Borrowed Time

I don't want to do this anymore... even though I love it so! I sit here, feeling like some kind of window washer on a glass skyscraper; washing away in this repetitive circular motion with the sunshine on my face, and looking in at the wonders of the snazzy executives in the boardroom with their faces painted; first a sombre grey and then layered in varying shades of pink to fake a blush and rosy lips.

My blush reflected in this larger than life mirror is of the elements ravaging my usually pristine features and of the gust of wind splaying fingers through my uncombed hair. My shades of pink are just those memories of a time before I learnt to write. You know, when I pretended that I was alive and played on in that theatre of life, a smiling collaborator to the puppeteers jesting ways.

My shades of grey are the shadows from that time. And the reminders that theatre is fiction; and real life, well... that's not for novels, dearie. Why, that's made for living! If you dare.

I remember his words now, when I told him to keep breathing. 'Everything else is a bonus,' he said. 'A bonus.'

This is borrowed time. I just remembered.

And I want to do that thing that I love doing. But I also don't. I really don't want to. Not tonight. Tonight, I just want to breath again.

Tomorrow I will go back to being the best window washer in the whole wide world. But not today. Today I want the grime to collect on their windows keeping the sun out for a day. Just a day. Then tomorrow, I will borrow time to be me again. Tomorrow I will do the work. Tomorrow, fingers will tap dance at keyboard. Tomorrow the windows will be clean again.

But only tomorrow.

Today I will rest.

After all, this is borrowed time.

I just remembered.

deuce juice

I am reluctant...
fundamentally flawed by the curse
of a day gone by.

the end.

and the beginning, a bitter reminder
of some inner longing
reduced to a case of ulcer
and putrid
gas.

what with the price all so shaky at the moment,
the oil-rich look less shiney
and the starved look somewhat
a trendy artists grunge inspiration.

aah, the pathos of
a new condition
regurgitated from the machine
of an over-worked mind
and a rather battered muse;

with a juicy social consciousness squeezed from
the-eye-half-closed to wrongs,
an airy fairy soul still struggles
to cling onto
plastic wrap
and staples
in the hope that the competitive edge will
inspire the one to entice suffocation
or the other to slice
wrists damned by
the clerks
choices!

for now, head-to-head
are dreams reduced to deuce
with so much work
still left
to do.

Revisiting Nemesis

My day started pretty early yesterday, being the first day back at work for the new year. One of those 5am starters having had little sleep the night before, thanks to a persistent set of parasites: one ruthless mosquito, and a box of muddled thoughts that have been collecting dust over time, deciding to burst forth at the end of yet another year. How often, even while trusting implicitly in the Will of the Divine, does one contemplate the possibility of there being 'something more' to life?

I have. Often enough. I suppose its what spurs me onward to find and reach a constant newness. I thrive on change and challenge. Always have. And so 2008 has many adventures in store. I am most certain of that. But the nagging past that - for the most part - begs being left behind, does tend to serve its fair share of reminders; ones that paradoxically shouldn't be quite forgotten for the invaluable lessons they bare. (Wouldnt want to be forgotten lest they repeat themselves for emphasis!). Mostly, I owe thanks to the ramblings of a fellow blogger, for causing these smatterings of past muddiness of memory to be hurled right back to the present moment, for a bit of reflection.

Oh and life's been colourful! Shades of pain and joy and tears and fears and hopes and dreams; silliness in love and salient moments out of love followed by inevitable growth spurts and regressions made up the unpredictable narrows of a roller coaster path. And often, the views were so breathtaking; it made riding the waves of storms that wrecked the soul seem worth it. Sometimes the sadism implied still makes more sense than the short-lived glimpses of heaven in countless promises heard through whispers on the wind: fragrant now, then just wistful delusion.

So anyway, earlier yesterday morning, when I read said ramblings of eloquent fellow blogger concerning life's little knocks and what not, I was inspired somewhat to make reflective notes of whatever had burst forth from the dam of contemptuous pathos that life had thus far laid to rest at my feet in begrudging gestures of engendered growth. Bundles of sticks and stones and semi-squished jellytots, half-eaten donuts, a parking tag or two and half a plastic ruler. Oh and the ubiquitous pencil, the arm of creativity chewed on by over-analysis, some melted crayons and a bottle cap scraped gleamy clean on another, now long lost (unrequited love epitomised thus). The stuff of life revealed in messy streaks of colour sprayed across a now worn canvas. And so the stuff flowed. Life's reel of film with muffled sounds fighting to be heard above the din of emotions, my heartbeats clambering like too many pots and pans in flight on a washing line, straining their pegs of restraint. A grandiose delusion, I must say, worse than Salvador Dali could depict, of a psyche in turmoil painted against the pathos of pretty fields of sunflowers from a calm and sheltered childhood.

My nemesis can be revisited in too many ways. Sigh. Perhaps I shall write a book about that too.

De Ja Vu..

This is all too creepy, this de ja vu.. this sense of dread..

the paranoid makes placid putty of me

and then theres that nagging memory from
further down the garden path.. moving backwards
along a sloping memory

of that time when there was some amount of innocence
and trust

and silly plainess.. unexplored potential
unencumbered losses

and just plain old fashioned
love

that made one keep the petal from that
oddly shaped flower without a name

and the make-shift ring from
a can of some or other
fizzy drink

and the little scribbled notes
on the back of
shoddy bits of posters
stubbornly holding onto
asbestos walls
that struggle
to this day to shrug them off.

Its time to let them go, no?

Through the Looking Glass

I feel like Alice..
looking through the looking glass..
I see you but do you see me?
You see you

I dont even see me
Just you

I feel like Alice..
inside this looking glass.. looking through this looking glass
looking out from my glassy box
shiny things and sunshiney bits
blinding me

seeing out to the great big world
seeing only you

not me

searching for you
and finding only me

inside the looking glass
trapped

alone
with me
myself
and
i

My Footprints are Muddy...

For a long time now,
I have been rushing around
running the wheel like a
good little hampster -

I stood still today..
And found to my dismay
That my footprints are muddy.
The flickering candle in my eyes
Shows me a promising path ahead. But.
My footprints are muddy.
How shall I move ahead?

Muddy from having stepped
through the murky waters
of the past...
I have just been trudging on.
And NOW, I make it my mission
to undertake a cleansing:
I hereby DeCLaRE to love and to honour
Me.
To filter the corrosive yellowed glass
through which I viewed the world
And to emerge in a gurgling stream
of crystal clarity: -
Refreshed.
Rejuvenated.
And Alive with Endless Possibilities!

Different, no?

He asked me the question again tonight..
If I am fulfilled in my life..
And I thought no.
Same question as before, when I also thought no.
But it was a no from thinking
i should trudge on.
It was a no from reading rhetoric
where there should be none.
It was a no because i thought he wanted more for me
and it was a no to make me
more!
Same question
Same worded answer
Different me
Different reason
Different meaning
Different oh-so-very not the same
No. Because now I know.
Me. Fulfilled, is to be me, in me,
with me
as me.
Just me.