It was over before it even started, my blissful reality with you. Because bliss, as I have come to realise, is not about what you need. Rather, it's about what you want, what you really really want, and that thin faint fading line in between. It's about expectations, savagely penetrated by the fear of the unknown, like the death of a synapse you never saw coming. It's about pretending not to give a fudge (non explicit version) when in fact that's all you ever really do. Because the truth is, as much as you needed it, I didn't want it. Not like that. And yes, a red rose doesn't always bloom in a deserted desert, but who am I to tell it not to? Who am I to tell a bird not to fly, a rainbow not to be colourful, a story not to have a happy ending? And the funny thing is, before it started, I think I remember seeing the roots, the wings, and probably even the colours, but what I didn't get to see, what I hindered myself from seeing, was the ending. So between you and me, I'm glad it was over before it even started, because god knows what would have happened if it ever did.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
I look at you, the you in my head image of you, and I miss you. I look at the squirrel, on the tree, wriggling its tail, as if dancing to a much better cover version of the Macarena, and I miss you. I look at the night sky, the stars faintly drawn by a poor painter and his expired colour palette, as I vaguely start to recollect the much brighter the much more beautiful shooting stars we had seen that night last summer, and I miss you. I look at the children in the park building snowmen, laughing their hearts out, maybe in a failed attempt to stay warm, and their laugh reminds me of your laugh, and suddenly I wish you were right here beside me, and I miss you. I look at the singer songwriter playing with his guitar, holding it close to his chest, like that woman who he thought slept in his bed last night but didn't, and I remember what you said, what I thought I heard you say, and I miss you. I look at the city, so full of life, so full of colours, darkened by these annoying repetitive sirens, but somehow it's still colourful, and amidst all this orchestrated organised chaos, I miss you. I look at the non existing sun, and I miss you. I look at the alarm clock, and I miss you. I look at the bicycles, the empty bench, the flowers, the morning newspaper headline on the tube back home, and I miss you.
I look. I look, and I miss you.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
it fell, beautifully, heavily, from the night sky,
caressing life as it waited, patiently, idly by.
it fell, only to remain suspended in mid air,
not knowing how, now knowing where.
it fell, and it kept on falling,
carefree, with open arms, and no true calling.
earthed by the sudden pull of gravity,
by time and its limited longevity.
then there were angels, balls, and men,
satisfying peacefulness, quite like Zen.
because grass is whiter on the other side,
in a playground right in the middle of Park Hyde.
but now, slow motion movement through the cold sun,
of patches, remnants, and a shadow where there is none.
everything is back to the way it was before. melted.
and as he died, a little each time, I felt it.