Windstorms: Generic

The wind buffeted her with indescribable force but she cheerfully plodded on. This time, she had promised herself determination. She wouldn't crumble, or let herself become weak-kneed. There had to be some promises that would just hold, for once.

Sights and sounds assaulted her, tugging at corners of her mind, trying to pull it out of shape. But there would be no distortion this time. No, she was riding the wind with reins firmly in hand. She laughed delightedly at the lightness she felt, the feeling of being wispy and yet substantial. She sobered at the crashing thunder the next instant but picked up the scent of rain just lingering on the horizon.

Her legs didn't feel leaden, nor did her heart. There was birdsong in it, even though the sky was the murky-gray-twilight of artificial light intruding in darkness and clouds trying to blot out the almost-full moon.

From deep within, the swan let out a cry that was carried far and wide with the grace of swan wings. It could ruffle its feathers and still look pretty.
The wind kept swirling dust in heavy circles and tiny tornadoes that rose and fell instantly. Warm and heavy, yet soothing. Prickling the senses and clogging the breath-force, yet refreshing. It was then. It was there. Nothing could bring her down save His will.



It's good to be back.

I am a drifter.

I am a drifter.
I drift on the wind, with the wind, by the wind...
I drift because I cannot be tied down. I try, but after a little while, they cut me loose again. They cut me loose because they tire of holding on to my strings against the wind's buffeting. And once I am loose, I close my eyes and let the wind take me where it will.
Previously, this has led me to land in places where the wind, perhaps, should not have dropped me. I have made mistakes. Because I get so used to the feel of the wind that I forget that back on solid ground, I am not one with the wind anymore. I forget, and I make mistakes.
I am floating on the wind again right now. I'm letting out branches, feelers, breathing in strange sights and noises. Newness. I need new. I need change. I am getting it.
I have learned. Now, I know I must let out roots before I let out more branches. They don't keep me tied down; I have to tie down myself, lest I am lost again. I have to believe in something, lest I will believe in everything, and then in nothing.
I am newly healed, I cannot wear my heart on my sleeve. Not again. Not yet.
I need to let down roots. Deep into the ground. Deep into secure embraces and warmth. Deep into cold wet clamminess. Like and dislike. Deep. Secure.
I cannot ignore the wind; it is pulling at me. I am going to close my eyes now, close my heart, but not my mind. And I will drift...

Flipside

Holy moly me oh my.
They gathered swaying hems as they stumbled into the grime, sand-blood squishing between short and pudgy and long toes. Straw blew in whirling circles trying to scrape and scratch strawberry-cheeks.
Whispers of haunting floated into the open mouths of wailing water nymphs with their seaweed woven garments and thorny crown wreathes. Blue-green-bluishgreenish heaven of a different kind. Hollow eyes.
There was absent light, and upside down chartreuse glow worm maggots - fluorescent and vomity. White fire paths burned on the steel water surface in straight streaks. Mostly. Fever pitch wailing and then a sudden lightning-cracking silence. Tastable, hearable silence. Dense dank heavy water silence. Pops of bubbles erupted in the air, frothed seawash rolled onto the bloodied toeprints, and jetsam from the moment's frolicking carved deep into ridges of memory.
It began.

Come and dissect. Please. Pretty please. Soon, and swiftly. Then slice the umbilical cord in one quick movement and lay out the body to rest. Leave the mind in turmoil, but the let the body to rest.

Magnet-o

You and I, we are opposite poles of the same magnet...strongly attracted but destined not to meet.

If only I were paper, to be torn down the middle easily and let fly with the strong wind, to reach where I must reach.
My location.
My destiny.

My urgency grapples with me..claws at my throat and threatens to suffocate..blinded with tears and still struggling...if letting go and going down under had been an option, it would have been easily taken. But there is no such option. Fight - fight and be overwhelmed, but not completely, held in mid-air, legs dangling, gripped by the throat by urgency .. you cannot escape.

Whisper it.
Scream it.
Shout it until my ears become deaf to your call.

Shout it ... until my ears become deaf to your call..

Shout it....

Feb 20th.

I, soul alone, am caught in this web of huge proportions. Transparent steel fiber wrapped around and around each wrist – knotted, frailed, knotted – spiraling out, twining up my legs and around my waist; held fast. Web; shiny and translucent, glow-in-the-dark menace and elastic cords designed to cause *panic*

You creep along your master strand, your wide walkway, gangplank, rolling up your spare wire in the other hand upon your natural spool. You, black widow spider, brown widow spider, wolf spider, you clasp together your weaponed hands and cackle. Menacingly. Ghoulish lights flicker off green slime-covered walls, and you cackle. You lightly run a finger, a single finger along a sharp cord as you pass, and sparks fly and screeches are heard and ears protest, and you cackle.

My heart, hard and fast, pushing up towards my throat, threatening to suffocate me, while I try to hurriedly force down air that is non-existent and unreliable. Dark spots appear, lights blur and kaleidoscope, your eyes appear numerous – I blink. You still have 8 eyes.

I want to shrug off these bonds; one good shiver and see them torn at my feet, but steel gossamer is an untried opponent…
My feathers begin to wilt.

Bloodshot eyes stare into bloodshot eyes. Long black tongue hungrily licks its lips while darting tongue frantically licks dry parched lips. Lips bared in a foul grin; lips bared in an angry grimace.
You circle, I am cornered. You against me…

Bring it on.

This shall be my escape

Those three little words...reverberating in my head...again and again and again. They had been whispered for someone else, but i knew they belonged to me too.

Whispers.

Echoes.


They pounded against my skull like the drumbeat from some mystic lore, some myth that had resurfaced. I tried to whisk it away, flapping my hands around my ears; tried to blot it out by sheer will, and by holding my breath, and by closing my eyes, and by surrendering to.. begging for..bad dreams. But i couldnt escape it.

Films flashed before my eyes - entire reels with big block letters that did more than just taunt. Much more.


Take away the little security i had did you?

a week..or more..

Thoughts swirl in and around my head all day – thoughts that shift and jump and morph from one form to another; half-formed barely-virgin ideas, salted, unsalted; bittersweet poignance moulding into rough, crabby chunks of unreasonable reckoning; stringy and bold fancies warp into petite, contrite thought-substance – and yet…faced with an empty page, I cannot remember what it is I wanted to discourse on.
I had dozens of ideas to expound upon…and now I am empty – more so than the page.

Even then. Let us begin.

I have found it rather pleasing to put into words this phenomenon that I have been noticing recently. You form an idea, or opinion about something, and then you revise it. Again and again and again. New thoughts come about and change your thinking, and you voice a slightly changed opinion…and this goes on.
The only problem is…who to voice it to.
I’m being overwhelmed with emotion.
I must stop.


-

And you thought you knew it

-
There is a fire crackling in the grate. It cannot be said to be crackling merrily, because merry it is not. There is too much anger in those flames, too much hate. They flicker back and forth, moving forward as if to grasp something other than the air, then leaping back, its prize tight in its hold, which it transfers to the center of its being where it is silently devoured by others waiting. It has no visible eye, yet it is watching, always watching. It shifts itself to see things more clearly. Even then, there seems to be a certain vengeance in its eyes; it cannot be seen, only felt. At times, it will seem to pause, and the ends of its flames appear to hover in mid-air for a split-second; it is at such moments that a distinct form becomes visible in this fire, its features too hideous to want to remember. Before one can blink or turn away, it is gone, and the flames fall with a certain shiver, subtle yet noticeable, indicating the yearning it had when it was stretched out to its limit of movement, and the self-control it seems to display as if doing one of us a favor. It is not hot, nor does it radiate heat, no, it is ice-cold, giving an outward appearance of warmth, and yet chilling one right to the bones, cold that soaks through until it scarcely touches the boundary of the soul, and yet that is enough for one to despair. Its thirst for revenge is insatiable. It longs to be one with all things, to bind itself to them, when in actuality, it is consuming them of its own free will. It can sometimes pretend to be tame, but that is just a form of pretense it puts on for the gullible and the naive. It gives a quality of light to itself, beguiling the observer that it is providing light when it is actually feeding on it. The longer the fire burns, the darker its surroundings become. It sets up a pattern in its dancing flames, a dance-routine that has an enchanting quality to it, a lulling touch that will first cause one's attention to be caught by it, and then to hold that gaze until it becomes an unblinking stare. The person having any minor thoughts of withdrawing his gaze will find such thoughts suddenly and strangely subdued; the fire cannot afford to let those eyes, now caught, wander. This transfixed gaze allows the person's mind to become entranced, and the flames cause him to become dazed, as he will exist, for many long moments, only as himself and then as the flames, shifting from one state to another, sometimes flame, sometimes human. It is one of the attempts of the fire to have someone become one with it, to exist as a single being instead of two pulsating beings of life. It rests on its bed of ashes is if it were a throne, a seat of honor entrusted only to itself, though it is willing to share it with any followers. It knows no reluctance, it knows no hesitation, it is fiery, impulsive, demanding. And yet, it is not perfect. It dreads many things, things that threaten its existence and nothing more. Even such a fearful entity is capable of experiencing fear itself, such is how Nature goes.
-

Come ruin..

-

I was sad. There was a thin mist swirling around me, not against my very person, for it left a space around me; I was not in direct contact with it, however I moved. Below me flowed a smooth stream, that went ahead and was smoothly changed into a low waterfall, with sparkling water and dark green vegetation that reminded me of spinach. I was facing the waterfall; though I call it one, it was but a miniature image of it, nevertheless, a waterfall it was and will be named.
I gazed sadly into the clear waters, hoping to see more than the shallow bottom. Was there hope anywhere? I could not see it. But I could suddenly feel it. I turned.

There he was - alive, whole, complete.

I looked up at him unsurprised,
"I thought you would never return".

He smiled a slow, sad smile, "Has it really been that bad?"

"Worse than you can imagine. Her kingdom is headed for ruin, the walls that once stood only by the strength of hope are now crumbling to pieces, each heart holds nothing but despair, and fear. The Wise, it seems, almost all of them, appear to have left the City. There are rumors abound, but no clear trace. The light is slowly leaving the towers, there is an absence of morals, and reason. Her throne will not be emptied, but the entire kingdom is threatening to become abandoned, yet the people will be there, yet it will become empty. A dead place it will become, with everything free, and yet caged. Too many have given up hope. Too many times have they been suppressed so as not to let the taint of fear spread to others, but it is becoming difficult to contain. And they are all afraid of an external interference, the greatest fear of all."

He cocked his head to one side; there was a question in his eyes, twinkling the way a bird's might when it is watching you, and he said,
"And yet...you are her?"

"Yes. And so are you."

--

Recycled stuff...

-

It was a black cotton cloth. Light shining on it from one side leaked through, magnifying its infinite pores. It was strangely nauseating.
On every side there were panes of glass. Mirrors. But they were not just reflections of the person standing in between them. No, they were more than that. They were reflections of him, yes, but of aspects of him, of parts and angles that he was not at all pleased to see before him. Some mirrors were crowded with hideous black shapes and shadows, dripping hate from numerous fangs and claws. Others were images of rooms, empty soulless rooms, painted different shades of gray and decorated with poison ivy.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled and he whirled around. He moved closer to this mirror. He could see a white room, bare, unfurnished. There was a figure standing there, appearing so close as if it were just standing right behind a sheet of glass. The figure had no face; it was white, blank, featureless. He noticed that its breath misted the glass. How could it breathe if it had no visible nose or mouth?

A gap on its face opened suddenly, revealing a black interior that seemed to stretch on forever. He felt himself falling into it, feet first, and streaming down a dark chute, wind buffeting against him.

On the floor was an empty packet of popcorn.

-

random

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sometimes...just sometimes...your mind is swirling with thoughts so that its hard to hold on to one single thought for long...and your mind is struggling to grasp some tangible solid fact...and then you happen to look out the window of the speeding bus and you notice two men sitting on the side of the road...old men with dark wrinkled skin and abundant white hair..and you think that perhaps its the sun and life that has prematurely aged them...and you watch them twirl their cigarettes between their fingers and talk with small gestures, oblivious to the haze and the noise that vehicles are leaving in their wake..and you might think of the world that these two men occupy on their faded charpai...and maybe...just maybe...you will see the entire universe in that scene...you will see the aura around them... and you will understand the universe that every man is.
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