Snowflakes

The water is loud. It froths and seethes as it rushes by.

But among the harsh slaps against the rocky shore and bed, I can hear a gurgling.

It sounds like the water is meaningfully drowning its softer side.

I wonder why.

The grass is wet under my feet, and my soles are raw from the hidden bits of rock in them.

Another spray of mist, a rumble.

The sky is overcast. I smile a little.So damn apt for this.

I can feel the cuts in my palm, I’ve been crushing it too hard. My brain long since gave up warning me of the abuse. It’s strangely numb, and yet I feel the sharp edges.

I can see the picture in my head, and I try not to think of anything else.

Just the picture, till this is over.

My legs are freezing, and I look down at slightly blue toes peeking out from under too-long jeans.

I never did have them fixed. I doubt I’m going to start now.

The water is still rushing by, and I wonder if it is as loud as the thoughts rushing through my head.

A bolt of lightening strikes across the sky beyond, and I can see little spots in front of my eyes.

I can feel the cold metal in my hand, and I absently brush the metal with my thumb. Involuntarily I flinch at the sudden burn and pain.

It doesn’t matter to me.It will go away.

Here, by the water, cold, wet and soaked, and bleeding.

It’s light, but I feel it burn into my skin. It’s cold but it reminds me of warmth.

Warm skin it used to rest on.

I look down at my half open palm. It is, as I thought it would be.

But at the centre, mingled in blood, is a snowflake.It looks beautiful.

Bloody and beautiful.

I remember it on your skin, how it used to tinkle when you turned in your sleep.

How it was so alive on you.

How your eyes shone when you saw it.

How it seemed to shine brighter when you smiled.

Here it lies, glimmering in the dim light. And it reminds me of you.

Only you.

A few drops of rain fall in warning. It is time.

I panic. I’m not ready yet. Not yet. But I must. I cannot hold on anymore.

It’s been so long, and the house has grown cold. Too cold.

Like the diamond in my hand. Cold droplets burn the skin.

I clutch the diamond and remember. One last time.

You made me promise that I wouldn’t do anything stupid. That I would let you go.

I lied.

The chill of the water is like knives on my skin. The water filling my lungs is like knives inside me.

I can see the snowflake, and think of nothing else.

Somewhere, over the fence...

It‘s getting dark out.

I know that on weekends it’s my turn to take the dog out. I don’t mind; he’s a very sweet thing, and doesn’t bother me much.

He let’s me walk aimlessly behind him.

The dog walk is just up the street and across the main road. It’s a route I’d know to follow even if I were asleep. It’s nice to take a walk in the evenings. The winds blow well, and carry a promise of rain on them.

Soon. It will rain soon.

I don’t even have to look to know the furry thing is following my long steps at a trot. I smile to see him lolling his tongue and wagging his little tail.

We wait patiently at the crossing; waiting for the motorists to realise there are pedestrians by the side of the road.

They don’t. We wait.

A small break in the endless river of vehicles, and we quickly cross the street to the dog walk; a narrow raised area by the rail road, interspersed with old trees.

You can see the walk for a long way, and I realise we are the only walking pair at this time. It’s a good thing; I don’t have to worry about a fight or momentary fling between dogs. I can walk my aimless walk.

He knows the drill, so he happily trots off down the walk, me following at an almost snail pace. I hum to myself and watch a train go by noisily.

The wind is making his promises again. I pay little attention to them.

It’s fully dark now, and the lamps are on, throwing pools of light like little suns on the ground. Shadows play in the pools of light.

The grid fence goes on as far as the eye can see, and I reach out to touch a creeper that’s boldly crept up higher than my head. The fence is tall and wide and it makes me think of a really large cage.

I know the fence ends somewhere in the distance and is then replaced by concrete fences we know as walls and buildings. So it is a cage; we only don’t see it.

We have drawn such big cages and walls that we forget we are in them, and go on as if we were free.

None of us are free.

It’s only that grand illusion we have for ourselves. With our comfortable houses and uncomfortable jobs; the long hours; the unending spending.

We are all in cages, some just bigger than others and some just more comfortable. The luxury we buy for the lives we have turned into cages is just a rationalisation; just something we do to make it seem all better.

The fences we build around our houses and in turn around our families and then around our hearts and lives is a self inflicted imprisonment.

Are the fences to keep people in, or keep people out? Both, I think.

I look beyond the fence in front of my eyes, beyond the railroad trench, and to the other side. More houses, more walls, more people looking beyond the fence and the railroad trench; looking at me looking at them.

Are they farther from the inside or am I closer to the outside? Hard to answer when I don’t know whether I’m inside or outside. Confusing, I know.

Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

Here I am, standing in a pool of shadows, looking to a place I’ve been to , and yet unsure what I am looking at.

Confusing, I know.

I stand, and my dog sits by my feet, and both of us stare a little while longer. We have nothing to lose but time.

When we walk back, we walk back to another cage I think, or maybe the only place we can be known, and missed.

We walk back.

I saw the Joker,
Lying by the side of the road
I felt pity take me
To the point of overflow
I asked if I could help.
The joker laughed and laughed
The joker was so amused
Through the marks of wear and abuse
The joker turned around
It was then I wished I was dead
For it was my face that I saw
In the Joker's broken head.

Sreedevi.

Wait for me...

The grass in wet beneath my feet, and my shoes make squelching noises as I walk to where I need to be.

I'm only now aware that I am soaking wet, or maybe I was aware, and just didn't care. It doesn't matter; not much I can do about it now.

I'm cold though, and it's as if the rain has soaked me through my skin, right to the bones. A hand comes up to my face and brushes off the wet hair sticking to my forehead, and dripping water into my eyes.

I know that the rain water is cold, and yet there are warm drops flowing down my cold skin. It makes me shiver.

No one is here, and that's good. I don't want anyone to be here. I cannot stand to look in their eyes and see what's there. I cannot.

There is an ache in my chest and I rub at it, and it's a few times before I realise it is from within, and that nothing can soothe it.

It's still raining and I'm still walking, closer and closer to there.

Thoughts run through my head, things of little meaning and consequence. Bills to pay, people to meet, things to buy.

I'm not ready to think more, just yet.

I'm here, I say to myself. Here at last.

It seems as if every bone in my body is weighed down in lead, and yet I'm hollow to my core. I cannot rid myself of the hollow feeling, and it irritates me, makes me restless.

Makes me do things like walk in pouring rain to be all alone, with little care for anything else.

Perhaps it's the right aftermath I'm looking for from this insane experience.

I'm looking now, forcing myself to read the letters on the stone, forcing myself to understand what they mean.

Forcing myself to accept it, and still failing.

Something bubbles in my chest, and it's not a pleasant feeling, but anything is more pleasant than having to do this. Time and again, and still, failing miserably.

Maybe I don't want to let go of this yet.

It's been a while, and the rain has slowed, but it is darker than when I got here.

I cannot face this, I want to say so much, but I don't know if you'll listen to me anymore.

My legs fail under me, and I fall painfully to my knees, feeling the scratch of earth through my clothes, but this feels better.

At least this pain, I know, will go away.

I stare at the words and reach out to trace them on the stone. It's smooth under my frozen fingers. It calms me to watch the repeated movements as my fingertips caress the black words.

A name.

A name that meant the world, but only to me. Only in my world.

And a name that will rest here, in this stone, forever.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Peace.

It's the living who find no peace in the death of others. You left, to be in peace, and you took mine away.

Why?

Without you, peace is but a lost dream, something you cannot remember when you wake, but long for it, not knowing what it is.

I cannot see you this way, I will not see you this way.

And yet here I am.

In the damned rain you loved so much.

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.