Wednesday, 29 February 2012

Little Hell

Twirling ribbon between fingers. Sometimes string. The intricate patterns create something that is distinctly unusual and an 'alternative' for a few hours. The way it twists so quickly, with delicate finesse. There is no matter with the colour, the focus is all in the never ending webs. Though should the activity be carried out in the daylight, you may notice the shades, how they seem to pale the more feverishly the fabric moves. Always pulling, testing the strength, but never so much as to make it break. One false move and, snap! That analogy for controlling your life is all too fragile to risk. It's a figurative representation, and the literal steps are forever unanticipated (no matter what one man says). But we cannot help the barbaric curiosity that the analogue infers. That nefarious manifest, lying deep in the subtly your question, "what if?". Though the tone might suggest us humans tend to present that phrase as more of a statement. We think we know so much.

"It's keeping me alive."

How do you describe your heart beat; Does it pound? Flutter? Do you lie down in the dark of night and hear a faint pulse? When you are so very proud, does it hammer louder than the mountainous workers finding diamonds in the peaks? Should it dance and tap in a rhythm that you can share with another? Is it a quick succession or does it softly murmur, unsure of what lies a head. Though affected, they keep us alive - most of the time.

To be tiny. Hiding a box, safe and hidden away from it all. The bones of you and how they fit together. Tracing fingers down your spine and feel every kink. The hollow times.

"It was toxic."

Though what is clear is that we get ourselves into some awful situations, traps or emotional webs. Your friends might suggest those settings were poisoned, in repetition of what you said yourself. If 'it was doomed from the start'. However, on latter self evaluation it becomes all the more likely that the venom belongs to us. Our own damned skin. Killing roses in a beautiful garden. It is a shame for everyone else. But the one that commits the crime should not be allowed to cry. Hair falling out all over the place, deserving no shoulder. Fainting in the shower. Hours lost to falling rain. Feeling the cold while sat in front of the fire. You cannot truly get what you do not merit. Though then it is rightful and just to consider that time killed those roses too. Let them wilt and die because it would not let those special nights last forever.

"It is time to go, dear darling."

There's a traveller in the distance and she does not know where she is going to be. There's no home laid out for her, because she keeps being forgotten, almost left behind. If gone now, would it be a while before anyone took notice. That was more of a statement than question.

Almost, finally.

I want there to be fireworks. I want to run into the dark, only to have it filled up by this magical light that burns so fiercely. To look in awe at the scene created around me. The way we all placed rugs and blankets under the trees and huddled round a fire. Switching sides to avoid the smoke, but also to huddle together. We would lie back as the sky grew darker and watch the twinkling lights swaying gently in the trees. That slight whistle became the night's chime. Then we would try and light candles. It looked so beautiful. A fairy grotto. Keeping warm, staying close and hearing the secrets we did not know we had. Our lips knew when to speak and when to hold their tongues. That delicate balance in listening to those you care about. We created our own safety and magic. It was golden.

We are so much older, now.

Wednesday, 22 February 2012

Castaways and Cutouts

It takes time but in it I let my mind drift. How the softness of silk comes to being. It is not only the material itself but the care in the construction that are so telling to the smoothness then felt by skin untold.

However, there is a lack of caring for the hearts held on my sleeve. It should be a shame.
All I find myself doing is shutting my eyes, or leaving them to haze in another light, and drifting to another past. It is too far, to look out the windows; for what is outside could come in. In theory, inside the cocoon we should be safe, warm and sound. When I am lost, it is the only time I really feel found.

Poisoning sweet words and lullaby chorus by tomorrow not being any kinder. Though, as if stuck, I keep singing the song each night. I find myself wondering if I am punishing myself on purpose by doing this? It's something that I cannot show on my skin's surface and therefore there is some comfort that other's will not have to see the stain left behind. The Secret Sisters knew what this all meant and will continue to show.

There is this stinging desire to go away. Just somewhere for no specifics - to give it meaning would taint the escapism. But experience teaches that no matter how great the distance, the thoughts will be the same.

I can see ahead but this does not dissipate the black clouds that swell. In this full melody all that can stop the shaking and choking is a comforting envelope of safety. Warmth to save the chilling bones. Ebb the sobs. Salty, they roll down each cheek to only be swept up by soft finger tips softly, softly. Gentle, take the hair that falls and covers vision, tuck it behind an ear. Lift that chin and expect to gaze upon eyes. The silken touch convinces that all is not as hard as it seems to be. You steady yourself and take in the comfort. It is time. Yet, when I lift my head, an empty room before me.

There is so much more to this. Wear the tokens that represent more than words. It is not only lovely, it is bittersweet. Secrets are catching.

Tuesday, 7 February 2012

Look At What The Light Did Now

If each tear that fell carried a message in the centre, what would it contain?

Hammer hard on the darker notes. They are woody and deep, such rich noise. I've heard the piano played so intimately, but never for me. I do not believe it could be for someone else when played with such passion. It is a secret shared between the player and the keys. They tell of great stories and terrible deeds. The background of a thousand lives, played out in the concert hall. A singer is just a translator, stepping in to provide a version of words that could only scratch the surface of emotion that is drummed by slender fingers. Creation.

"It's okay to not be okay." They'll still fix you up for home.

The jocoserious attitude you take makes life confusing for those that are barely taking their first steps off the ladder rungs. Must you be so pious.

Let us stray from the fires which burn and instead bask in the smoke above. Too often burning passion is all part of the conversation when really it's an emotion that has a sporadic existence. Who needs a spark, when there is opportunity to look instead at how the fog in the air twists into shapes of beings. Mocking the future as it does so, may it also offer some insight. For hundreds of years many look to find out their futures but this curiosity dies as quickly as the answer is found. Fortune tellers must remain anonymous when giving their news, that way they may hide away as easily as they were found. Fuck the cookies which talk of wisdom, it's nothing more than typewriter gibberish.

So many back words are said before and during the heat of the moment. But you're so forgetful of them in the aftermath. Please don't forget what was said, if you do, there will never be any change - because you thrive on a future being unpredictable (make it so). When it is hard to know where to begin the cards offer titles that give subplot to the conversation. Fall in and out of denotation or subliminal desire. That message you have to accept: we may just never know.

How lucky the smog is to disappear at will. You should wish to spread so thin so as not to really be. Perennial translucency. It is the face you cannot really remember but left bitter song in your mouth that has achieved this entirely. In spite of this, I have learnt that it does not matter where you leave to, the thoughts are just the same. Nor does it matter how well you tidy your life, play the games or partake in all the day's activities. That presentation of a nicer version of what you are, it won't work - there are many fixed ideas. I wonder if we passed the tipping point before we even knew where and what it was. Maybe it has always been too late.

We have to say those painful messages. We have to talk, before you wake up different again.