelter, not finding, they depart, leaving Church spires wet, and windows hazy.
They come towards me. I see them coming. I wait for their embrace. The streetlights are flickering, beneath the roiling mist. The sky is ringing with claps of thunder, and exploding into shards of lightning, beyond the approaching curtains of rain.
The mist is coming. It has drowned the world already. It presses against the glass. It knocks, quite gently, twice.
It raps quickly, desperately.
It breaks upon the window, battering it, hammering it, but not shattering it, no.
I open it.
A wave washes over me, as fresh and strong as one from the storm tossed lake that lies outside the city. A wet, cool spray. It surrounds me. The rain pours in. It drowns me.
I stand silent in a tempest that is terrible in its joy, its chaos loud, overwhelming. But I let it overwhelm. It is angry. Let anger pass.
The mist is all around me. It has fallen silent. My room is no longer my own. The mist becomes all I know, damp and swirling, slowly curling, around my legs, my arms and eyes. It has me. It holds me. It overwhelms me. It drowns me.
Ah, what a feeling! To be drenched in the rain, and drowning in the mist!
Friday, May 30, 2008
Cosmonaut
The sights are soundless
The windows clear
The men are speechless
Overwhelmed with fear
The stars are quiet
The planet's near
Earth cannot whisper
We cannot hear
Blue soft-blown silence
World's vision dear
And so with bated breath
We leave her here
For the myriad lands beyond.
The windows clear
The men are speechless
Overwhelmed with fear
The stars are quiet
The planet's near
Earth cannot whisper
We cannot hear
Blue soft-blown silence
World's vision dear
And so with bated breath
We leave her here
For the myriad lands beyond.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Surreality
A dark shadow crossed his mind, a cloud of turbulent ideas. They shifted with unease, disturbed by light and wind, brooding as they formed strange shapes, as if uncertain of what to do. A flash of lightning and they decided to precipitate. Cascading drops of happiness fell to the grassy plain, which began sprouting musings and emotions as the earth does flowers in spring.
But then it changed. The rain boiled and reddened, forming rivers of horrible, poisonous blood frothing with despair and pain.
Poetic way to look at it, really. The rush, the ecstasy, the freedom. And then the pain, the fear, the misery and self-disgust. His eyes opened, and after a while he began to see.
From his place amongst the garbage cans, the smell of which he was now immune to, he watched as people walked by. People; the grotesque, the masses, the world. The drab greys, the depressing colours, the silly, fruitless exploits of their lives. Walking ashes, soon to be dust.
(to be continued)
But then it changed. The rain boiled and reddened, forming rivers of horrible, poisonous blood frothing with despair and pain.
Poetic way to look at it, really. The rush, the ecstasy, the freedom. And then the pain, the fear, the misery and self-disgust. His eyes opened, and after a while he began to see.
From his place amongst the garbage cans, the smell of which he was now immune to, he watched as people walked by. People; the grotesque, the masses, the world. The drab greys, the depressing colours, the silly, fruitless exploits of their lives. Walking ashes, soon to be dust.
(to be continued)
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