Sunday, July 22, 2012

Snakes and Ladders

Up the ladder and down the snake, that's how I remember playing the game. Quite frankly though, I never really understood why. I obviously did understand why you had to get away from a snake's venom filled tongue. That, I understood. What I didn't understand was why you were only allowed to go up the ladder but never down. Until now.

Now I do. Now I realise that the view is better, much much better, the further up you go. You don't necessarily have to be at the top, but it certainly beats anything you ever tried to scrape at the bottom. Every now and then, you have to remember to look down though, as it will keep you grounded. Taking a peak at how it all used to be might even give you that little nudge that's been missing all along.

Sometimes though, what awaits you at the top, scares you. In that case, you might want to go down a couple of steps. Not a lot, just enough to earn you the time advantage. I know, you probably think that going back, down, is never really a good idea, especially when there is the choice to go forward. Right. But maybe, just maybe, back is the only accessible way to forward. Maybe, one step back and two steps forward is better than no steps at all.

Besides, this is your ladder, and there are no real snakes around. Except for the ones you single handedly captivated in your head. No, you don't have to go all the way up at one go. That rule does not apply here. Because this is your ladder. And this is no game.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Come Undone

Let me be the canvas to your cheap art,
the rugged rhymes to your insincere poetry,
the rusty nail to your silly trust coffin.
Allow me to stab you with my clean knife,
so clean in fact I can see your rigid reflection.
Allow me to ossify your gaze into mine,
disturbed by the freckles on my pale arm.
Allow me to kiss the top of your forehead,
undrenched from the evils of this wretched world.
Let me. Allow me.
Tell me, that it's going to be all right all night,
that it doesn't matter who and where we are,
that souls can be bent and broken,
but they can also be mended, unspoken.
Give me a needle and a thread.
Stitch me up like you would a broken doll,
abandoned by a grown up eight year old.
Stitch me. Fix me. Then wait...
for me to come undone,
interrupted by the cold of the sun.

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Swallowing Apples

This life, it swallows you whole, like a hungry beast on an empty stomach, a vacuum pump set to maximum speed, a clumsy tornado in the middle of a murky sea. Yes, occasionally, it nourishes you, nurtures you, protects you, but then, it takes it all away when you're not looking. You start off with an intact apple cart but you may wind up with the messiest, most creative, piece of modern art you've ever seen.

So, as it turns out, when we grow older, we are all given one, an apple cart. Some like them red, some like them green. But because this is for information purposes only, and because colour blindness has never been my strongest suit, let's just leave it at that. Anyway, yes, we are all given an apple cart at some point or another. Sadly, instructions are not included in the receive one, get one free, package deal. It's just a cart full of apples.

If I'm being completely honest here, the metaphor was never about the cart per se; it was more about what to do with the apples. Throughout the years, I've met people who just sit around and wait for the apples to eat themselves, leaving them to rot as some kind of alternative statement (or so they think). I've met others who chop them up into small pieces, eat them slowly and steadily, and juggle the rest as they're munching away.

Then, there are those who are running out of apples, not because they are old, no, but because they, like hungry beasts on an empty stomach, swallowed them whole without savouring the juices first. Usually, the blame falls on life itself, that it is swallowing them whole, that it is what's choking them up. Of course, what they fail to recognise is that life only swallows what you feed it.

Nothing more, nothing less.