I see her.



She pays me no heed, moving like the mist in her robes of blue and white.



My voice doesn't touch her, though it cracks from wear.

Pure and perfect, she walks on, feet bare.



I see the thorns around me, and the wind shrieks;

But she laughs like they're roses, without care.



Her robes are tearing, a little, and at times more;

And I see her bleed.

She walks, I follow.



Torn and tattered, shorn and shattered;

She's frail as the glass under her feet;

Her hair is white.

I cry for her pain.



The salty drops burn my skin, and I need no mirror

To see proof;

I know I am yet walking behind her.



Faster we move, strangely she gives me strength;

Perhaps it is only my curiosity.



The forest is gone now, not a thorn in sight.

The night has faded, song welcomes the cheery light.



I take my eyes off her broken form;

As broken as mine.



To glance in wonder, the change sublime.

I feel the sun, the grass under my feet;

The frost has been lifted, quite like a sheet.



I know that face, when she turns to me;

It is a face that I have seen, staring defiantly

Back from panes of silver that gleam.



Her laughter is clear, her hair like silk

The glow in her form, moonbeams in milk.



Pure and Perfect, she is once again.

She walks by me, rest from this game.

"Who are you?" I think, "Healing as a Spring day."

"I will be here," She speaks,

"The longer you allow me stay."

"For gratitude," I beg, "Tell me your name."



Ethereal and binding, warmth radiates;

Engulfing, lifting me, as a feather on air.

Burdens of kind, weighing me down, disappear.



A rush of cool air, a burst of song;

A smile on my lips.

She kept, she left me strong.



Hope.

Smoke Screens and Lost Dreams

Image by Dave Barstow

The wind cools the sweat on my skin. There are goosebumps.

My bare feet complain at the scratchy gravel under them, but it’s not an immediate concern.

My hand rests on the nearly smooth surface of the low brick wall. My thumb absently brushes at the top.

A waft of white smoke warms my face. The tingle of nicotine on my lips feels good. I take another drag off the cigarette, and enjoy the burn of smoke coursing through my throat and lungs.

Blowing smoke rings is not my specialty, but I try, tilting my head backwards and aiming one at the stars.

It’s a cool clear night. Perfect to be out star gazing.

Or thinking.

Mentally I shrug, what’s the difference?

I chuckle at a joke I remember from TV, little puffs giving the effect of slight coughing. I had coughed through my first cigarette.

Never coughed through another one. It was surprising, I should have been in a bed, wired to tubes, but here I am, thinking about nothing at all.

Sounds of late night traffic float up to me. At this height, it looks like tiny toy cars zipping below.

I am not entirely sure what I want to do, but I find myself swinging one leg over the wall, then the other. I get as comfortable as I can on the ledge. I was never afraid of heights.

The city is alive and buzzing. I gaze out at the lights and traffic. I think I may have started up on my next smoke, but who cares? I lost count years ago.

If I twist my head around just so, I can see the pale sliver of the moon, waxing? Waning? I stare at the moon a little longer, then turn back when my already stiff neck protests.

I absently rub at my neck, leaving the cigarette to dangle precariously from my lips. It’s stuck there by drying saliva on paper. I decide to test exactly how long it will stay that way. I think I may be squinting to get a look beyond my nose.

I smile at the image that brings up, and lose the battle to leave the ciggie hanging. I grab at it, then realize, that the position I am in is not exactly a good one to be making sudden moves.

I use both hands to grab onto the ledge, and stabilize myself once again. Sweat has broken out on my forehead, and I know it is from the adrenalin and then the endorphins produced by fear and thrill.

It feels great when I realize that I managed to stay on, although only just. The ciggie didn’t make it though. Poor little thing, died before it’s time.

I think it may be just too disrespectful to cross myself over a cigarette.

“Death to smoking!” a little righteous part of me yells and raises a triumphant fist, the fist changing to something decidedly rude, when a replacement has found it’s way back to my lips, which I wisely lick beforehand.

These damn death sticks cost a lot.

The tang of nicotine is on my tongue, and it’s turning bitter. I think neem leaves taste something like this. I’m not even sure how I know what neem leaves taste like.

I’m back to thinking about nothing at all, my fingers tapping a staccato rhythm on the wall. I love to pretend that I know how to play the piano. I took classes when I was a kid. I’m not really sure why I stopped.

I hum a perfect Allegro Vivace. I’ve always been good at remembering music, though my brain refuses to remember my birthday. I have never told anyone how deeply I am moved by music. Somehow I consider that a useless talent; Knowing the exact pitch, knowing what is good music, knowing which tune can make a person overwhelmed enough to cry.

Sure as hell doesn’t pay the bills.

So I’ll always wake up in the morning and do something no one appreciates and I sure as hell won’t remember once it’s done.

I think about the day I won’t do that crap. The day I just up and walk away, to follow whatever it was I gave up, one more time.

I’m somehow afraid that the day I don’t wake up may come sooner.

The more I think of this, the desire to go after the lost cigarette is getting stronger.

The lights down below are hypnotizing, I need to look at them a little longer to actually define the effect they are having on my nicotine-rushed brain.

A shrill ringing almost makes me fall off again, and I instinctively grab on to the ledge, scooting backwards and out of danger.

I’m not sure if that move made me relieved or agitated.

The damn phone is ringing like the world is about to end, and I decide to valiantly ignore it for another minute. They’ll call back anyway.

I’m not sure if the bell saved me, or put me in danger. I shrug. The whole thing is moot point anyway.

I swing my feet back onto the balcony, before third time becomes the charm. I’m just making my way back inside when the phone rings again.

Told you, they’d call back.

Broken.

You wanted to see, that part of me

Defeated and devoid of emotion entirely.

Here it is, see the liquid crystal pour

And fall to a shimmering pool on the floor.

Are you pleased, are you satisfied?

That last remaining hope in me destroyed

So utterly broken, here I kneel

No little, nor speck of joy to feel.

Have you laughed enough, have you cried?

With mirth overwhelming you like a tide

For I weep with a heart broken beyond

What repair possible, with no peace found.

Unable to live, not coward enough to die

Damned to suffer more, for my foolish pride

Is your cruelty tamed enough to see,

How utterly your pride has shattered me?

Do with my wretched soul, as you will

I have no faith to fight you still

But when you’re sated with crushing me

Have mercy, allow my death a little dignity.

Sreedevi.

At the end.

Tick tock tick tock
Tick tock tick tock

There's a time, there's a place
There's a meaning, to disgrace.

Tick tock tick tock

There's a hunger, there's a need
When you're stronger, there's a greed.

Tick tock tick tock

In the darkness, there is fear
In the light, death draws near.

Tick tock tick tock

Are you there? Do you feel?
Does your pride hurt, when you kneel?

Tick tock tick tock

When you smile, is there pain?
Is there numbness, when you stand to gain?

Tick tock tick tock

Do you nurture, do you feed,
The black within, as you bleed?

Tick tock tick tock

Come with me, it shall not hurt,
I give the answer, when time's run out.

Tick tock tick.

Not this night...

It is cold out. The sun is a little while away from setting. I trudge on.

It is something I have done many times.

It keeps me alive. What I do, what I make myself do. What I make myself see.

This habit I learned to make a thing of pleasure, something I don’t allow myself to experience very often.

The only pleasure I have known in a while.

The wind whips around my head, setting strands of night loose from their confines, the little band I tie to keep them in place. It’s a game we play when I come here. I’d like to think that the wind wants to make me feel less alone. He whispers in my ear at moments and rages in harsh tones otherwise. It’s all he know, I’d like to think.

At least he speaks to me.

There are a lot of things I’d like to think.

Grass and earth crunch softly under my booted feet, and I bend a moment to pick off a wild flower, pushing its way out from between a few rocks. I smile at its courage to prove that sometimes life can be found in places where you least expect it. A lot can be learned from these little things most people fail to see.

The sun has begun to set, and I am yet a while away from the place I need to be. I hurry along my usual path. It seems I have worn out a little walk way in the side of the hill. Things, when done long enough, can give you the most unexpected results.

I hear the slight rush and murmur of a river in the distance. The lake is only a short distance away. Water is a wonderful thing. It has more power and it carves paths where none exist. Water makes it’s own destiny. Water, water, everywhere.

I hum something tuneless as I make my way up the grassy slope. If I turn I can see my car at the foot. It has taken me nearly half hour to get this far. It’s nice to see the car fit between my thumb and forefinger, and I chuckle at my silliness.

Everything can be brought down to a manageable size if we look at it from far enough. I walk backward looking at the vehicle through my fingers till my fingers are touching. I snap those fingers and turn around and bow to an imaginary audience, softly clapping for my very own brand of practical magic.

My clapping still makes an echo and a bird screeches in the distance, chastising me for my audacity to disturb the natural order of things.

I am chastised.

Ah, finally, there. Just in time to get myself settled in. That’s precisely what I do.

I sit on the grass, ignoring the moisture seeping into my clothes. I know I will be cold by the time I get back to my car. I shrug it off, it’s nothing new. They tell me I should take better care of myself, and that this insane habit would one day kill me.

I sincerely hope that it would.

Then, in the least, I would be happy when I left. The last thing I would see before I froze to death. I am reminded of the story of the woolly mammoth fossil, whose froze over with a meal of fresh buttercups. I’m very sure the mammoth was quite content during its last moments.

I suppose if I died out here, I’d have the beautiful ending I wish for often.

I suppose if I died out here, I’d finally have the ‘ending’ part of it.

My boots come off. My feet are bare underneath. I never bother to wear socks when I am coming here. Seems like a waste of time and energy.

The grass sighs under my bare feet, and I absently play with the young blades with my toes. They tickle me in return.

I must look mad indulging in these silly things. Perhaps I am. Perhaps not. Insanity would probably lend sense to many things that I don’t understand.

I hug my knees to my chest, and rest my head on them. I like this spot. I love these few moments when I feel like the world is at my feet. It’s a wonderful feeling to have.

The sun is setting, and now the real magic starts. No matter how many times I see this, this sorcery of beauty, this enchantment of nature, my breath still catches in my throat.

Every single time.

The small city below is bathed in crimson, and the forests catch fire. It reminds me of cities burned down and lives lost. A raging river of blood chased down by a cavalry of fiery horses. And the burning continues till all is done.

Morbid, the comparison, but the colours, oh the colours!

Perhaps it is the fire of passion that heats the blood in young hearts, and the blush of a virgin lights the porcelain skin. Ah! The things that a mind can make, with a canvas of clouds.

Night quietly engulfs it all, and my passionate stories dissolve in darkness.

Inky blue velvet with diamonds

Carelessly strewn for the world to see.

Puffs of white smoke from a rich man’s cigar,

Settle quite gently amidst the navy.

I sit quietly and stare at the tiny twinkling stars, while below, city lights spring up, some yellow, some white, throwing shadows in the night.

A warm wind blows and ruffles my hair,

Telling me it’s time to go

Nothing’s left to see here

Perhaps I might return again

And gaze at another sunset,

Close my eyes, preserve the image

And have to see not ever again

Anything else, too trivial to match

The mesmerizing beauty of this last ballet

That ends in such romance, this August day

Perhaps then I shall achieve

Peace.

I’m ready now, the boots are on my feet, the car keys in my pocket, jangle in assurance that no little trick of mine would magick away the thing itself.

I shall not freeze this night.

Dancing dreams

What happens when you don't know what you want to make decisions for?

What happens when you stop caring for the distinctions? Between love and hate, between day and night, between right and wrong.

Because you don't care, for now atleast. Because you cannot decide whether you care or not.

Because all you want to do is feel.

Not think.

When you sit in that darkened room, twilight streaming in through the windows, watching the empty chair in the mirror, what do you want to think about?

Don't. Just don't.

There's that little green light blinking in the corner, it's too dark to see whereof the light is born, but it's alright. There is no need.

Blink. blink. blink.

You sit there, knees to your chest, watching the blinking green. Your fingers tap out a rhythm you can't remember the name of.

Tap. Tap, tap. Tap.

Somewhere there are voices, and laughter. You smile because you like to hear laughter. It's something you have not indulged in, for a while.

What is the need to laugh?

Faint music accompanies the staccato your finger tips play on the floor, and an unknowing band is formed, if only for a few minutes.

There is a whiff of perfume on the breeze that's teasing the curtains, and it makes you remember a night in the garden, under the moonlight.

You don't want to, but you do anyway.

Laughter, music and that perfume. Snatches of conversation, a smile and warmth.

Warmth that makes you colder now.

You stare at your feet. Feet that moved in tandem, in that garden, under the moon.

Feet that danced.

Feet that you didn't need to run away from something you didn't want to run away from.

But you did anyway.

It's cold, but you like it this way, because you don't like it warm. Especially when the warmth is not from another body.

You don't know because you are living on auto pilot. Being alive doesn't need thinking. Life is an automaton anyway.

At this point, it is easy to be this way.

Because thinking leads to memories, and you have no way of forgetting.

That garden under the moon.

Your vision is blurry, and your eyelids are heavy, and the cold is making you sleepy.

The green light is blinking still. As long as it is blinking, you feel alright.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

The curtains are still being tickled, and you think it's the wind laughing, watching the cloth squirm.

Your eyes close for a blink, and green light is gone, replaced with the August moon. Your lips curl into a smile, while your dreams see you dancing.

Laughter, voices, smiles and warmth.

Music, perfume and a garden in the moonlight.

You dance the night away.

Savior...Sadist?

warning: expletives used liberally.

"There's something about you... Like you're hurting too..." -- House, Season 3.

In my recent list of addictions, House has ranked highest. When a friend recommended it to me months ago, I brushed it off as another medical series that would be filled with large words and complex sentences and innumerable shiny gadgets that somehow is available to a general hospital, meaning available for little or no charge to the poor and suffering public. It was only a matter of coincidence that many months since that recommendation, I stumbled on 5 episodes, and out of sheer boredom, started watching "House."

And the addiction started.

It's been days. I've been hunting down all the episodes that I can get my big hands on, and absorbing all the things I can. Hell, I even learned some fancy words.

And I found Dr. Gregory House.

What attracted me to the series was not the fact that there were sensational cases being solved, medical mysteries pondered upon, and split second decisions saving lives. It was just House.

House, a broken, bitter and brilliant man, who never for once stood out like a shining hero, saving the day. Who was remembered by the people he saved as more of a jerk than a joy.

A true Godsend with a grumpy exterior, and a prickly interior, surrounding a heart that had been hardened and had no hope of being melted. A genius nonetheless.

A man who cared nothing for those he saved. All that mattered to him was results and finding the solution, and the best part? He never pretends otherwise.

A breath of fresh air, a break from the usual sticky super heroes who stand with cape billowing in the wind, while people applauded. I tip my hat to the creator of the character.

I think you will find no surprise in the fact that I love the character of Severus Snape too.

I have no time for idiots and fools who dabble around wasting time on unnecessary things such as sugarcoating the situation, creating deception and a sense of false comfort for those affected by the situation.

After all, feeding a man dinner at a 5 star restaurant and then telling him he had 24 hours to live is hardly necessary.

I'm not twisted, to believe that these are nice characteristics. Merely necessary ones. I find the naked truth a lot more easier to face than someone simpering and lying, only to take the long road home. It's rubbish, it's useless, it's stupid.

And I detest stupidity, especially if I am in a position to be sporting it. Ask my friends, and they will tell you that I am the one to be the bearer of bad news, because I'm more comfortable telling people they are in a truckload of trouble, rather than hold their hand and tell them that it will all work out, when I clearly have no clue of what the future holds.

An interesting opinion I came to hear was that it was being cowardly, to be unable to lie to people on their faces, and create that phantom cocoon. No no, I'm not laughing just yet. I'd really like someone to explain to me why it is more cowardly to tell people the truth, when by lying we are only misusing trust that the other person has in us, not to mention delaying the fall of the blade.

Moral support? Hardly. I think moral support is worse when you hear people saying it will all be fine after you've lost your first born. Absolute bullshit. How is Circe's name do you know what it is to lose a first born that does not belong to you? Even if you have lost your own, how is it the same as this?

That's the trouble with humans. They tend to oversimplify the situation when all that is required is clarity. Clarity is not necessarily the same as making it look easy as pie.

Pie is not even easy to make. Ha!

The point I was getting at is, people have trouble facing things as it is. We always look for an external factor to place the blame, the easiest and the stupidest being "luck."

I do not believe in luck. I believe in probability.

I'm not exactly disabusing anyone of the notion of luck, merely disregarding it, because it makes no sense.

You get hit by a car, bad luck mate, never you mind the fact that you were jay walking on a busy street. Someone infinitely more stupid than you gets the job that clearly someone of your intelligence should get, bad luck mate, probably bad karma, regardless of the fact that you probably didn't fit what they were looking for.

It's stupid.

Why make excuses? Why does a dog lick himself? Same difference. Because it can be done.

Because we do not want to feel shame, guilt or defeat, or any of those myriad negative emotions that result from calling a spade a bloody spade.

Because we are cowards. Luck, my very large arse.

It's not that I can explain why something happens, but I loathe people who put that reason as luck. It's not damn luck that you survived the accident, it was timely and accurate medical help. It's not like by chance the people dialed 911 and the ambulance got there on time. It happened because there was no delay in the traffic, no bumbling idiots instead of ER doctors and because your body responded well to medication.

If you didn't then it was a mistake with the system, the doctors screwed up, or that annoying 80 year old hag at the wheel of a broken down fiat was cursing in Italian and refusing to make way for the ambulance.

Now where in that scenario is luck playing a part? It's just people being people.

Imbeciles who say "you were lucky you lived or unlucky you died," ought to be hexed and ridiculed by someone like House, Snape or me, or hundreds of others with straight attitudes.

Doesn't mean I condone being a jerk, I just find it unnecessary to be nice, and amusing to no end, of course.

Didn't you know, we who speak the truth are unmitigated evil bastards and bitches?

What does it matter? I'm going to rant, you're going to read, people are going to whine, and the world will go on as it always had.

More screwed up than yesterday, but the world does move on. With or without you.

So suck it up and grow a backbone, and the sadistic ones who are in heaven because they saved lives or did great noble things may just let you play in their pool just yet.

Maybe.