Sometimes I think About Seeing The Moon

I have never been able to see anything since the day I was born. Sometimes I wonder what the things I hear and feel look like. I can’t tell what I put in my mouth, but I have to accept that when I do put it in my mouth it tastes good and gives me the right nutrients to stay alive. I also have to accept that what I put in my mouth had not been left over from many days past, picked up from the ground or food that had been bitten from someone else. When I put on my clothes, I have to accept that I wear appropriate clothes for my gender, of which I think I am male, and current fashion for the time, of which I think is the year two thousand sixteen. When I am escorted to my school, I have to accept that I am brought to the right classroom to the right school to the right teacher. But, the one thing that I truly worry about, is that I have to accept that the person whom cares for all of these tasks will not one day leave me to my own volition. I can do most tasks with the aid of braille and my own ability to touch and with the walking stick I carry with me. But the one thing I can’t account for is being able to have someone always be there for the things where it would deem quite difficult for me to do. And someone who would be there when I have personal troubles. If such a person were to leave me, I would be left blind.

I felt the breeze touch my face like a happy mother caressing her newborn’s face in the dead of night. The pavement below me rung pulses of cold industrialism like the floor of the hospital to a bare foot. I then opened my mouth and took in a waft of cold air, leaving a stale after taste on my tongue, like the taste of a dozen sick. The whistling of dead trees and rustling leaves caught my attention like the beeps of machines never giving you the day of light. The cold night all gathered together with the scent of leaves and materialistic garbage oozing metallic by product like the hallways of busy night. Except, when I heard the faint ocean to my left driving up into the sand and starting an ebb and flow I remember that I am walking on the streets by myself. That feeling gnaws at my chest.

When I walk down the street in the middle of what I hope to be night, by myself, I sometimes talk.

“Are you there?” I received no response of course, but sometimes, I hear back.

“Guess who?” Her voice permeated my entire body, sending me to a realm beyond this mundane world. But then the wind brings me back.

“What?” I answered.

“My hands are on your eyes.” I didn’t feel her touch, nor did I perceive that as anything but inane. I laughed.

“You really have no tact Alice.” Her name was something that I also had to trust. Her name and her voice, her touch and her breath, everything about her was something that I had to trust. I gave her all my unconditional trust, I gave her all of my everything in hopes that I would never have to ever trust. It would simply be there, something that’s a part of me, something to give me way, to give me direction in the path that I cannot see. Things like that, she liked to tell me, were always within the world. Things like the moon were things that people usually did not think about. It is with the sun that we receive sun light, but the moon’s moon light is not something that many people would attribute to anything. Darkness can be created by anything, even I can produce darkness effortlessly. But to create light is something of an idiosyncrasy. Light is important to life as it is important to have light in one’s own path. But not anyone can have or produce this light, and if one can produce light, it is not certain that they will receive light. That’s why sometimes I think about seeing the moon. Sometimes I wish to gaze up and look at the very thing that I hold semblance with. The very thing that seems to radiate a light that cannot be seen. The very thing that holds itself behind the sun, laying silently by its side. And if it’s forgotten, and the sun finds another confidant, then no one will remember the moon.

“Isn’t it fine every once in a while to have some fun?” That was her voice.

“It is.”

“Then don’t worry if I make a tactless joke, it’s all in good fun right?”

“It’s all in good fun until someone starts crying.”

“If someone starts crying because of that then that just means they haven’t accepted fun yet.”

“Have I accepted it yet?”

“Are you crying?” Her voice then faded. It began losing friction and started distancing itself from me. It was as if she let her hands away from my shoulders and began spinning backwards. She was fading from my existence, losing semblance of the light she once gave to me, and then everything became dark again. Everything was silent, with only the sounds of the ocean to my side giving me back to the mundane world. I didn’t like thinking because thinking made too much noise in my head, and my path would get cloudy, lost within words of things that I may not have much juncture to. I didn’t want to lose my way as much as I didn’t want to lose Alice, but eventually I began to lose her voice.

“Are you there?” I asked, towards no one in particular. And just like before, I would hear her, this time she was laughing. She was laughing in the distance as I proceeded forward. She was laughing and I heard another laugh. Presumably those two laughs would converge into waves that split into tops and bottoms. I walked by them, and then I heard her voice.

“Guess who?” Her voice was not directing a question towards me, I knew that, but I answered out loud anyway.

“Its you, Alice.”

“My hands are on your eyes.” But I knew they weren’t. I knew that she would never have her hands on my eyes, because she was the person that brought them away in the first place. She took away everything that hid me from the world, and she brought me back onto the path that I now walk on. Her hands would never be on my eyes, and yet, now that she is gone, it feels like her grasp tightens around me. Her hands before were warm but they are cold now.

“They aren’t, Alice, they really aren’t,” I said.

“My hands are on your eyes.” Her voice was far, but I felt it brush against my ears like needles pricking into my skin. It stung far more than poison and lasted far longer than a scar.

“Your hands are nowhere near me, Alice,” I said in retaliation. I felt her smile creep up against me, her smile that bled into both her cheeks, and threatened me to open my eyes, to see the moon.

“You are anything but fine with the way things are,” she said, “Just close your eyes and let everything crumble around you. Let everything become as if you were the weapon of mass destruction, and watch as everything you ever loved comes falling down on itself. Watch as everything you hate comes kneeling to you.” Her voice slithered into my ears, crept its way into my mind and brought itself onto my path, the only path I could ever walk on. It wrapped itself to every part of my being and threatened to make me a slave to lust. But I had never known lust nor will I ever.

“Will you come now? Will you save yourself from my discretion? Will you not accept anything more from me?” Alice’s voice was much too far for me to answer with my quiet demeanor, but no matter how much I whispered in the wind, she would hear and tighten her grip. She would speak into me from a place where I couldn’t see. She would speak to me from the moon.

“If you keep walking this path, you will find yourself at the end of the world. A place where no one will be able to find you, and a place where you won’t be able to find anyone. A place where the sun sets and the moon rises.”

“Tell me Alice, do you want to see the moon?” Her voice stopped, and I knew that if I asked her strange questions that she would take strange measures to find strange answers towards my brevity. She would ask me to find the moon but mean the sun, but I would never be able to achieve both either way.

“The moon is falling,” she said. Her voice slowly became a wistful memory in the night time. Something that I once was able to find great joy in now became something that lingered in my mind like the moon after it has been overtaken by the sun. Sometimes I wonder whether my existence truly is something that belongs to the mundane world, or whether I simply wander the same street in a prelude to what I once was before. Such thoughts befit the world that I now live in. Such thoughts of seeming fragile longevity was somehow befitting for a person like me. And whenever in my journey I come to this conclusion, I tend to stop and think. I tend to wonder about whether this world will truly crumble before me one day, whether I will even notice, and whether I will feel any of it happen. But such thoughts on such a night as the one I was walking were thoughts set aside in my mind. They were too noisy. The only thought that I allowed to stay were the thoughts of the moon. I have never been able to see anything since the day I was born, but sometimes I think about seeing the moon. And sometimes I do.

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Skyscraper

When I was a kid, I always dreamt of standing on a skyscraper, to see what it was like up there, and to be as near to the stars as I could. That dream was something that only a kid could think of. A fruitful fruition filled with everything that a kid was fueled on. A fanciful fiction that when grown up, seems like a sad excuse to find meaning. Thinking of it like that made all the more sense than anything tangible. Standing upon this skyscraper now, and reaching my hand into the sky, only for the stars to escape my fingers, was the reality that I had landed upon. It’s a reality that I’ve come to appreciate for all of my youthful discretion. The top of this skyscraper was empty, and the stars were still too far for me to reach.

I bring my hand down, and trace the lines till they reach my wrist. The dark of the night made it difficult to trace exactly where each line went, but my eyes had long adjusted to this truth. I wondered at one point how long I should have stayed here. That thought became fleeting, just like any other. I sigh again and look down towards the bustling city that lay just below my feet. My feet dangling over the edge of the skyscraper made me seem like a nonchalant Little Mary. Such a thought was probably something fitting for what I was going to do, unadvised and unintelligible. The cold breeze of the night sprung across my face and I shut my eyes to feel its grasp around my neck. Despite how high I am, I imagine the sounds of the city below me, of the cars buzzing about and the small ant-like pedestrians just trying to move higher in the corporate ladder. Everything of the city made me churn in disgust. The green, the white, and the blue. All of that made me want to digress to a time much simpler, to a time where I did not know of what transpired across the world, of the endless miasma of misanthropy that clouded the largest corporations and the strongest people.

The breeze of the night decided to flow pass me again, and this time, it brought the smell of rancid garbage. I decide not to think much about it, but that didn’t last long as the source of the smell decided to strike a conversation. He was a man of some stature who at the time, I did not realize had took upon residence on the skyscraper.

“What brings you here? To end a life? To end a dream? To end your day?” The man’s voice is something akin to a teenager in the cloud. He spoke to me in such a rapid-dash manner that contrasted with everyone else of this world.

“What good would me telling you do?” I reply. The man jumps over to the edge of the skyscraper and begins treading along as if on a tightrope. He does so without hesitation and looks down to the city without a flinch. The man’s stench permeates all around him and he brings it with him the further he goes, but then it comes back when he turns and begins walking towards me. He is a man of little shame, I think to myself. Someone unabashed to his life.

“If you are here to end your life, then better not do it here. Do it somewhere else. Somewhere without me. Somewhere so that they don’t come.” He speaks while walking on the edge, and jumps down to inspect me closer. He eyes the black suit I wear and the clean brushed hair behind me. His stench begins to linger on me, and I make no movement to check his ragged clothes.

“Why should I do it somewhere else?” He detests the question. I could tell by the way he begins erratically shaking and squirming about on the spot. I force myself to look now, and hope to no-god that my life does not belong to him.

“Why? Why? Why? You ask me why? Why is it that we all ask questions? Why is it that you ask questions? Why is it that you won’t leave me?” He repeats those three words over and over. Why, why, why. Those words stick to my head and the only thing I can focus on is his maddening rambling. His entire body seems to rupture, but then he stops.

“This is where I live, if you kill yourself now then you’ll disturb me. Do you see now why? Why else do you think? They will come.”

“Who’s they?” The man breaks out into another fit. This time he begins clawing at his eyes in what I can only think as an attempt to mutilate himself.

“They. Day. They. What day is it that you bring yourself to take your life away on my roof? What day is it that you decide to hang yourself on the pinnacle of capitalistic greed? What day is that you have finally been consumed in the speed of the city?” His voice grows loud, much too loud, and yet despite how loud it is, it still does not faze me. His words and meaning seems to spin in the cold night air and yet that same cold night air brings it away.

“You said they. They will come.”

“Yes I am very aware of today. Today is the day which marks the day in which the day means November—“ He stops and scratches his head before continuing to spout, “Second. Year, meaning, twenty sixteen.” I see and hear his breathing fluctuating. I attribute it to the same scene where my mother had died of heat before. The whole spiel comes as nothing but pointless banter before I take my life. Boring garbage.

“The day in which, to say that the world had ended once and began again, the day in which, many call, D-Day, June six nineteen-ninety-four, the day when men see the power of their own creation, and the day when travesty happens. Do you know? What day do you want to know? What day will today be?” I decide to ignore his pointless premonitions, in all actuality, to ignore all of what he says will probably make me much happier despite the circumstance, but I decide to humor him in hopes of something likewise. Even I am as feeble as wanting something like that at a time like this. Feeble and pathetic. I can’t help it, I’m only human.

“Today will be the day where I plunge towards the city and splash red on everyone around me.”

“And if you do that, then they will come. They will come to arrest me. They will come to stop me from living here. They will come to silence the truth.”

“Who’s they? Is this they you speak of people you know? Are they people who know you but you do not know them? Or are they the people whom cover themselves in blue in hopes of putting power to the white that they exude?” In all actuality, I knew exactly what he had meant. Of course I knew, how could one not expect to know. But no matter how much I wanted him to leave, and no matter how much his pointless disposition seemed to me, I couldn’t bring myself to play that role. On that roof upon that skyscraper I had done something so incongruous as to reverse the hands of a clock, that much I know.

“You mock me. You mock me. You mock me, you all want to mock me and to put my words to shame, to make me irrelevant. You and them. Them and you. All of you are filled with so much greed.” The man stops convulsing. A small sense of brevity breathes air in the cold night as he scampers off to a place hidden to my eyes. I dare to turn around to see where he goes, to where his abode is upon this place of broken dreams. But even as I try to turn, I know with all my being that I can’t do so, and so I don’t. I await his arrival, for the next moment in which he will break my concentration, to pummel me with the want for ennui, to entice me into a state of bellicose, to stop me from turning transient.

“But those who mock me, come to mock me for petty reasons. Reasons that you and I know, that I and you know, that they and we know. Those reasons come in all kinds of things in this world. Those reasons make me sad. And I know those reasons make them sad, those sad blue things.” The man shoves a picture to my face, in which the danger of a single breath becomes ever so present. I slowly adjust my eyes to the sudden image and see that the picture contains a rather happy family, a nuclear family. The man in the picture brings to me a strange sense of déjà vu, and before being able to conceive the thought, the man chimes in, “My family, from a time long before this one, of course. My family, one of proportion, one of the dream in which your people seek, my people. My family, which is now long lost, and I the one who remains, looking over charred ash and for a petty reason, feels mocked.”

“How long ago did your family die?” He continues to dangle the picture in front of me, not giving way to the cold night air that seemingly now consists of rancid garbage, tears, and a petty mockery.

“Some time ago. Some time ago when things seemed okay. Some time ago when I did not become who I am, when I did not say to those who are colored the sky that the grass beneath them was not a toy of chaos. Some time ago when I was like you.” The man indulged in a way of speaking that I can describe with a gallant smile as benign to erudite poetry. Something akin to pure archaic rabble, but that in of itself was not something I dissuaded. Not then, not before, and still as I want to open my mouth to reply to a man who seemingly embodies a cloud.

“Did you love your family?”

“Love, the color most associated with red. Love is a strong word, do we really ever love something other than ourselves? Even you must love yourself as much as you love your family. And even you must love yourself more than you love me.”

“Do you still think about your family?” The man retracts the picture and moves back into that space to where I don’t belong, and can’t belong. He leaves me back to the state before, to the state in which I can freely imagine myself falling into the city, to the space where my dreams become shattered. Somehow, I begin to hate that state.

The man comes back soon enough with another one of his ornaments. This time it is of a drawing. He places it in front of me without caution and I adjust to the new image in front of me. It is a simple drawing, a landscape of sorts that is empty with all but a single tree. The sky above is cheery, filled with colors that blind my eyes. That blindness is soothing. The tree which encompasses the center piece and stands alone among an air of emptiness is drawn with colors that are drastically dark, dreary. It brings me great difficulty to see the tree for more than a few seconds before the brightness of the area around it becomes a painful reminder.

“A picture of my youth. A picture perhaps of your youth as well, of our youth, of their youth. A picture drawn in a room of my own. A picture drawn in a time where drawing is not considering a piece of contemporary society, no belonging.”

“Is it your favorite drawing?”

“It is the truest of forms of expression. To bring to light what one sees in a world where one chooses to un-see is something short of serendipity, surrealism. Nothing, not even science can come to even rivaling that expression of truth. And that same truth is something outlawed.”

“Were you once an artist? At the time where your family still lived?” For some reason, I thought he nodded. He brought the picture out of my face, and left to the place where I don’t belong. This time, this last time, he brings back something nothing like the others. He dangles in front of me a notepad. It is worn, much like the rest of his attire, and smells of the same rancid odor that pervades him. Found within the spine of the notebook is a pen. The man pushes the notebook in front of me, even closer to my face, to the point where I take it from his hands. He says, next, in the most surprising of all his words he has said to me that night.

“Before you kill yourself, would you mind writing your name in my records?” His words strung themselves within the night air. They wrapped themselves in the very fibre that made up the air, and in the smell of the air, I could smell the city. I could smell the green within the linen pockets. The night air lulls me into a sense of belonging, into a sense of familiarity. I obey his civil words.

“Thank you for your time, and goodbye, so is the curse of those like you.”

“You also subscribe to my state do you not?”

“If I said so before, it must be a lie. I am not of your kind. I am what makes your kind idiosyncratic.” The man leaves, for the final time, to the place where I don’t belong. He does not come back this time, and I get up from my seat on the skyscraper, and stand on the ledge like he had. I stare down into the city, imagine the sounds of the cars buzzing around, of the people just trying to reach higher in the corporate ladder, perhaps to reach the stars that are unreachable. And then the top of the skyscraper becomes empty.

 

A Man And A Whistle

The quiet whistling threatened to bring the world around me to a bending solace, but the only thing that happened was the disapproved grunting of the girl I carried. I brought my whistle down, and let it hang on my neck as a reminder of my being. I shuffled my back and re-shifted the weight of the girl I carried. I found her huddled on the ground on the road side. She seemed to be praying to a tombstone of sorts, a small shrine erected out of the dirt and left to the elements. If I didn’t find her then, she probably would have died. Her clothes were ragged and from how shriveled she looked she was probably planning to stay by that shrine for the rest of her days. I knew she was alive from the way she moaned and moved about on my back. At least I hoped so.

The dangling of the whistle on my neck accompanied with the wind made a small clacking sound every time I stepped. It resounded in my ears something rhythmic, like the flow of my being as it went along. It made me relaxed in an otherwise completely desolate roadside, and it made my mind wander.

            “Who are you?” The girl on my back had awoken. Her voice was starch, but it wasn’t bad enough that I couldn’t understand. Her hair was filled with dirt and branches when I had found her, but it was long enough to make me think that she wasn’t a low-bred. Black, just like the powder used to subjugate nations.

            “Relik.”

“Relik?”

“You asked me who I am. That’s who I am.” I felt the girl breath softly, her body shifting forward and then back, almost as if trying to figure out how to relax. I didn’t figure that she was very old, but she also wasn’t too young to not know about placing trust in strangers. But she was high-bred, and children of that kind tend to be treated with impunity. However, she was tired, and that may have helped softened any hostility she might normally have for strange men carrying her.

            “How about you? Who are you?”

“Marianne.”

“Marianne.”

“That’s who I was.” She was wide awake, and yet her voice was only a whisper. She was wistfully away from where we were, from where she belonged. That much I could tell in the way she slouched on my back, and in the way she never struggled to get away from me.

            “Are you a friend of my parents?”

“Not at all. It doesn’t matter what I do, or who I am, but… I’m no one you know.”

“So why are you carrying me then?” The dirt road ahead of me was beginning to sink. The rainy season had passed, that much I knew. I shifted my weight again and began walking slightly off the road. I carried with me no other possessions than the few coins I had in my shirt.

“You seemed like you were going to die. I’m no murderer, though, I’m also not a saint.”

“How long has it been?

“It hasn’t been very long since I picked you up–”

“Since they died.” I wanted to look back, to see her eyes, to see her expression and to see what world she was seeing through her tiny eyes. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. They belonged to her, and to peer into her world would be to take everything away from her. I could only listen, and to let her live her own world. I could only stand as someone to be dragged into it, not forcefully enter, such was always the way.

“Your friend? Or your parents? The ones buried back there, right?” Although I couldn’t see or feel, I knew she nodded.

“I think I have forgotten how long it has been since they have died.”

“Surely it’s been a while. That grave is half destroyed. Only half of what it used to be.”

“But even then. I am whole. I was never around for when it happened.” Her words gave me more weight, it made her more… Human, in a sense. Innocence, and pity. Those words came to me upon hearing her talk, and those words are only ever associated with those of people. Her innocence of the world around her, and the pity I carried for her, were undeniably human. Almost as if looking at an infant, I could tell that there were things that she didn’t know, and things that she thought she did. Lightly I brought us back to the main road. The sun was hiding somewhere in the clouds and even the winds seemed to stop pervading my being. It was almost as if having her with me on this road made it a different reality, a different setting for what cannot be unchanged.

“Have you ever lost anyone in your life?”

“We all have haven’t we?”

“Do you ever wish you could find them again? The people you lost?”

“Sometimes. But, that’s the whole point isn’t it? To lose someone, and to have someone. They’re synonymous with each other.”

“Synon–”

“The same. They’re the same.” She muffled something in her breath and laid her head lightly on my back. She lowered all her guards. She was getting comfortable, that much I could tell. But I had no time to leisure in comfort. I brought with me the best clothes I had, along with all my strength and courage before I came upon this road. The town nestled itself on many horizons behind me, and surely Marianne had figured this as well. We were walking up the road, not down. And I was selfishly bringing her with me, to indulge in something she had no business in.

“Do you wish to make me a concubine? Or sell me to work in the fields?”

“Where did you even learn that?”

“My servant told me stories before he had arrived at my home. He was the one who informed me of the world that I live in.”

“So you really were a high-bred. I had an itching feeling. Girl like you shouldn’t be out on the streets praying, no less dying.”

“And now I am a girl being carried by a strange man.”

“Stranger. Not strange man.” I almost laughed at that. A bit of levity never killed the ruler. Surely hadn’t killed me yet. I mulled over the words she had told me, of the small snippet of life she let me live in. I smiled at that thought. Of having someone work for you, of having someone talk to you about worldly things. I had to be all of that, all on my own.

“My servant told me that the world is filled with violent people. He also told me that there were people who did things for others because if they did not they would be killed. He told me that the world is a dangerous place that if I were to ever go out that people would want to take me and use me to make more money. He said that the only thing they want is to make more money. Do you want to make more money?”

“Not at all. I think your servant knows what he’s talking about, but don’t think that the entire world is like that. After all, you’re not like that right?” I felt her shake her head.

“Besides. You found your way on the road, praying to… Whoever it was you were praying to, and I found you. And I can tell you that I don’t have any desire to get more money.” I felt the coins in my shirt again. The road ahead started smoothing out which meant the end of the road. The end of the border, or the start of the border. Either way we were heading to a place where no one would know.

“I never got to go outside very much. Have you been outside a lot?”

“Can’t say I have, but I can’t really say much for everybody else. Compared to you, it might seem like a lot. But it really isn’t. Instead, I’ll say that I’ve lived my life.”

“Is this part of your life?” I noticed the road smoothing over. I could almost smell it now, the roar of the raging river that existed just below the bridge. The life that existed just beyond the reality that Marianne and I knew of.

“Maybe not so much. But, now that it’s happened, it can’t help but be a part of my life.”

“Do you like your life?” The road had finally ended, and in front of us was a wooden bridge connecting the end of this cliff to the other. I peered over with Marianne on my back and saw the rapids engulfing everything in its path. Disembodied trees and sharp rocks jutted out of the waves, proving well to intimidate all those ill of spirit. I felt Marianne grab my shoulder and vault her head over. I didn’t know what expression she was making, nor did I want to know.

“I’ve had a good run, that’s for sure. I lived my life the way I could, living modestly for the most part. You’ll never understand, but for people like me, that modesty, that’s our constitution. It lets us wake up in the morning.”

“I think… I have had a good run as well.” She slouched her head down onto my back, pushing all her weight on me, and her voice became a soft whisper. I didn’t look back, but I knew that her eyes were lying in darkness, and her body was waiting to be permeated across the arid earth. I brought her down from my back, a little way away from the entrance of the bridge, and watched as she awoken from her feigned slumber. She stared at me with a phlegmatic soul. Her entire being although high-bred now seemed much lower than even me. At least then I could relate with her more, at least than I could see where she was coming from. No matter how much she may have had in the life she once led, it all amounts to dust and charcoal once it crumbles. And it always crumbles. But to ignore what is left remaining, the dust and charcoal, is to be a fool. I smiled as I realized this. The roughness of one’s skin can only ever be hardened through repetitive trial, likewise to one’s character. And once that roughness fades, a beautiful diamond lays in wait. She may have lacked the latter, but her folly of the former was strangely alluring. Her journey, her story, is something that she will always hold as her own. It’ll be everything she has left and yet that small fragment of her life is much larger than anything she can hold. She fumbles with it, unable to grasp it with her fragile hands, just like an infant.

“Then we both agree. We’ve both had good runs. But now is not the time to revel in those times.”

“Have you not brought yourself here to end your life?” The sun that had previously been hiding somewhere behind us, poked through the clouds and slowly beamed its way to the bridge. I walked over, and nuzzled the wooden supports. The bridge swung.

“For you to have figured that out, I concede my pride.”

“My servant told me that those without reason usually go to bridges to fall off them.”

“Once again, your servant proves to be most intelligible. But sometimes that intelligence has to be altered. I’ll show you how.” I walked on the bridge, and began crossing. Once half way, I turned to Marianne, who watched in silence. I cleared my throat, and yelled over, “If you wish to understand me, why not follow me?” She tried to yell, but knew her voice could not ride along the miniscule energy her body held. I could see her expression concede to the fragility of her age as she reluctantly crossed. It was surprisingly life like, filled with worry and genuine concern over what would have happened if her body would have been swept by what lay below.  I waited for her half way across, and once she arrived she said, “You do not seem very dishonest. You did not start walking once I had.”

“Surely if I did, you wouldn’t have tolerated it. But, you’re more clever than you put yourself to be. I must have confused you for a puppet the first time you spoke.” I looked down to see the raging rapids once again. Such a scene hadn’t frightened me, and without knowing I had conceded all my trust in the bridge. It’s old darkened wood seemed to want to bend with my step, but as I continued along, my steps became lighter, and the rough stringent surface of the wood prevailed.

“If you wish to understand, why not follow me?” I smiled, but she remained cold as stone. I couldn’t come to understand what was flowing through her head, and so as she disappeared into her mind, I brought the whistle on my neck to my mouth and blew. The sound of the whistle clashed with the tides below, converging into what could only be considered as a mess of melody. But I continued, and I blew, softer this time, I tried to play with the sounds surrounding us, and eventually, my whistle became like the wind. It flew from one ear to the other seamlessly and it produced a sound that threatened to bring me to solace. I smiled as I brought my whistle away from my mouth and inspected the inscriptions on the body. I was just a man and a whistle. And yet, I was only half of what I was.

“Where will you bring me?”

“Somewhere away. Away from that life that can only be described now as youthful discretion. Even for me.”

“But to leave a life behind means to die.” She was watching the rapids now.

“That is only one of many meanings. To leave a life behind can mean to be reborn, but, like I said before, I’m not a saint. So the way I’ll have to enact this rebirth, is through this bridge.” I began walking. I didn’t stop for Marianne nor did I look back to her. I kept walking until I had arrived at the end of the bridge, and once I had looked back, I saw her quietly lagging behind.

“I do not know whether you will bring me to a life better than the one I have, or have had, but I think I wish to be reborn too.”

“Well, if that’s your wish, then I guess I have no choice but to grant it. If a man and a whistle will suffice your troubles, then please indulge.” I didn’t wait for her answer, but continued walking towards the new road that sprawled itself to us. I didn’t need to look back or wait to know that Marianne was following. I brought my whistle to my mouth again, and then started once again. The song of solace.

 

The Concept Of Time

This is a topic that I’ve always had but haven’t really gotten around in actually trying to put into words. It’s exactly as it sounds like, the concept of time. It’s strange to try and decipher the concept of time as isn’t time something we all know? A second passes, sixty seconds into a minute, sixty minutes into an hour, twenty-four hours into a day. But really, what is a second? What is a minute? What is time? To say that time is a moment in life would probably be the easiest way of answering that question. But then, what is a moment? I may just seem to be asking a bunch of questions for the sake of it, but if a second is a moment in life, how do we really define that? Is the second what had happened, or is the second the moment we acknowledge what has happened? Because after something has occurred, that second has already gone by. In that case, we NEVER live in the present because we can never perceive fast enough. Even doing nothing, sitting still and watching a white wall can’t be the present as our bodies are constantly in motion as well. Even the act of blinking or noticing your breathing is all in the past. Time moves far too quickly for us to realize what has happened. But of course no one cares. No one really has the time to sit down and try and understand every little nuance in their lives, it simply would take too much time and effort. Even if one were to do that, the next new thing, the next nuance will appear and life will move on. Thus, as the saying goes, time waits for no one.

But the concept of time isn’t something I want to end on just that note. Time is very much a transient being. The moment you think of time, time flies by. The moment you realize that you’re wasting time, an hour has already passed. It’s a very mischievous being and it will never take back its tricks. That’s the scary part of time. If you anger time, you’ll lose time forever. That’s why I’m always an advocate for time, but not just physical time, mental time. What I mean by this is that you can use time by using your body. But for people like me, I’m mainly using time by using my mind. To think. Thinking takes a lot of time, and I often don’t think too much about things if I don’t have to. To go on that, I know many people who think too much about things and end up wasting too much time.As I said, time never comes back, so you have to use what little time you have to its fullest. If you end up on a wall in your mind, if you end up thinking too much about things that don’t need to be thought, then you have used up your time. And the scarier part is that when you use up your mental time, you also end up using up your physical time. To combine the two, to be active and think is the ultimate use of time, but that much is extremely tiring. Instead, if a negative thought occurs, if your mind is blasted against a wall that you can’t seem to overcome, I’d say to realize how much time is passing. As you try and force your way through a conundrum, realize how much time your using, and how much time you can’t use now to solve that conundrum in another way. Almost every problem has more than one solution. Instead of adamantly paving your own path and wasting time, why not try another route. And if you fail, just pick yourself up and use what remaining time you have to keep at it. What’s worse then wasting time is thinking that you have too much time. If you overthink a problem, all that time has wasted, and the sliver of success will pass you by just like your time.

But that isn’t to say that wasting time is always bad. With every passing day, our world grows that much faster. We are never going to stop, and with every successive generation, we will continue to move faster. However, moving too quickly will cause us to strain ourselves. Sometimes we need to stop, sometimes we need time to just move beyond us so that we can get a moment’s rest. In this instance, I’d like to think of time not as a mischievous being. In fact, in many scenarios time becomes almost a power of good. Time heals, they say. Time leads to improvement.  There is so much good with time and that almost makes up for the bad that time can do. But if I were to surmise this rant on the concept of time, then I’d say that, the concept of time isn’t worth your time to think about. So just keep moving forward.

 

 

 

Falling From The Sky

Every once in a while I think about falling from the sky, every once in a while I do. I peered over the ledge of the building, watching as birds came near my face and as wind brushed against my cheeks like strokes to a canvas. I stood with both my arms stretched outright, imagining myself creating a succulent snow angel in the middle of spring. The wind blew again against my face, but this wind was much less forgiving than the last. It brushed against my face like millions of tiny needles pricking into my skin. It felt like the first time I got a tattoo, except exemplified against my entire body. I felt shivers burst up my spine, and for the first time since standing upon these rafters, I felt cold. I felt so cold, and yet at the same time, when I looked down to see the pavement waiting, everything seemed so warm. No single person looked back up at me, I had no one to greet me nor stop me. The world was mine. The ground was my limit.

I took a deep breath, and then plunged. I let my entire body sink towards the ground, as if my entire being was the north, and all of Earth was my south. It drew me in like nothing had ever done before, and all the air rushing against my body, trying to stop me from becoming human slime felt so entrancing. It was an addicting feeling. However, upon my descent, I felt time stop all around me. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, and I began losing myself in a trance, “Not again,” I thought. I would never come to be able to break myself from this lucid dream. I was stuck in a placid flask filled to the brim with acid. The sensation of it on my skin was also addicting.

“Do you really think that’s true? All that crap about his daughter?” The voice came to me as quickly as I realized where I had been sent this time. I found myself staring straight into the sky, with small puffs of smoke seeming to rise from below me. I reached around my mouth to take out the cigarette planted there and looked to my side, where my red haired friend smoked as well. The day was young and beautiful, just like her. The sun had a small radiant on the back of my neck, but it felt nice. The winds were subtle, and no one seemed to mind us as we smoked openly in a children’s park. In fact, there hadn’t seemed to be much people to begin with. I remember that day like any other, vividly and haunting. And now I was forced to replay my nightmare.

“Sure you want to dye your hair red like that? Sticks out more than anything, you know that,” I said. She looked at me with her cigarette nearly falling. She shrugged and took a puff out before speaking, “None of your business. Besides, nice change of pace. Nothing ever happens around these parts. Nothing special at least.”

“Red’s a dangerous color, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Red’s the symbol of love–”

“My blood is red but you don’t see me showing that off.” She sighed then shrugged again. Almost as if turning on a bulb in her head, her eyes suddenly jolted open and she began rummaging in her pockets. I raised my brows in response, “Never heard of running squirrels in your pocket.” She then pulled out a photo, and shoved it in my face. I ignored her blatant attitude towards keeping our friendship and quickly grabbed the photo before it got singed in my cigarette smoke. I nudged her in the arm for payback which translated to me a laugh from her. I looked at the photo with scorn, but once I realized who it was I stopped dead on the spot. My cigarette fell to the floor in a manner only described as dramatic television and I looked into her eyes with worry.

“Do you really think that’s true? All that crap about his daughter?” She asked again. I took a deep breath and then slowly iterated every word that came out of my mouth, leaving no room for excuse of ill hearing, “What happened to his daughter?”

“Do you really think that’s true? All that crap about his daughter?”

“Just tell me!” I snapped and yelled. I yelled much louder than I cared to think but I yelled far too loudly. Her response, a small chuckle. I snapped again, this time, much more aggressive than I could ever come to imagine. I grabbed the hem of her shirt and brought her face towards mine. Her velvet lips tempted to allure me into a trance of eroticism, but I shook my head and pulled on her shirt even harder. I wanted to cry, I really did, but I didn’t and I held her in my frustration until my hands finally began growing red. I let go aptly, and then I said in a defeated whisper, “Please, tell me what you did to his daughter. Please.” She didn’t answer. She looked at me with her cigarette still in her mouth and said nonchalantly, “I thought you would understand. You were the only one who ever tried to understand.”

“I don’t want you to do this. That’s not why I began trusting you. That’s not why I–”

“It doesn’t matter. We have money now. Can’t you see that? Can’t you at least be happy?” She raised her voice. Much more loudly than I could ever think of, but she raised her voice. I couldn’t reason with her anymore. I couldn’t do anything for her anymore. She was far too much for me to keep track of by myself. She was already far enough as it was, but now she was even further. I could never catch up to her anymore. I could never reach her. And, before I knew it, she was gone. Her cigarette dropped onto the floor in a manner that could only be described as dramatic television, and the car that rammed into her trashed itself onto the sandbox. Red was spilt all around the entrance of the park on the sidewalk, and nothing resembling my old friend remained. This memory has become my nightmare as I’m falling from the sky. And once my friend had perished, I am suddenly jolted back to my own reality.

I am falling from the sky with both my arms stretched outright. The ground below me is my only sanctum away from my own dreaded fate. I await it every time I find myself falling from the sky. And every time I am ready for the impact, for myself to become human slime, I am suddenly brought aback to the top of the building. I find myself standing with both my arms outstretched, with the wind gently stroking my face as I make a snow angel in the middle of spring. I step back from the building, back onto the roof, and then re-orientate myself. My head is spinning and the only thing on my mind is the time I had with my friend. The time her red dyed hair became something much more than just a sign of rebellion. I cried for only a minute, then, I got up, I stepped back onto the ledge of the roof. I brought both my arms back out, and let the winds carry me. I let my body fall. I let my body pour itself towards the earth, as if my being is the north, and all of earth is the south. I allowed myself to be swallowed in self pittance, and as I do so, time stops. Another nightmare begins.