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Outside my window, the air is cold and the stars twinkle above. The moon is edging towards fullness, and it lights the sky's quarter.Fruit bats gorge themselves, emitting a distinctive sound of mastication combined with regurgitation. I sit before my computer screen chatting with a stranger I imagine to be beautiful, fingers dancing across the keyboard in glee, she asks me if I'd like to submit to a blog that she and her friends contribute to co-jointly. My head full of Latin I type 'Sure' touched by her complimentary offer.
I am really in pain, my heart aches and I am both annoyed and happy that she is married. I am happy for her and her family, as well as for the simplicity this present me with. I don't mention any of this. I cherish the opportunity to write. Feel complimented, though she doesn't even know what I'll write about. Neither do I. She says fruit bats sound fine.
There are no fruit bats, or if there are I can't hear them. An odd bird makes a sound in the night air. That is all. The reality is my heart aches. My son has been taken by his mother to live in Switzerland. The pain extends across my beast. It hurts...
I have been approaching the world through words. That is my preferred way of apprehending the flesh before me. I am reading law and the words sit there silently in judgement before me. I am lonely in my memory of recklessness, my negligence comes flooding back momentarily. I am confronted by mens rea, mea culpa.
They flew out on a plane bound for Zürich, and left me behind alone. They are not coming back. That is what envelops by body. 'You stuffed up big time' a friend reminds me, 'Cop it sweet.' I fantasize my innocence, intoxicated in the delusional world I can so easily construct for myself with bon mots.The words I have stolen and made mine; detached from the world they breed their own (un)reality.
I step forward to face this. This is my reality. Getting old and wise, alone with the television news. Riots and tanks moving in to crush the unrest. This is not reality. This is history, the movement of peoples repeating the dance of death like they always have done. Reality is my happiness confounded with loneliness.
The bus moves onwards to my destination. The are crispens as we move away from the sea to the outlying suburbs. Reality is an affront at times. Right now, I am at ease, and will soon be reuinted with warm smile, moistened lips pouted that will shake my hand. An eye twinkles. Today, that is my reality. Tomorrow, that same reality will again be there for me to change my changing heart...
Welcome aboard, PDJ.
ReplyDeleteThat outpuring was quite beautiful and sorrowful (and real - yeouch).
Perhaps the purging will lift the grey clouds.
noice scribblings, PDJ.
ReplyDeleteyeah, noice :D