~pravoxian

Thus ends my writers block

.............................
Window

I see through the window people who will never know me. They live their lives in absolute ignorance of me and each other, and yet I craft a story for them. They’re star crossed lovers, divided by cement and mortar.And sometimes I put myself into the stories I make, I dream myself to be their hero, swinging in to save the day. Liberating them, and watching them embrace for the first time. Its warm, the feeling inside.
All the while they live their lives, she adjusts her TV antenna, and he does his homework, his football banners hanging loosely out his window.

Sometimes I perform to them, my audience, and I enjoy my fantasy where they know me, and applaud me, she in her night gown, he in his boxers. “Bravo!” they shout across the alley. I take my bow, gracefully and without shame.

And when their curtains are drawn, I imagine the secrets they don’t want me to see, his drug problem, and her secret lover. His porn addiction and her bondage gear.

And when they’re not there on some nights, when their rooms lay empty and abandoned I stand by my window and wonder where they are. My close friends, who will never know me, nor each other.

.................................

Wall

I painted the wall with chalkboard paint. To leave messages to myself, to let others leave messages to me, or at least to give myself the dream of other people caring enough to talk to me on this wall.
I came home one day, and the message was there, from someone I don’t know, and it asked me “Who are you?” I left it alone, and walked backwards; I left my room, telling myself it’s a dream.
I returned, and the chalk scrapings described the girl of my dreams, in meticulous detail, in flowing verse, in beautiful sonnets. The wall said, “This is me”
I nervously picked up a bit of chalk, and in shaky handwriting wrote out the me that resided within my heart , I shared my dream of meeting her, of waking up with her, and letting the morning sun turn darkness into the world. “I love you” was what I wrote at the bottom of the words.
I slept that night with my body pressed against the wall, imagining it was her, and that she somewhere was doing the same the wall that faced her. I could feel warmth, alongside the cold of the night; I could feel warmth on my flesh that touched the wall.
She told me later that she never existed, that she never will exist. That this was all a dream. Finally she wrote, “When you wake up, I will die”
And I did.
.................................

Eternity

When the sun sets, and the night falls, I find it hard to imagine that I am living in the same world that I was in when I woke up. The world I woke too was bright, and loud, and filled with life, and the world at dusk becomes a magical place, and stays that way till I wake again. I see in the night unlimited possibilities for life. In the dark corners, under the brown light street lamps, and in all the places that people avoid. Darkness is the secret to the human soul, light is transparent, light is known and understood, but darkness is infinite, and beautiful. Darkness is so heavy it can be felt, it can be seen, it can be touched.

When I wake to the dark world, I walk aimlessly, music playing in my ears. I hop from oasis to oasis, noticing the absence of life, except in the small pockets of light. I shun these places and wander the dark. I see homes, warm homes, abandoned homes, and I imagine asking them if they would follow me, leave the light and travel the darkness for one night.

And finally the darkness holds stars, o how they shine. The infinite dark, and the infinite night sky with its blanket of eternal unblinking beauty. If I’m lucky I see the hole in the sky, a perfect circle of nothingness, and my eyes tear, and my tears reflect the most amazing sight in the world.

Till the sun comes again, I will cherish the night. Gods gift to me, and me alone.

.......................................

Death

If I have to die, I want to do it on an old boat, floating effortlessly on the Pacific Ocean. I will build it with my own hands, this funeral boat. It won’t matter that I will be alone, it only matters that I will be there, on the brink of eternity, with nothing around me but what my mind makes of the world. I will have the eternal blanket of stars to cover my dead body, and I will have the rocking of the ocean to put me to eternal sleep. I will have the lullaby of the sea, the song of whales and birds to still my soul forever. I want, if even for a moment to be in a moment of absolute peace, even if that moment is the moment of my death. Life has too long denied me this peace, and I will find it in death.

.......................................

Reality

The sun shone through the window in tones of sepia and red. Just enough sun to make out that I was alone. No lover lay next to me, no warm body to comfort this soul. For too long have I dreamt that lover to reality. For too long have I seen something in nothing, where there has always been nothing. If I squint, I can see the outline of what she could look like, real and unmoving, deep in slumber, her lipstick smeared, and a slight noise escaping when she breaths. If I am to have an angel such as she, it will be long after these words have been forgotten. It will be long after I come to terms with the reality of being a person. An unperfect being in an unperfect world.

We strive to find the perfect person in all of this,forgetting that they too will be a making of this world, flawed and grimy, sweaty and blemished. But to us they will always be the perfect thing in the world. Our eyes turned blissfully blind by the need to be for one real waking moment, happy.