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This was a mixed-genre, experimental and somewhat exploratory piece that I submitted as my final for a dream-based creative writing course in the spring of 2014.
This text explores (or rather, attempts to explore) the existence and vulnerability of a growing youth through the repeated imagery of visual art, music, and the contrast between light and dark.
Though it is presented as a brief collection of short stories, poetry, parable, and other genres, this story is meant to be taken as a singular and holistic narrative. Furthermore, though it was submitted for assessment at the end of the term, this is a story that is constantly changing and being rewritten. I consider this version to be complete but I do not consider it to be the final or definitive version of what it could be.
This was a mixed-genre, experimental and somewhat exploratory piece that I submitted as my final for a dream-based creative writing course in the spring of 2014.
This text explores (or rather, attempts to explore) the existence and vulnerability of a growing youth through the repeated imagery of visual art, music, and the contrast between light and dark.
Though it is presented as a brief collection of short stories, poetry, parable, and other genres, this story is meant to be taken as a singular and holistic narrative. Furthermore, though it was submitted for assessment at the end of the term, this is a story that is constantly changing and being rewritten. I consider this version to be complete but I do not consider it to be the final or definitive version of what it could be.
This was a mixed-genre, experimental and somewhat exploratory piece that I submitted as my final for a dream-based creative writing course in the spring of 2014.
This text explores (or rather, attempts to explore) the existence and vulnerability of a growing youth through the repeated imagery of visual art, music, and the contrast between light and dark.
Though it is presented as a brief collection of short stories, poetry, parable, and other genres, this story is meant to be taken as a singular and holistic narrative. Furthermore, though it was submitted for assessment at the end of the term, this is a story that is constantly changing and being rewritten. I consider this version to be complete but I do not consider it to be the final or definitive version of what it could be.
(Stage center, a lone NARRATOR. Standing straight, an average height, he seems weathered and worn, not by time but by some greater emotional weight. Around him, a blue haze rests in the air, the source unknown. He does not acknowledge it. He clears his throat, straightens a crease in the sleeve of his suit, and speaks.)
NARRATOR : The day we are born is the day our battle begins. We are born with a subconscious desire instilled within us, forever fixated on finding nirvana. This is a battle with no clear opponent, no enemy to set our eyes on, as the definition of this desire and the means to reach it are as unique and varied as the people harboring it. To many, the heavens are the final bastion of hope. Others find a similar comfort within themselves. With goal in sight, we then create our own opponents for the sake of continuing our battle, refusing to remain idle.
(A pause. The NARRATOR regards the AUDIENCE, stage left, then turns his head to acknowledge stage right. An impassive sea of dreamers, insofar uninspired by his words, is reflected in his eyes. He is not discouraged. He still has a story to tell. The blue haze is dancing, swirling around the stage, delicate wisps of smoke careening in pirouettes around him. He is an audience of one to their advances, the lone recipient of their spectacle, and yet he continues uninhibited. The ballet would wait. He clears his throat.)
NARRATOR : On what grounds? Where do we derive our convictions from? Is it also subconscious, this sense of emotional wanderlust?
(The NARRATOR advances towards the AUDIENCE, approaching the edge of the stage. His arms swing upwards, emphatic pendulums, grasping for reason and meaning. There is spit when he speaks. There is a passion in his speech and guise that the AUDIENCE, preoccupied with their own vapid thoughts, continues to ignore.)
NARRATOR : Our fingers are merely stolen vultures talons, leaving desperate claw marks, deep crevasses dug into the flesh of anything we were foolish enough to let go of. Once loved is mistake enough, but we continue to love, and we continue to let go, the cycle repeating until everyone walks around hiding their clawed scars under layers of thicker and thicker skin. And that is but one stolen vice. We continue to steal, and we are still not masters of this ritualistic thievery, as no stolen eyes have yet seen enough to guide us.
(The blue haze spreads further, slowly enveloping the AUDIENCE with a soft blanket. Indifferent to its embrace, they casually continue their side-conversations, absent-mindedly regarding the NARRATOR, who begins to pace the stage with an intensified vigor. His speech is frenetic and
approaching a climax. A few individuals now sit upright, regarding his monologue with a renewed focus. There is a unity through the pathos.)
NARRATOR (shouting) : What guides you now? Each of you here, sitting in this theatre, are of no value to the universe! Time does not know your name, your successes, your personal heavens all will be forgotten by the next turn of the page! What will guide you tomorrow, when the universe blinks and all of us are extinguished, swallowed by flames and suffocated by space? The puppeteer will only laugh as her theater crumbles, dilapidated! The puppeteer is laughing now!
(The AUDIENCE is transfixed by this new commotion. All side-conversations have stopped. The blue haze has risen, a suspended translucent veil across the theatres lights, creating a soft bloom throughout.)
NARRATOR (still shouting) : Our strings only become more tangled as we blindly continue to push the walls down on top of us! We must escape to the endless fields within ourselves, inside our dreams, and find something to cling to! Sink your talons into the flesh of what you love, greedily suck the blood until you have become one, and never
(The curtain begins to close, obstructing the AUDIENCEs view of the NARRATOR. He tries to push through the gaps, continuing to shout, but is swallowed in the folds of the heavy fabric. There is a spark and the curtain catches fire. It rapidly begins to spread, the march of the flames providing a metronome for the dance of the blue haze, now a solemn waltz. There is an incredible din of applause and catcalls. The AUDIENCE stands in ovation, cheering, as the theatre is reduced to rubble and ash.)
II Dancing in the afterlight of the sun (i)
I opened my eyes and the sun was gone.
There was no hole in the sky where it once was; rather, the skies had forgotten the sun was ever there. The horizon was met with the edges of an impenetrable monochromatic dome, as if every cloud had been neatly swept away, perpetually on the cusp of sight, yet still tantalizingly out of view. Around me, tranquil fields of pale grass stretched for an immeasurable distance, unchanging, reflecting the blank sky above. I had become a mere circus attraction, a dust mote in the mysterious Room With No Walls. Gone were the crowded tenements, throbbing with the pulse of the ramshackle communities within; gone were the sprawling sidewalks connecting them like veins, severed by infinite incisions, the remnants falling away into some unknown oblivion. The landscape around me harbored no indication a city had ever existed; the idyllic fields were as undisturbed as they were lifeless. There was no voice speaking waves into the grass. Everything had been replaced by something so alien, something so overwhelmingly empty, my heart, my lungs, and every atom within me felt as if they were being pulled taut, made frail. The sterile hues mirrored throughout the fields carried a unique weight, causing a noticeable unease on both my body and mind. It was far different from the dull shades seen back home. The city, stained with its endless gradients of industrial grays and browns, a metallic palette often considered putrid by those from more rustic areas, was still more alive and more beautiful than this new painting. This was unfamiliar. The landscape had its own presence, a powerful and relentless force of emptiness. The Empty surrounded me and the accompanying Silence was a constant whisper of disparagement.
Overwhelmed by my initial awakening, I had neglected entirely the urge to move or thoroughly investigate my surroundings, aside from cautiously and lazily moving to an upright sitting position. There seemed to be an invisible weight, concerned about a sensory oversaturation, pinning my body to the ground and forcing me to slowly acknowledge and accept each minor detail of my surroundings, sluggish. But my curiositys hunger was voracious. What else was different in this foreign world? What rules had changed? I sat motionless for another moment, allowing the questions to accumulate, festering forth from my minds subconscious into a more clear and disturbing reality. The emptiness was replaced with a deep fear fear of how my body would react to my brains more involved commands, fear of a mental or physical paralysis, fear of the unknown I had somehow become immersed in.
I cautiously began to test myself, the mental process painstakingly slow, awaiting any misstep or failure. The first trial was to allow myself, for the first time, to hide this new world I had uncovered. Time had unrecognizably blurred as I sat unblinking and unresponsive through its paces; my curiosity would have to momentarily wait to whet its appetite once more. Taking the final mental step forth, I closed my eyes, forcing myself to pause. Immediate visual silence. All
of the nothing that surrounded me had been absorbed into the dark void hidden on the backs of my eyelids. Apparently this cavernous darkness was one of the few familiarities I had been privileged to still enjoy. It was peaceful. Here, in this foreign world, plagued with the unfamiliar and abstract, I reveled in the opportunity to experience a familiar comfort of the old. The darkness held a silence that was far more comforting than that of the silence held in the grass around. But I was still left with unanswered questions, questions that could not wait for me to passively stare into nothingness and stagnantly accept past wonders. Would things be different when I opened my eyes once again? I nearly expected the sun to boldly reappear in the sky, igniting the stern, lifeless horizon as a beautiful inferno. Maybe it would be hurtling towards me, the short remainder of my life to be engulfed in a torturous flame. Or maybe I would open my eyes to find myself dancing through an abyss, no ground below, surrounded by sky and space. It was only a moment of darkness and yet I suddenly felt filled with a nervous optimism. My tumultuous inner void was satiated with a mixture of hope that the familiarity of my city would reappear, or that Id wake from a dream, and yet a strangely undeniable fear of both. I was surprised to find myself already considering the option of accepting this situation, here in this foreign land, as permanent.
I opened my eyes and nothing had changed.
A soft sigh escaped my body, my shoulders deflating slightly as I continued my tests. But there was still a fear that my body would fail me, somehow, in some inexplicable manner. I slowly lifted my left arm until it was at eye-level, parallel to the ground I sat on. With delicate and calculated movements, I cautiously and ceremoniously uncoiled each individual finger, the success a celebration; five miniature triumphs. My hand became an open palm, and I lowered it back down to the ground, satisfied. I repeated the trial with my right arm, and then stood. I was taken aback at how easily I was able to accomplish these tasks once I overcame and accepted the initial shock of the situation. I suppose I hadnt registered the fact that I had been able to sit upright with no noticeable discomfort, though it never hurt to be too cautious. Although the world around me defied everything I had ever known, it was comforting knowing my body seemed to be functioning properly, my synapses intact. I felt both as rested and as healthy as I had ever been.
But this comfort was not enough. Uncertainty continued to weigh me down, badgering my composure, until my feelings of confusion towards this new land manifested into a vitriolic anger. I lashed out. I used what I had and what I knew the ability of movement, motion, expression to channel my despair. I jumped, shouted, kicked and flailed, pounding the grass with my fists. Unsurprisingly, my pleas went unanswered. My questions faded, echoing only inside my own mind, while my chest shook and heaved. The grass lay bent and matted, barely providing evidence for my minute tantrum. How could my surroundings be so indifferent to my actions? How could I be so small, so worthless? My greatest expression of rage was no more than an annoying hum in the ear of this perverted, alternate biome. It infuriated me. Before I
knew what I was doing, my hands were buried into the soil, tearing the grass out in great lumps. It served no reason or purpose, but it was all I knew to do in that moment. As I kneeled there, doubled over in frustration, tears began to fall, bursting on the backs of my hands. I remained in that position. As my tears continued to nurture the soil, I tried to analyze every second of my life prior to arriving in the Empty. Its funny how introspective you become when you have nothing. What punishment was this? What answers was I being denied? My mind grew tired of asking questions, defeated by the lack of response. Sinking back into a sitting position, I realized in that moment, my life was dominated by only two truths.
I was lost, and I was alone.
These two words reverberated inside my head, wildly careening, directionless, crashing into any thought that was unfortunate enough to feel their wrath. This sense of lost, so caustic and abrasive, tore at me. I had been lost before, of course, left with countless stories of frustration and anger, but never had I felt such a visceral fear. To be truly alone, in a void created by the most sadistic introvert, failing to find comfort even in the resolve of my own mind. Stricken by a great pang of exhaustion, it felt as if finally harboring this realization was the end chalice to an emotional gauntlet I was the lone subject of. My eyelids fell, heavy shutters drawn closed over the windows to my skull, the nonexistent sun pushed further away from my heart and mind. I welcomed the darkness and closed my eyes.
III do you remember that gallenburger?
My eyes find the mirror. Staring in a pond, like theres a pool of water hiding behind this reflective pane in my bathroom, I see an echo of myself. Its warbled by some invisible stone, thrown by some unknown force, twisting the hues of my image until each color becomes the wrong shade and each muscle moves out of place. Each passing second creates another ripple in my image, distorting it more, throwing my self-perception into a nervous state of disbelief.
My minds orchestra begins to enter its second movement. Melody is pushed into a cacophony as the maestro swings his arms in greater and more exaggerated arcs, beckoning the wall of noise before him to push the audience of one, myself, into a swollen oblivion. Each ripple in my image and each new note in the song further detracts me from my art, and my painting remains unfinished; the artists desire to write a new page in the art history textbooks remains incomplete.
I look down towards the sink, reaching for the stained silver handles that could clear the ripples from my skin. The stream hesitated, as if nervous to assist me, until it coughed and began to spurt forth, uneven but constant. A cerulean blue paste, #A2D9E8, began to fill the ceramic bowl. I paused. I was accustomed to the water in my apartment having flakes, tasting strange, even having a slight smell, but it was never so opaque. This substance greedily clung to edges of the sink, a vibrant molasses; it hardly reflected the nature of water. Paint, if anything. I hastily disengaged the right handle, watching the remaining swatch circle the drain, sluggishly rolling towards the center. It cleared, and I reached for the left handle. #E66963.
A single note rang out, and ripples skimmed the surface once more. The violinist was at center stage, playing on blue. It was a remarkable melody, as fragile as a flower, as delicate as a thought in my head. The music slowly began to crescendo once more, and I allowed myself to fall into the pool. Allowed the tune to continue the painting as I sat in the audience and watched.
Next on our tour, we see the stunning penultimate work by the late Polish-American artist _________. Interestingly enough, this was his final completed work, as his last piece remained unfinished before his death. As you may have noticed, this piece shows the culmination of his years of experimentation, as his precarious blending of different influence and era finally transitioned from mere emulation and homage into his own unique craft. The use of color is particularly interesting because it seems to reflect the artists own mentality and position in life at the time it was created which, although not unusual for an artist to try and create, is done with masterful effect here.
There was a brief pause.
But maam, the canvas is blank, someone commented, and as the museum curator carefully responded, I watch with dimmed eyes from the back of the crowd, trying not to yawn.
The music stopped.
IV Dancing in the afterlight of the sun (ii)
I opened my eyes and I heard the sound.
I immediately sprung up from my position of rest. The land around me was unchanged, the cold grass and gray dome-like sky blas to this new sensation I was experiencing. A sound! In this place? I could hardly fathom what it could be, and before I could consider any of the possibilities, I was on my feet. Running towards the hum, I thought about what I had just experienced. Why had I grown tired? Why did I feel the need to sleep? A quick look above my head proved that the sun had still yet to return. Did this strange land still have its own cycles of day and night, and would I continue to feel cycles of energy and exhaustion? Or was I simply overwhelmed by the initial shock of appearing in such a strange and foreign land that my mind could not further continue to withstand the weight of the new mysteries surrounding me?
I had not even begun to consider the implications of my dream sequence, the strange blend of music, art, and a supposed future memory, when I halted abruptly. The sound was closer now, close enough to be intelligible.
Voices.
Could it be? Had I found companions, someone to share the mystery and wonder of this world? Someone who could possibly elucidate all the questions I had spiraling forth unkempt in the confines of my minds cage?
I began to sprint. It did not matter to me whether these voices belonged to a friend or a foe, an ally or enemy. I was in an alternate universe, the sun had fallen from the sky, and the memories I had of home were fading with each passing moment. As the saying goes, I had nothing to lose, but everything to gain. My body shook with a frenetic energy, invigorated at the thought that there was a foreseeable solution or, at the very least, a definite change that was about to occur.
As the sound intensified, the voices becoming vaguely more audible, I noticed the landscape around me was changing as well. No longer were the fields an unwavering level plane; rather, I was descending a slight incline, and I noticed divots and bulges of various sizes in the land around me. I had stumbled into a theatre of mystery and I had finally found the courage and will to raise my shaking hands and pull back the curtain. I could almost hear Antonin Artaud laughing from a hidden perch in the audience. What else would I find?
A shout, from my left. Screeching to a halt, nearly falling, I turn to realize I am atop a great hill, and there are visitors below me. The following sequence happened quickly. Time felt as if it had slipped somewhere between the fall and rise of an eyelid, lost in a dim darkness. There were
embraces as I was introduced to three travelers, laughter and exuberance as we shared our stories of confusion and anger. A slight tugging in the back of my mind, a quiet whisper of, They offer no solutions. You were lost before, and lost you remain. But I silence it, pay it no heed, because I have people to share this with. We were all lost, ants waiting for a microscope to come and incinerate us under the dome of the Room With No Walls.
Before long, I felt optimistic for the return of familiarity. Even if I never saw home again, even if I forgot what home was, here, in a land that broke every rule the textbooks had ever taught me was law, friendships could be recreated and rebuilt. People could endure and survive, somehow, perhaps, as long as they had one another. But familiar comfort was not the only familiarity that returned. The encounter took a look out of us, all of us, and I began to once again feel the welcoming of exhaustion and sleep. But I refused to lay idle not yet. The four of us arranged ourselves in a haphazard circle in the grass and began to share anything and everything we could think of.
The stories of our past were fading. Each second furthered the rapid sublimation that turned our memories into a mist, ethereal, our fingers catching nothing but smoke through the cracks. But we helped each other cling on, as best as we could, until the warmth and comfort lured me to sleep.
Problems for another day.
V important memories come swarming back to you
Its the first day, not of the class, but of this one story, and the wizened professor is pulling teeth again, like many days before. The students, his patients, theyre cynical, skeptical, and theyre also pulling, both at his dentistry license and the frayed tips of his hair, until all patience is gone. And Motivation, you know, its a stubborn and decaying molar, more likely to rot and sink back into the recesses of your mouth, way back in there, as a painful sore, than it is likely to be extracted and serve to inspire. But the professor, hes good, hes pulled teeth before and hes pulled Motivation out of even the most crooked mouths, so he pulls up his sleeves and hes all, Forget the prompt, forget the direction, write a story about anything and have it ready for next class. And hes not quite defeated but you still know he didnt want to say it, so he lowers his plaque-covered tools and retreats.
Ill make it quick, because all good stories are its the second day, and the panicked student, well, hes still struggling. I mean, it could be from anything, but well say todays itch is a bad case of writers block, a cramped infection of the hands and mind that no mD has a cure for, though Valium is a good place to start, you know? So this kid is really bugging out, until his older sister comes home. Archetypal role-model type gal you know, a real trope, deus ex machina kind of solution to one of these crises, and shes all, Why dont you start by creating a character? And yeah, sure, he thinks thats easy, but she shakes her head, tells him, Make them as beautiful, or as ugly, as you, only you, can imagine. And the kid sits back, right, because he keeps picturing this beautiful fucking person in his head, like maybe hes seen this person before, maybe he just grabs pieces from people he met, but he starts thinking. Starts building. Starts to smooth out the wrinkles and starts writing, right?
Were almost there, dont worry. Last day, back in the class, and the confused professor is one story short, but sees one character still in the waiting room. So he asks, and the student smiles, I dont have a story, but I think Im in love. And you think, isnt that the reason why we do this shit in the first place?
intermission or, the narrator loses his mind
its only natural for the audience to grow restless during even the most enticing and the most captivating of plays or performances or stories because no matter how much is put into the endeavor or how much of the artists heart and blood is woven into the thread, the audience still holds some urgent sense of self-importance, unraveling your work, all because these spinsters feel as if you, the creator, todays purveyor of fine art and modern culture, owe it to them to
pause
to let them step outside to just breathe or smoke or shit or squeeze out a quick fuck or whatever they need to do before they can snap their attention back to the stage that is messily adorned with the confetti guts that have spilled out of the proverbial piata, beat into an unrecognizable and misshapen heap by their greedy eyes, well, I think its time to
pause
and break the fourth wall, mingle with the audience, like
hello, how are you, are you enjoying the show so far, are you connecting with any of the characters, what do you think of the setting, the Room With No Walls, yes, do you see an overarching narrative, have you seen the language and images continued throughout, is there anything you dont understand, anything that we can do to improve subsequent showings, are there people you wish were here, will you share this experience with others, do the differing formats work for you, does anything seem experimental for the sake of being experimental, is it forced, does it flow, do do do do do and so the doldrums continue on and on ad infinitum
and we all come back exhausted from conversation prepared to sink into the cushions and eager for round two of the narrative to unfold but were eager for something new because weve already seen a play and a short story or two and a dream and a parable so lets see if this piata has any poetry
VI two poems written at two very different points in the artists life
i We long to live for the moments of love, fleeting, yet strong enough to give us hope to say, Though theres no god or gates above, we have one heart and speak with but one throat. Our lives pulsate a beat by our own drum that we built from the ash of past missteps and learned that love can be controlled by none; always astray, we pray that it connects. But words will fade from each last page I write, and our voices become too hoarse to speak or praise the joys of our once wondrous life, and so silence becomes our shared defeat. My dreams of you never came to see light, so I remain dormant, swallowed by night.
ii After holding our breath for as long as we could take, we simultaneously exhaled, and opened our eyes. We were surrounded by darkness and mystery, our eyes greeted by a blank void, expanding infinitely all around us. As our eyes adjusted, tiny sparks of light, miniature flames, began illuminating the nothingness. Each spot, a pinpoint Prometheus, sparkled, seemingly staring back at us. But they were ever fleeting, and any steps I took towards them were greeted with a flickering of the light, eventually dissipating back to
nothing. So we closed our eyes again, and swung our limbs with a reckless fervor, eager to make some sort of contact with the mysterious incandescence around us.
VII a nice day for a swim
I watch as my stomach bursts outwards with a bouquet of flowers, the horned stems of roses cutting through my skin effortlessly. Again. This time, Im swimming underwater, watching them grow faster than I can paddle, my feet cycling on invisible pedals underwater. Petals surrounded me, painting the water with splashes of soft pastels amidst the perennial green, delicate streams of my own blood swirling in helixes around them. It was as beautiful as always.
The transformation was beautiful yet messy, surprisingly painless and yet explosive, the growth accelerating rapidly. Flowers continued blooming from the spaces between my ribs, fighting each other, gasping for a taste of the water that surrounded us. Each vine was an aching finger, scratching past the other tendons and extremities, desperately clawing to be the first at what lay beyond the confines of my chest. Floating towards the surface, I continued to pedal my invisible bicycle, continued my attempts to halt the expansion of this botanical invasion. But covering the wound only served to get myself more tangled in the situation, the hands of the flower intertwining with mine, dancing to a tune I could not hear, enveloped by the jeering rose petals accenting our rhythm and motions.
The dance reached its climactic finale, peaking as I broke the surface of the water. A beach. Though far from shore, I could see there were people everywhere. Were they also unwilling hosts? How could I warn them? I swam as quickly as I could, rapidly increasing the width of my strokes and strength of my kicks, hurtling myself towards the shore. The roses halted in their growth, the force of the water pushing them back towards my chest, their fingers crushed by the wake of the minute waves crashing against them. But the petals caused drag, forcing me to double my efforts, to constantly increase the intensity at which I pushed myself. If I could reach the shore quickly enough, perhaps I could gain an understanding of what was happening to me. Perhaps I could warn others and save them from enduring a similar fate, even if I could not be saved myself.
Alas, as I neared the edge of the beach, I saw my warning was unnecessary; the flowers had made it to shore far before I could.
I watched as a young boy on an inner tube near me was silenced, egregious amounts of daffodils sprouting from the inside of his throat, bubbling from his mouth like a yellow froth. Flailing wildly in a mixture of fright and confusion, the boy struggled and fell from the tube. The bubbles ceased before I could reach him.
As a mother frantically fought to pull roots and stems from her daughters head, at the same time battling the spread of geraniums that threatened to consume her legs. As two men battled to rescue a woman completely enveloped in begonias, reaching and pushing through the mass of
vegetation until a lone hibiscus was all that remained in their stay. As a small dog, desperately pawing at the zinnias smothering her pups, gave a final cry, the lavender wave sweeping her offspring towards oblivion, her own fate sealed by the larkspur tumors sprouting from her mane.
I watched in horror as every root pulled was greeted with another two, the flowers a hydra, devouring the beach.
I turned to leave, walking towards my familys umbrella, now decorated by our own miniature temperate forest. Beneath, I found two piles of tulips and lilacs, still slowly growing and embracing each other, their hues mixing to form a singular palette. I smiled at the sight of my towel, off to the side, covered in loose sand. I decided to lie down, the final growth of my own roses now constricting my lungs and throat, the thorns securing footholds in the final bare patches of flesh that still remained.
At least the flowers were pretty.
VIII dancing in the afterlight of the sun (iii)
I wake from another dream (or was it a series of dreams?) and realize I had terribly rude. I turn to apologize to my guests, to reassure them that I enjoyed the parables and poetry they so kindly shared, but they are gone. I am alone again. There is no trace of their footsteps around me, no artifacts from the previous nights camp. I am left with the dim understanding that this situation will never change; any comfort I find will only ever be a temporary peace.
I pick a direction and begin to walk. I still cannot find the sun.
IX the delicate orchestra will play our favorite song
The clocks are blank, the sky is dark. I see my mother and myself, a child, playfully resisting her attempts to put me to sleep. But she has her ways. She can transform a child into the most pristine musical note and send them floating into the ears of the universe. My mother would sing me to sleep every night, knowing her attempts at humming a soothing tune, even if slightly off- key, were one of the few comforts that could dispel my fear of the night. And as I float away, towards the endless infinity that only my dreams can promise, not even the darkness of night can disturb me. Nothing can harm me.
But I watch myself grow, right there in that bed, each stage of my life another stage in some abstract triptych. As if a life could be defined by three stages. But the second was a stark chiaroscuro to the first, the innocence passing, the understanding of a real fear. The fear of the night was replaced with a fear of silence and solitude. My subconscious became so absorbed with the fragile melody that my mother once hummed that I physically became trapped within it. No longer was I being peacefully transformed or carried by this musical narrative; I now saw myself become a mere vessel of fears, carried forward by memories, hands removed from any involvement of the future.
No matter how much I struggled, my jagged movements only caused the tune to shift off-key, causing a pang of discomfort in any nearby listeners. No matter how I flailed my arms, the reckless behavior only caused dark splatters in the center pane of the triptych. Standing on the outside, the artist reflecting back, I realize that my only tool is a bucket of paint and a brush whose thistles have become frayed. In this third pane, my behaviors are forced to become more delicate, because there is no going back.
I still adhere that the sweetest moments were when old friends of mine, long since removed from my life, would casually recall a memory we once shared and would hum my fragile tune, unaware that, in that brief moment, I was the ethereal presence that warmed the room. I could be called forth, just as I am now. Even as time passes, anyone can survive the textbooks of infinity as long as they leave enough memories.
Now, I hear the creatures of the night singing me through the darkness, carrying me away. There is no sun to follow, no breeze to flow my drift. My hand will stammer, nervous, as the melody carves new strokes into the final pane.
Heart Rising: A Poetry Collection from Shattering to Rising from Heartbreak: A Poetry Collection from Shattering to Rising from Heartbreak: A Poetry Collection from Shattering to Rising from Heartbreak