![]() ![]() A blink was all it took, and those pools turned to glass – brittle and bare, bleeding and bright. I remember that he looked at me with those syrupy dark-brown pools, every colour seemed to radiate from his pupils to his irides like rays and the energy of a dying sun. As grey spires of gas rose from my lips and into the air, a flurry of images surrounded me – born out of the smoky spires – a kaleidoscope of memories, a portfolio of has-beens, a dismantled collection of possibilities lost within the eye of the storm. A stick or two were my only sources of heat amidst the downpour, and even these were pathetic replacements for consolation and comfort. The deluge left me wet before I arrived, but it was bearable. The night was damp the air frigid, but that didn’t stop me from seeking solace in a place that felt like home away from home. However, at this moment in time, with the ghost of my thoughts giving way to exhaustion, I lie in the comfort of knowing that I rest under a blanket of stars. Sentience is the cradle of all souls, and yet to be sentient is to never experience the world objectively. This landscape was a land frozen in time, and I struggle in the samsara in vain hope to find a gap in the endless knot. A trail of sweets, the promise of shelter.Įverything was still once more as I returned to grace. My feet advanced on the gravel path and towards the door to my abode. A shriek broke through the silence of the night and a nest of passerines protested in response. My hand reached out for the metal apparatus concealed in places where the light didn’t touch. The unrelenting downpour transforming static luster into showers of silver and gold. Abandon hope ye who enter here.įamiliar patterns of light finally came into view – two specks of white between three speckles of yellow. ![]() Familiar notes took me back to a time when naivete was the scaffold from which I built my youth on and impulsivity the backdrop of halcyon days gone past – to call it nostalgia is to call the tempest a breeze to call it folly is to call the inferno a flame to express longing over times forgotten to is to reach out to heaven during a steady descent to hell. A nether gaze, a crescent reflected, down the depths of that murky velvet.Ī string of chords sang its lamentation into my ear. The silver crescent shone through its immaterial form. In between the smoky wisps, one could make out figure athwart my path, a ghostly visage near metal rails. Another metal cocoon zipped past, then another, and another – a parade of chrome leaving exhausts of grey. Steady crafts floated over a blanket of black, an undulating velvet. I noticed the scent of brine and the shimmer of reflected moonlight. Twin spires rose above the ground, a path forged forward over where ground was none. Between twisted sheets and cries of exaltation was the leap into the void, the great loss of self, the tiger in space, a plea for annihilation. ![]() The warmth of my hand is but a dull echo of the souls of carbon in my lungs, a mere fraction of passion once shared with bodies intertwined in copula many moons ago. A metronome of shadows oscillated with respect to the ebb and flow of melodies. The chorus of overtones and undertones cried out in complex harmony. A car sped past me, its bright headlights shooting across the rough outline of the road, painting needles of rain with golden streaks – straw into gold, flesh into gold. The dull glow of the streetlamps reflecting a distorted afterimage of the world above. My feet gently brush against the asphalt as a steady downpour cascaded around me, bemused. Shallow waters, muted lights, moral perdition, discordant music, translucent fabric – concrete and abstract ideas fly past my conscious stream – a riptide of colours, a whirlpool of sensations. ![]()
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