Strokes, Notes and Words

Last night, I couldn't seem to drift off into the oblivion of sweet slumber as early as other nights. It was, however, an eventful night. Many of you no doubt comprehend the sensation of not being able to fall asleep. I tossed and turned in the dark, staring at my old nightlight, at the glow in the dark stars that paved the low ceiling, and at the unassuming clock on my nightstand. What had I to lose? I released my thoughts, let them run wild and let them frolic around and around until they satisfied themselves enough to bring me sleep. They danced inside my mind to a melody only audible to them. Anyway, eventually, my thoughts wandered down a familiar path.

I thought about writing, about every form of art really. From what I gather, being an artist is fairly challenging. Are there any artists who are reading this right now? Are you a creator? Well then, if you are an painter, have you ever looked at a blank canvas and felt anxiety bubbling up inside? Have you ever looked upon that empty awaiting canvas and then glanced at your brush feeling panic? Do you ever wonder "Can I fill this up? Can I make it worth looking at?" For a musician, have you ever looked upon an empty page wondering if you can fill it up with notes and harmonies that will conjure nostalgic images within someone's mind or touch a long hardened heart? Have you ever looked at those talented fingers and thought "What if I can't make magic anymore? Worse, what if I never did?" I believe writing is a form of art as well especially writing poetry. From the perspective of a writer, I can tell you this. I have thought this a million times. Every single time that I lay my eyes on a sheet of blank, expectant paper, I feel the beginning of a mild hysteria. No joke. I wonder if I will ever write as well as I did yesterday. I wonder what lies ahead. Is it more inspiration, more surrealism, more felicity or simply dullness, mundane routines and boring faces? I always fret that it will be the latter set of words. I don't know about anyone else but to me, finding this. . . I'm not even sure what to call it. Some say it is a hobby but that seems too unimportant. I suppose it could be called a form of repose or evasion. Anyway, finding this form of escape has been amazing. I found myself peeking behind the curtain into a world I never knew existed. And, the best part was, the citizens welcomed me with open arms. We always worry that the things we care for the most will be taken away from us, don't we? I always fret that this is a temporary thing or that it is something that will be taken away sooner rather than later. It may not make much sense but such are the thoughts that swarm my conscious mind.

It's difficult. It's no wonder many avoid and stray from it. Then, I thought about how some people I knew were once so very passionate about the art they did for it quenched a raging desire for expression. But, like a dying flame in the glacial winter air, that desire eventually extinguished. Now, all these people do is meander the streets at night, wondering where their love for life has gone. Was it even possible to find that love again? It's tragic, really. I found myself fretting that one day, I would become like those temporary slaves of art, of expression. I worried that like a star, I would sooner or later lose my luster. I wondered if anyone else felt like I did. Did any other artist wonder constantly if they still had the ability to create? There was only one resolution in my line of sight. I had to keep creating. Stopping meant the possibility of never being able to start again. And, naturally, I couldn't risk that. Nope, not in a million years.

I hope I did not bore you to death with this long post. Well, even if I did, on the bright side, this empty page is filled. I am thankful. I can rest easy tonight.

The Blacksmith

Have you ever paused one day and immersed yourself in memory? Perhaps you were watering the cheerful flowerbeds in your garden. Perhaps you were shooting hoops in the park. Perhaps you were walking your dog through the neighborhood. Have you stopped suddenly and thought about everything that time has taken from you? I find myself doing that more often than not. There are a lot of things that I should have done, should have said. That got me thinking. Is it worse when you say something you wish you hadn't or when you don't say something and end up wishing you had? And then, in the dead of night, those 'What If?' moments come back in to haunt me.

If you had the chance to go back in time and alter a specific incident, would you? After a lot of thought, I realized I wouldn't. Every second of agony is experienced for a reason. Every hardship is occurs for some purpose. The pain of our pasts has shaped all of us. It is the well-known blacksmith. We may not understand it but I feel that it does us good.
This is me being thankful for everything, the good and the bad. The process of self-discovery is heartrending but enlightening. I hope to see you on the other side of the tunnel with a bright smile on your tired face. 

We are all famous. We are famous in certain minds, in certain hearts, in certain lives.

Clement

Only your footfalls dare
contact the road
on this night that belongs
to winter.
Perhaps, a lifetime ago,
in the earlier days of beauty,
you would say it was
pixie dust, proof of another reality.
But now,
white specks that give color
to the restless wind
are only that.

The sound of midnight
echoes in your ears,
the deafening sound of silence
that only satiates
those whirlwinds of thought, indecision.
The moon has taken her leave
and the dots of hope,
she takes with her.
You pray there is a safe haven
somewhere up ahead, sometime soon.

I am there,
very wordlessly walking beside you.
If you are very quiet,
you can hear
two sets of footsteps,
on the wintry road.
We will brave the blizzards
hand in hand.
Perhaps, somewhere up ahead,
and sometime soon,
this falling snow will once again
look like pixie dust to you.

For The Love of Dreaming

I feel as though a myriad of swells has surrounded me, entered me and drowned me. Is this what a sleepless night feels like? I think not. I have the feeling that it is what a restless night does to a person. For I got eons of sleep but zero seconds of rest. My mind, numbed by the night, the necessity for closed eyes but not solaced. Not at all.

I used to dream. Perhaps I still do but the subconscious experiences are quickly kicked out of the house. At any rate, I can't recall any of my dreams. Nightmares don't visit me either. I suppose one might claim that this sort of situation is desirable. To sleep free of nightmares is a common wish. Even if it is at the expense of good dreams. I disagree. I have the sense that dreams and nightmares no matter how glorious or monstrous, give life to sleep. Otherwise, I'll be nothing but a corpse, breathing but experiencing a disturbing, chilling oblivion.

I Hope You Know

I could scream a million insults
At the departing evening wind.
I could whisper desolate laments
To the soil the raindrops kiss.
I could recite a common verse
Of loss and love and heartache.
But for the first time in this lifetime,
In the hollow cave
That once housed a beating heart,
A single sentence reverberates
Over and over again.
This is all there is.
Just a poet finding herself
Dumbfounded once more,
Uttering the simple sentence:
There are no words for this.

Venus

Her brilliance astounds
my very spirit.
I am a slight silhouette
in ever-changing ambiance
caressing scorching embers
and burnt strands.
Here my dreams are forevermore.
My soul possess a fire
greater than the sun's.
Fire goes nowhere without light.
Passion will be made known.
Light will be cast into black holes.
The Messenger is in my sight.
The magnificent world
I scarcely eluded
is a mere step behind.
I'd rather be consumed by this air
than to ever set foot back there.

Daybreak

A little before dawn, I slip out of the never-changing, sleeping house. My footprints are as quiet as a timid little mouse. I am careful not to wake the sleeping wraiths that inhabit the moth-eaten walls of the structure. There is just enough light to tell me that the world is still brumous and abundant with darkness. Ignoring, the bloodcurdling screech of the sliding doors, I step outside and climb precariously onto the roof. The shingles are kind this morning. They do not threaten to become loose and let me fall to my death. The dawn becomes exuberant. There is still time before her shining form rises above those craggy hills in the distance. The departing darkness welcomes me. I feel it in the soft, gentle whooshing of the air. My eyes find the heavens and see the celestial orbs still perceptibly luminous. Nodding my head in time to the music my ears, I struggle to seek the imaginary lines that join the stars and present direction to lost ships that only seek land. As time carelessly meanders along, so does the darkness. The clouds are lit and now they burn. They are on fire. The inferno is a beguiling pink-orange. Resplendent. I wave goodbye to the stars as they begin to fade. I promise to see them again soon. They wink back ever so sweetly. The sun is gorgeous today. Rays of her brilliance flare out and paint the canvas of the sky with bright, hopeful, solacing colors. I remove my earbuds as the birds awake. I hear their song. They sing this to welcome the sun. Or, perhaps they sing to their young. The darkness has all but taken its leave.  The sun persists in rising. I feel her rays begin to touch me. I breathe in her warmth and feel it resonate within my bones.

Ephemeral

    How often does this happen? You hardly pause what you are doing as you wave goodbye. You barely get out a smile before you are swallowed up by phone calls and work-related issues and just your busy life. You never say the words because you assume that he knows them. Perhaps he does. You go about your daily business. Quotidian events get to you more today then other days. You're impatient and critical. You don't know why. The banter that goes on around you seems asinine and utterly lacking in relevance. You have the strangest feeling inside, a feeling that makes your stomach turn now and then. This too, you cannot explain nor comprehend. You watch the clock more often than necessary. Each tick seems the length of one lifetime. You can't help but wonder if there is something you forgot to do or a person you forgot to wish "Happy Birthday." You know there is something about today that is just wrong.
    The time for returning home rolls around at last. You expect to feel relief. Instead, the uneasiness grows and becomes suddenly immense. Your heart races as you get in the old wheezing car. Your mind houses thoughts that are practically cyclones. Your thoughts spin round and round not making sense. You can't seem to connect the dots. As your car tyres kiss the driveway, it hits you so squarely. Panic rises from your stomach, your heart sinks to the ground. You throw the car door open and step out into the cool air of dusk. When you call for him, silence is the only answer. Your knees begin to quiver because your body reacts quicker than your mind. The reaction came before your mind pieced the puzzle together. You force yourself to think the three simple, elementary words :

He is gone.

Three simple words... but they rupture your heart leaving it bleeding and seemingly irreparable. Ignoring the truth, you search. With trembling knees, you wander the streets. Your eyes try to see through the unassailable darkness. You scream for him but all you hear are the echoes of your own hoarse, agonized voice. You look in every nook and cranny but you don't need to because you're absolutely positive that he has left. Mechanically, you unlock the door, step inside the dark house and just stare into space for a long, indefinite time. Finally, you flip on the lights, visit the cupboard and snatch a wine glass. As the red elixir slides down your throat, your numb mind wanders. Why? Why did he leave? Was it something you did wrong? Why was there nothing to explain it? There was no note stuck to the fridge or left by the phone. He was just gone as if his existence was a mere conjuring of your imagination. Of course, you always expected this to happen sooner or later but after years of felicity, the thought had all but disappeared. Like so many, you had overestimated the amount of time you would be allowed. Now though, all you have are pictures you can hardly bear to look at. As you crawl under the covers, you ask of no one, "Why didn't he at least say goodbye?" Memories hack at the walls you swiftly built to maintain your sanity. All you see when you glance around the empty abode is where he should be. You keep hoping he will return. You wait by the door all the time, just staring at it, thinking he will barge in and take you in his arms like he used to. You wait throughout long winter nights when the hearth emits warmth that doesn't touch your heart. It is then impossible for you to imagine a greater pain.

    He was an ephemeral gift. When the desperation of awaiting his return has all but faded, when there is not even a glimmer of a possibility that he would return, when clarity looks you in the eye, you are left with a dull ache that you know will always be there. It is a part of you, a scar untouchable by time or reason. It will be a part of you for eternity.

Thoughts

Today, I visited the mall. I kept my tired eyes on my feet as I paced, watched as they caressed the gleaming floor. With earbuds snug in my ears, filling my mind with the music from my favorite artists, I was utterly and contentedly in my own world. Oblivion is a punishment but this kind of oblivion was an escape. It was salvation from the loud bedlam of banter that always accompanied a crowd.
After half an hour or so, I looked up from my world, and put away the earbuds. And for the first time, I actually looked at everything. I let my eyes take in everything from the colors used for shop banners to the type of jewelry this passer by wore. I perused the items behind the window of a store that didn't seem to receive many visits from eager customers, saw the sales lady sitting behind the counter, filing her already perfect nails. Mostly, I was taken aback by the flood of conversation that seemed to arise from all locations, all around me. It was as if I was thrown into a sea of people where I was a mere drop of water trying to make a sound while the current tossed me around. It was disconcerting but pretty intriguing (at least, I found it that way). Then, I began to stop looking at things. I looked at people. Certainly I didn't look at them in a creepy way or make it seem like I was some crazed stalker. I took fleeting glances but in those momentary looks, my mind tried was overcome by another flood of thought, of questions, of curiosity. As I took fleeting glances at the company I was surrounded by, I couldn't help but wonder what they were made of. I wondered what made them who they were today, what made them dress the way they dress, talk the way they talk, smile the way they smile, walk the way they walk. I racked my brain, trying to figure out what were the sort of materials and hues used in weaving the arras of their lives. I wondered how many of them were content inside. Did they have all they wanted in life? Were their hearts still wandering the streets at night looking for their better halves? What fears plagued their minds? What sort of painful conundrums and experiences shaped them into who they are today? The old man holding hands with his true love. Such a happy couple they looked like. Were they always happy? The mother juggling her screaming children. Was she a single mother with no help? Was it difficult to be her? The man with the briefcase and tie. Did he know what God intended for him? Did he do everything he was told back when he was a kid? School. High school. College. Job. Was he happy with how his life turned out? Did he want more? Had he been forced to surrender his artistic desires to pursue something people deemed more worthy? Did he ever stop to smell the roses? Certainly he has heard that saying but has he literally done it before? Has he literally paused and take pleasure in nature's little gifts such as the smell of a blooming, healthy, crimson rose? The wispy child holding his precious plushy. Would he be famous one day? Would he change the world in ways impossible to imagine at present?
Then I wondered what they thought when they glanced at me. Do they wonder who I am? Me, the unassuming girl wandering aimlessly, pushing through the crowd in a hurry to go nowhere.