Sunday, 27 December 2009

He Meets.

After missing her by that table, even though she sat right before me, with the din of the bar around us, it all became silent, and her words, rung - rung like a bell in the dark. And it was then I realised that I have completed a cycle - looking at those button-like, full, beautiful eyes that once was mine.

A man meets three kinds of women in his life; the one he loved, but never could attain; the one he loved, but was never truly loved back by; the One he could have loved, but never really loved till it was too late. I've seen them all now. I've seen them all.

Tuesday, 14 July 2009

I built a Home.

This was never home for her - she didn't feel as though it could have been home, but she stayed awhile. I didn't acknowledge I had made it a home, she didn't acknowledge that she saw me making it into a home; that I furnished it with love, brimmed it with care, gilded it with saccharine nonsense, that I had made it home. Years later, I admit, I had made it a home then. Now, I can't even hold it aloft as a house.

Hearts can be silly.

Love bade me to build a home, and then, my love left home.

Wednesday, 17 June 2009

Now and Then.

She comes to mind now and then, but just now and then. No more before I sleep, nor when I wake. No more in my waking hours, or my sleep embalmed nights.

I see now that time can only fade, not erase - like an infinite equation, that, when divided, can only give you another sum, and another, and another.

Always reducing in size - never vanquished in presence.

Tuesday, 16 June 2009

Home Again.

When they leave, whether by will, or by fate - they're still with us - when you love them, when you remember them, when you pretend to forget and smile a smile gilded of weight; they're home again.

Home again.

Saturday, 28 March 2009

Did she acknowledge the effect she had on your life?

'Did she acknowledge the effect she had on your life?' The woman on the screen said. That, like a spiral of web, caught me. I smiled. My friend and I walk back, and observing me, she asks:

'Why did he not write to her? Why did he behave so cruelly in the end?'

'Why do you ask me?'

'You seem like you would know.' 

The London air blew, and more than the cold poisoned bite of the wind, her deduction bit me, deeper. I did not say much thereafter. As our train traversed emptily below the ground, with its deafening drone, reaching the station on where we had to part - she grew impatient.

'You have to tell me - now.'

'Tomorrow - dear.'

'No, now,' she inserts. 'You will have time to think of it tomorrow, you will surely have an answer tomorrow. I want your feelings in words - now.'

The train leaves us behind, and she sits me on the bench, and as the train whirs by, my only thought was, why Green Park, was called Green Park. Parks were always meant to be green, were they not, why then, are they stating the obvious? Whose choice was it? Did it matter? It's called that now, and that's that.

'Tell me - please?' she beseeched me.

'It was all about choice, dear. That he had the choice, now to break her, as she had broken him long ago, that he had the power to affect her - now - at last, be it, in a cruel way...that did not matter. It was his justification for all the things that went amiss; that all those years of pain had been disolved in one moment of equal cruelty was soothing. The retribution for his soul,  but a betrayal upon his heart. It was his choice, at last, as then, it was hers.'

'Im confused...' she said.

'I hope, you'll never be clear about these things.'


Friday, 30 January 2009

Going.

I'm going now, and I'm taking my music with me. Lovely cognac's gold-warmth in my belly, and in my belly, the sadness of every clime. I'm going now, I'm taking along that music I lulled myself with. I was created by a woman, I am undone by a woman, my sweet music, will I be renewed by a woman? I'm going, I'm taking the music I toiled for.

What a beautiful language the eyes may speak, when they speak that of shaken dews. I'm going now, dear, and I'm taking my -- your? -- silly -- there is no music.

Wednesday, 14 January 2009

The Way to the Great Valley.

It's been long since I was little. I can never be little again.

As a child, I seldom had the privileges most my age had, but I never saw them to be the cause of unhappiness. Little things sufficed.

My Father, and the few moments he could spare for me between after his work, and tending to my mother. My strange brothers playing poker by the cold corridor. Keeping score of their tennis matches. Wearing little clothes. Smiling a lost smile. Speaking a lost voice. Taking my mother's hand in her sleep because of her nightmares. Smiling, then - and even now - that she believed that I was the one who was afraid. Thinking how beautiful the Unicorn looked, in the Last Unicorn. Giving the allotted portion of food away to them. Wondering if I would grow as tall as them. Putting on my socks for the first day of school. Loving my first two dogs. Watching The Land Before Time. Lying on my brother's tummy while watching it. Watching it for times beyond count. Having my heart broken when Little Foot's mother died. Hoping mine never would. Wondering if I will ever find my Great Valley.

I've yet to. Those little things, grew to a great need.

Little Foot had to follow the Bright Circle, pass the Great Rock that looks like a Long-Neck, and pass the Mountains that Burn. Perhaps I must too. I did not understand her then, but I understand her now:

Little Foot: Have you ever seen the Great Valley?
Little Foot's Mother: No.
Little Foot: Well, how do you know it's really there?
Little Foot's Mother: Some things you see with your eyes, others you see with your heart.
Little Foot: I don't understand, Mother.
Little Foot's Mother: You will, my son. You will...