ayeshazahyd

Archive for August, 2010|Monthly archive page

through the cracks

In Uncategorized on August 12, 2010 at 11:51 pm

There was a dream about flowers, snakes – and an office with the most extravagant staircase you could imagine. It was all so clear and well-defined: like watching an HD movie! I was in the moment, living, flying maybe – the world was more real than reality itself. There is no way to explain it but to tell you that – if reality were a game, the dream would be like looking away from the television or computer, and seeing real life. Maybe a little like Plato’s cave. Maybe not. It’s more than that – always has been.

Freethinking (dream): Like swirling colors on a canvas by one of the best artists in Italy, the dream captured me still. There was some method about the colors: blue, yellow, pink, green – all blended in white, even though you can’t see white, not really. But you still know it’s there. It’s not the background, it’s part of the colors. If that’s possible. The Italian artist probably put his best into the work. Nothing like Bernini, of course – the angels never flew that high. But maybe some color might have helped him. The dreams. Always the ones about the snake gliding over the skies? Why is there no color in that? And two days later, you get your answer when the heavens break and rain pours down on you, on the grass in the backyard – on the metal roof of the shed which your dad never replaced with thick wood. The metal sheet flies off and instead of a covering, there is now a kind of hollow in the middle of the backyard. The rain does not stop: pouring into the shed, into the soil and ground (feed the earth), it trails down the cavnas and drains the colors as it goes along.

Soon enough there is no white, no blue, no pink, and no yellow. There is only rain and – rain does not have a color.

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first glimpse

In Uncategorized on August 10, 2010 at 5:02 am

I’m dancing in the rain and moonlight: a selfish, loony girl holding a pen in one hand, a waterproof journal in the other, and laughing all by herself at the sky. On the hill behind her stands her family: a smiling mother and father, a grinning sister (who appreciates the humor of the sky, but won’t crack up at it, because that would not be dignified). There are white kites in the sky – some whisk away right after I see them; others stay a bit longer and let me dance among the strings and blank facades. I fill them in with my favorite colors – my colors, which look good on them and work for me. These are my friends.

There is a small hut in a distance – not far from the hill where my family stands, and through the rain, I wave my journal at it. The hut is home to orbs of blue light. My family sometimes lives there, too. The orbs of light are always there. Sometimes I am so fascinated by the kites, I forget the blue ones. But when I look back, there they are, shining always.  In that hut lives my inspiration for writing; the friends who are more like family and family which is more like the muse – like a trampoline I can fall back on to when I bungee-jump.

I move across the wet ground, wiping rain away from my face. By the light of the moon, I see the soil I stand on has changed. The hut is a far way away but it’s still there. There are new kites in the sky this time: a different color, a different make. I gaze at them, play with the strings, dance to their wind-song. The soil I now stand on is not mine, but I will make it mine if I have to.

I’m dancing in the rain and moonlight: a selfish, loony girl holding her future in her hands; laughing, assured that the hut and the family on the hill will always be there.

elves and such

In Uncategorized on August 9, 2010 at 4:14 am

There was a hole in the ground and we climbed in eagerly, hoping for a better world. We heard shouts and noises and the goings-on of a party. We were blinded by a white light and died. We came back to life and resumed our dinner, always singing that one song in our heads, because it just would not go away. I have lost count how many times I asked myself to give it all up but I just wouldn’t. The exhilaration of the ride, the thrill of the journey kept coming back to me and I always surrendered. Gave up and went to sleep.

The music would stop and she would stop dancing, look at the family around her and die. The white light never left us alone. It kept coming in short bursts, small enough to move small animals. I hate it when I am writing and someone disturbs me. The animals shrieked and cried, but there was nothing to be done.

Whatever. The damage had been done. There was no way out and everyone knew it. How long before the elders would realize, no one could say. Maybe one day, maybe seven.

There was a certain je-ne-se-quoi about the painting. We all knew it was the lady of the river, but no one knew her name. And so we had just travelled seventy-eight miles to Harlingen, TX to find out that the world was just another oyster for the pearl that never existed. Maybe in another world, there would be a separate world and in that world, another world. Eventually things get smaller and smaller and all the way, they get known to each other like you would not believe. I try not to get personal but things happen and when they happen, animals die. We all die. It’s not scary, it’s a fact of life, like birth. Only, we’re going back to where we came from and that place is bound t be better. How can it not be, when we are rubbed in mud every day over here?

I try to forget and I can’t.

There are too many things that remind me of her, the girl in black, a forbidden inspiration. I try not to get watched and I try not to break down but the world keeps spinning and we keep living. In the end, it’s all the same. The world could not have been born at a better time. Sometimes I make new friends without being their friends and when they tell me to go away, I can’t help but hold on to something that doesn’t exist. There is light, and then there is darkness.

Wouldn’t you agree with me that darkness is a better way to resolve everything? They sky is wide, and the world is big.

Help me, mother, help me, father, help me, sister and help me, brother. When I fight, when I cry, there is nothing to be said but sorrow in a white dress comes and speaks all the same. She tries to let you know what there is to be said. I will keep gluing myself to the television and watch old sitcoms about rabbits and something else but really, who gives a damn about those old ones, anyway? I wouldn’t pay a shilling for it. And Americans don’t take shillings themselves.

When the night goes on, I find myself running out of words. The thing is, they never run out. It’s n illusion, you expect them to just stop.

They don’t. They will jump out at you from behind and refuse to play around, they are there and they exist and that is all you need to know. It’s not important to find out what the hell you really want and I’m telling you, the worst skills ever are those of guitar-playing. Maybe you can find a better way to live with them. I can’t. The pressure is too much and one of these days the cooking machine will burst open and the meat will fall out, red and raw and wet. Wet with water and salted tears of the kitchen elves who have tried so hard to gain your acceptance of their existence but they, as always, are swept off their feet and land on their bottoms, crying, sobbing. They are not human, you scream but your voice is lost in the sound of the music. I help an elf to its feet, and it tries to tell me to please go away, I can handle myself perfectly fine, thank you very much.

Fine, I say. I look away with regret in my eyes. Regret for ever hoping that someone might ever need my help.

brick wall

In Uncategorized on August 7, 2010 at 5:24 am

There is nothing between us but a brick wall. We pick up the broken pieces and lay them aside: don’t worry about them now, dear, they will only hurt you. There are no holes in the wall and I cannot see you – you cannot see me. What once never existed is taking the place of existence itself. If I were to call it a truce and agree to the darkness’ cries, I would cease to exist. Forbidden bricks line the wall in front of me and I know you see their other side. I wonder what it looks like, but I am afraid to find out how similar the wall’s thoughts are to mine.

Perhaps we should try tearing it down, you say, as we each hold a stone in our hand (where did it come from, we wonder, but there are no answers, only questions). The stone is gray, like the sky, like the world, like the lack of gleam in our eyes and we un-look each other through the wall.

There is silence. Except the rhythmic thudding of stone against brick. Hours later, we are sweating. But there is not a dent in the wall.

If there is a will, there is a way – I hear the whisper in my ear and look around. No one looks back at me. The wall continues to my right, the wall continues to my left. I glance up and see it never ends. It seems to touch the sky, kissing it slightly, sharing a secret I am not meant to know.

You are on the other end, I remind myself. Why do I have to remind myself?

The stone falls from my hand and I give up. Sitting with my back against the brick wall, I stop.

Stopping is the best thing to do when fighting against something that will never be taken down. I stand up and walk the other way.

Behind me, I still hear muffled stone against brick.

break the spell

In Uncategorized on August 7, 2010 at 5:15 am

Ignition, on. For the life that has been lacking, and the life that has been too much, I call shotgun. To ride with what has been by your side for years, but you’ve neglected it.

Maybe, one day, there will be a way to redeem everything said and done. Till then, the sun moves silently across the sky and butterflies paint the world white. Till then, we watch the world go by with our lips sealed, knowing the first word will break the spell. No one wants to say anything. No one has to say anything.

Forgetting what shards made the sky breaks the spell. Holding our breaths, we stare in wonder at the sky painted above us. It’s beautiful, we cry. But there is no beauty in broken nature, except that which was beautiful to begin with. I look into the glass and see a broken reflection. There is no beauty there, either. But what can we say? Any words spoken will break the spell…

the seraph

In Uncategorized on August 7, 2010 at 4:49 am

The seraph wind their way to the tunnel and sleep there for a while. My gentle ones, they whisper in their dreams. They dream of faraway lands, of gold and of sand that burns. They dream of clouds above the sky and far from the pains they must go through. They dream of burning in the sun, and of riches in the desert.

The seraph are not always snakes, you realize. They are angels, three-headed beings with a wingspan greater than you can imagine. The world would die in its sleep if the seraph were to leave the cave and come out in the sands of the Sahara. Touch the sky with the tips of their tails and awaken the beasts in the ocean.

The world would not exist anymore because the seraph are greater than what the world is. What they are, is. What they say, is. What they do, is. What the world is, says and does, is inferior.

As they wake from their slumber, the gentle ones stir, too.

contradiction, barefoot

In Uncategorized on August 1, 2010 at 12:28 am

If there was a donut given to me for each time I’ve contradicted myself, I would be fat, fat, fat. I would also make sure that you were fat because I would share my donuts with you. And now that we have that out of the way, let me tell you – being contradictory is hard work. One day, I am this. The next, I am that. I can never make up my mind, and I don’t want to. Boredom is not the essence; however, if one were to truly look inside oneself, the contradiction is ever present. Like a bug. Which just won’t go away. No matter how many times you use Raid or how many bottles of vodka you pour on it. (I have personally never done that, which is quite distasteful because the effect of vodka on a fly would be very interesting. In short, death.)

There is a time for everything, yes? So when I say – contradict yourself: walk barefoot and throw away your shoes, I say! I find myself in support of those who fearlessly express themselves! And they are loved and hated for it! But who cares? No one! Of course not! So, join me! Throw away those joins and don some flip-flops! Better yet, run barefoot! It’s time to show those crab-heads what we are made out of!

And so we go on …