It Never Rains but Profundities Pour

As it Comes

rain

Eyes peer from inside tiny raindrops. Warped and tortured faces
pry from behind the prism wall; colourful, pretty and benign. Screeching,
reaching and stretching arms vie for a place away from its very core
to the outer, fighting the elasticity, which suffocates them and their wants
while thin veneers hold them captive.

Subdued yearning pierces the thin skin and they bombard our senses fresh from their muted dreams. Dissipating onto our floor their ravenous spill mingles willingly with souls who have long since gone and flow in a languid wave of twitching people into the drains’ cavernous outreach only to be swept stoically into a gloom of a sombre journey that will end one day in some vast oceanic pool; only to begin again, someday, where someone will be waiting.

More downpours of lost hopes and twinkling, chiming wants pummel the ground. But as rain is rain and life is life and, not unlike like the weather, it often…

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It Never Rains but Profundities Pour

rain

Eyes peer from inside tiny raindrops. Warped and tortured faces
pry from behind the prism wall; colourful, pretty and benign. Screeching,
reaching and stretching arms vie for a place away from its very core
to the outer, fighting the elasticity, which suffocates them and their wants
while thin veneers hold them captive.

Subdued yearning pierces the thin skin and they bombard our senses fresh from their muted dreams. Dissipating onto our floor their ravenous spill mingles willingly with souls who have long since gone and flow in a languid wave of twitching people into the drains’ cavernous outreach only to be swept stoically into a gloom of a sombre journey that will end one day in some vast oceanic pool; only to begin again, someday, where someone will be waiting.

More downpours of lost hopes and twinkling, chiming wants pummel the ground. But as rain is rain and life is life and, not unlike like the weather, it often evaporates  on lazier, humid days, and its journey is stopped in our tracks.

Riding the Waves of Asiatic Elephants

elephant

Despite a cool breeze of liberty, I sit here sweating in boredom, sticking in dreariness and repetitive thoughts. Swallowing them down in cold bursts of relief, topped with a dreaminess of milked tears, I cannot find a place to rest.

A healthy stoicism replaces my clothes of suffocation, layers of discomfort and an itch that can’t be reached till I walk with the trophy of apatheia.

“Yes!” I cry. With this freedom I heavily adorn myself and wearing it, I can feel the fresh, cool air, lapping on the shores of my discontented mind, cooling  the burnt dreams of a new land; wherein lies silken promises to wrap my body. Under a lukewarm sun the ice thaw bathes me in apologetic water, water that is my Monsoon.

Make Love not War (19/09/2008)

827-fullAlone at last. The air around us was hushed and lit only by a dim and unobtrusive guide that would not belie to anyone as it danced, urging us perhaps to surrender. But who was surrendering? Inside I screamed, half torn apart by insecurities, a wounding enemy and euphoria as the candlelight drifted past my gaze. Focus regained, I felt calm with a warm tender touch, almost hesitant. My hopes wanted it to be sincere, my inner turmoil made it more an unattractive suspicion.

The candle snapped a pleasant sooth and when I had turned from it once more his knees were around mine. I felt safe and wanted even though the tentative approaches and his eyes kept me bubbling; doubting, questioning, till I almost could cry. Was he so right? The person I had dreamed of after having come this far on a journey both within myself and outside, losing much along the way. What an ironic reward this would be if tinged with fears and marred by my demons. Would his blue eyes fight them? Would his quiet touch dismiss it all? I steal back my gown as they begin to eat me alive.

Strong hands brushed up against my arms and gently removed my shield, some of my trembles and most of my heart’s ache. Instinctively my arms reached to cover myself before understanding brought them down but held them frail against his hands; frail on their own but with a strength that echoed my internal army hitherto sleeping. When I called they didn’t wake. I summon myself and all I have and fear drives me lest I lose him too. Longing drives me. He drives me but I am on my own, yet, I don’t feel alone.

My mind savours memories, ideas and notions in a scrapbook made when the warmth, understanding, tolerance and longing he has were thousands of miles away… surely that was enough even now? If not, let me be swallowed whole where I sit. To lose is terrifying but to lose after all this would be like death.

A mile of racing thoughts matched my heart’s pulse; rapid and urgent, desperate, sometimes petrifying. Time gets lost. He was still there, his knees gently squeezing mine as he moved to maybe to go find an excuse. Maybe, as he leaned forward into my neck and I felt the prickles where his arm once was, he just wants to feel my hair or maybe, as he brushes past it and pulls me toward him with noses brushing and foreheads caressing, he just might kiss me. Garbed thoughts, past tensions and badgering niggles are swept away by a buzz, a sense of being, a cosy familiarity -him. Rapid waves of another kind swiftly take hold and I give in and throw my caution in its awful mask to the wind. A caution that dressed my scar, my wants and my needs and hid them from my view. A caution that could have cost me dearly and lost me the only thing I ever really tried to win after suffering heavy defeats.

My demons rage again when assaulted. Teased by their enemy’s searching hands. His needing hands? Needing me? I still can’t believe it. their habit is assuaged when warm streams drown them out and his hands, these hands, try to make me his own. I want them to hold me and shield me. Let their generous form devour me until they become like a second skin to mine, to hold whenever and forever and as long as they want me to want them.

I wake from a dream, sweating and shaking, but the dream still ran through me in small, colourful sensations that pulsated through my veins. Tender, sensual images ran up my sides and with an avarice, slid down my flesh and pulled me with him. A need that was sometimes greedy, but well tamed, tried to take me all at once with  a gentle longing trying to capture me forever.  I saw the same blue eyes before they disappeared when he swept  down my body. I felt wanted, needed, protected, peaceful and cared for; the best a love has to offer I remembered. I met his eyes again as he came back  to kiss me, and it was then that I realised I had not been dreaming – it was in fact reality.

Inside

two lost soul

Inside my head there is a story with plots and angles, arcs and curve balls, twists and turns, reality and make believe, mystery, assumptions and clever word play. Inside my head there is a dream where clarity resounds and bleeds into fuzz and fur, where the abstract becomes meaningful and reality becomes the nightmare, contained. Inside my heart there is a man who is part story, part dream and daydream. I can see it but dismiss it. I hear it but then forget it. When I feel it, only then do I fully understand.