Mental Floss

Cleaning out last year’s junk and making space for the clutter that 2011 will undoubtedly fetch.

Bring it on, I say! :D

Amends to Myself

Let’s play a game
Of “Let’s Pretend”
And pretend
We’re not pretending.
Let’s pretend
We’re free...
Unbound by limitations,
Time and pain.
That the walls we layer
Around us
Are the bridges that
Lead to rainbows...
That the demons
Which ravage and destroy
Are gentle spirits that
Restore and heal...
Let’s pretend that
Solitude and silence
Are the keepers of our soul
That the darkness
That we walk with
Will surrender us to the
First light of day...
Let’s pretend
We’re still together
Before we choose
To forget who we are...
Let’s play this game
Of “Let’s Pretend”
And pretend
We’re not pretending.

Stain

I gaze at the canvas; clean, white, new. I imagine the colours that will fill its vast emptiness, line it from end to end, top to bottom, and the textures that my painting knife will create and enhance. I think of bright yellows, happy oranges and fiery reds as I gather my brushes, bring out an old palette and remove the covers from the paints. There is anticipation in my deft movements and a beauty that can be seen only in my mind; one that will be translated onto this canvas, soon.

I close my eyes for a moment, to capture, to affix the forms and hues in memory, but instead, I remember the way the rain had fallen, the day we first met...that day in August, with its defeated, grey skies and crystal tears. I hadn’t seen you then, yet I had conjured your image in thought, defined it in my imagination. I had painted the rainbow-arched bridges that we built so fast between us, and textured the crumbling walls between two people locked within themselves for a long time. I used a lime yellow to tell of the freshness in our friendship, your favourite colour, and complemented it with the palest pink, for me.

I lift my brush to the whiteness now, but the bright colours I have chosen seem to dissolve into murky browns and pallid greys; colours of irrevocable change, of inevitable endings. I blink, once, twice, in the light, but the hues continue to deceive. But I go on, stroke after stroke, slathering the creamy paints onto the stark, white canvas, altering its appearance forever.

I step back to take in the collective tone. My knife has carved jagged patterns in the thick hues of an evening sky, mingling swirls of yellow with vast quantities of red, the colour of passion, the colour of beginnings. An orange sun sinks into a violet sea, its bed, the colour of pearls. I realize I am no longer wistful over doomed, silver friendships and their fragile, gossamer memories. I have honoured, preserved what remains, in a place where colours do not bleed and salt water cannot corrode or wash away...

There’s just one last thing to do. I have saved a little puddle of pink on the palette for last. The colours clash, but I still dip a determined, fine brush into it, and sign my name in simple, unassuming curls at the bottom of my dream.

Rain

The crack of thunder
And a shower of rain,
The smell of wet earth
And that feeling again...


The lifting of spirits,
A surge of pure joy
A face turned heavenward,
Liquid diamonds to enjoy.


Splashing in puddles
Defying the wind,
An upturned umbrella
With a stitch unpinned...


Memories of childhood
And the first blush of youth
A warm hand to hold
And a loving heart that soothes.

Illusion and Dream

Against the darkness in my mind,
I see faint starlight.
A woman dances, in the ethereal gleam,
Held close by a man she doesn’t know.
Yet they sway in perfect harmony
As he leads her across the floor.

The melody fades, the image dulls
And I see a room with mirrors...
Shadows through smoke,
Distorted reality and a single pure note.
The face in the mirror
Belongs to a stranger...
Reflections of a yearning, too hard to ignore.

Reaching out to touch an illusion
And to live a practiced dream,
I set sail a little paper boat
Into a turbulent stream...
And pray it safely reaches the other side
Through the uncertainty of the game...

To the island that is inside me,
To a nameless face that resides within
To bring to life the reason
Why the stars sometimes glow brighter
In their pattern through the skies,
As they shine and spell out destiny’s trail.

The Table

I wait at the table laden with baking things. You gals show up predictably late. I don’t tell you, but I love the impossible excuses you both make and the way you scream at me for actually expecting you to be on time.

We pause midway in our yelling and after a moment’s silence, break out into peals of prolonged laughter. We continue that way till we remember what we’re here for; to exchange news (a kinder word for gossip), to discuss the general stupidity of boys and of course, to bake.

We’ve always baked chocolate cake together. We tell our stories and air our theories as we mix the batter, fold in the eggs, and grease the baking tray.

And through the noisy chatter and the laughter, a thought strikes. This is it...this table...this moment. This is friendship.

I take a second off to watch the two of you. And I feel blessed.

Reminiscence

Nostalgia breathes a name across the sea. It lingers awhile, taking me back to the days when the sun shone brighter, the breeze kissed a little gentler.

And then the memory fades into the falling darkness around a setting sun that has quite lost its warmth and fire. I send a whisper back over the waters…

Another Day, Another Holler

I’m bored.

It’s not like I’ve nothing to do. Oooh yes, there’s loads to be done! But I’m still trying to work up the enthusiasm to lift a finger and start on any of it. (and there’s that wretched word ‘work’ again!) I’m hardly the nine to five working types. (Hell, I’m hardly the noon to five working types!)

I started the day with a list of things to do, and the neat and organized person that I am, I sorted my tasks into three categories–
1. Things I won’t do now

2. Things I won’t do later

3. Things I’ll never do

(I like lists. They sure work for me.) :)

There! Now that I’ve got it all neatly classified, I think I’ll be off for a siesta. Fighting inertia can get so exhausting…

Zzz…

 

 

Scars and Souvenirs

She walked down that road again, the one she’d gone down so many times already, in her mind. This time, her feet complied; sure, steady steps, which in her mind had been haltering, hesitating, every single time – until the last.

A drab wooden box, unadorned and plain, lay at the end of this path. She lifted it slowly, caressed it almost lovingly, then opened it to look into her memories. A bundle of old letters, tied together by a ribbon of the softest pink looked back; a bundle of letters that had once been written by a caring hand, and delivered with an almost reverent touch.

She paused for a long moment, her prize in her hands, and untied the ribbon holding it together. The letters came loose, slipped and fell in sheets around her. She knelt down, offered a few, final glistening drops of grief as tribute to something precious, though long gone, and began collecting them, one by one.

Each letter revived a lost moment; each line in blue brought back a sentiment. But she dismissed the kaleidoscope of images that threatened to dilute her resolve and with a stubborn hand, thrust them into the hungry flame of a grey wax candle. The pale, ageing papers crackled, turned inward, singed, and then burned. And somewhere in the curling smoke that rose from it, evanesced the hopes and dreams of a younger, more innocent girl at a happier time.

The smoke briefly cast an illusive shadow of a face from the past...once intensely loved, immensely trusted, and then dissipated into nothingness.

He had not asked, not said a word before he had gone away, nor had he explained why, and she had been unable to completely give him up. This time though, she could willingly let him go. She would willingly release his memories.

And in doing so, finally, be set free.