Monday, 29 June 2015
It was all we could muster. The sadness crept into our bones and stirred our feet to skipping. We each raised a stick half heartedly and banged it against the other. We turned, and shook our shoes, shaking out the gloom with the heavy chink of a thousand bells. We danced around your coffin, without a word. Without being heard. Your sister had thrown herself in and begged to be interred. They'd taken her away and had her transferred, to a mental hospital we figured you might like. We said goodbye by dancing around your old clay pipe. We dance for you in death because we never had the chance to dance with you in life.
Wednesday, 24 June 2015
Twenty-minute gasps of freedom, or thereabouts. Whilst I push candied eggs into your mouth, and wonder what on earth this is all about. I can't contain my silent raging collapse. Perhaps, I've let my better judgement lapse, as I've taken to poking around the traps, turning off or on random people's taps. I get excited by the wind now, how it blows, the dust no longer affects my nose, so I sleep and so the time it goes.
Sunday, 14 June 2015
I still prey. I cross my fingers. I continue to light candles inscribed with hopes. With all my might I wish, I ask; I implore a nameless, faceless, nonexistent nothing for better things. For myself. For you. For the entire world. I raise my eyes to the blue skies but there is no ineffable and it does not have agency. Not for anyone. Not even for six manically creative days. The futility of my efforts in each moment of silent prayer is not lost on me . Not for one instant. It leaks out my pores quite unwillingly. Tirelessly. Hope.
Monday, 8 June 2015
It wasn't what was gone, but what was left behind; the photographs, the memories, the perfume by the sink. He would squeeze the perfume pump from time to time and think about their youth. He used to climb trees and yell her name triumphantly into the universe, as if his lips were destined to wrap themselves around her name and his arms were destined to wrap themselves around her torso. He used to run along the beach doing cartwheels and walk on his hands in an effort to impress. He'd done a lot of silly things just to see her smile. And he'd followed her everywhere she went, until she went somewhere he couldn't go. And now all that was left, was all that was left, of a life that once meant everything. And all that was left, wrapped around him like a hand upon his throat, as he rattled about with his rickety legs and arthritic hands, trapped between nothing and oblivion.
Saturday, 6 June 2015
We plant flowers in the spring and tell ourselves that we're not fading. Youthful fingertips press earth against the stems so innocently, without agnising that winter will come and claim it all again. We carve out plots to temporarily tame that which can't ever be truly subdued. Then we sit back and admire the fleeting neatness, until the weeds sneak through and our fingers are too frail to hold them back any longer.