‘Dead deader deadest Dead daddy dearest’ I hummed the familiar tune whilst lighting my cigarette, felt the sole of my foot touching the cold leather on the inside of my boots, through t…
Source: Mother (Pt. 1)
Pursed lips and purple wounds, with their mouths, wide open,
Lingering in pursuit of a heart, a passion swathed,
Boiling underneath, a touch so clandestine, it made flames, shiver and unfurl,
Playing with her spirits, twirling them along those broken lines around her fingers
as if strands of her brown hair: heavy and disheveled,
Bleeding fire, cherry red and crimson,
Soaking her flesh, burning her bones;
She was but a mere girl, a maiden with a simple name,
Ophelia! how you made the world, desire your love and crave the hate,
They called you an unholy prayer, a Godless soul roamed your flesh;
Every crevice, a home for sin,
Oh but you were, dare I say, I swear
A saint burdened by a burning blue light, of humble insanity,
Or a pandemonium; of sheer ecstasy?
Making shallow believers of us skeptics
As we watched, you slowly crossing the thin line,
Prevailing trance, that followed your steps ~~casting spells where ever you went,
Riding whimsical chariots of the past, a time long faded to pitch dark, oblivion,
you so hopelessly wished to forget;
Oh Ophelia! Selfish we all were,
Possession was what we desired, wanting to leave sacrilegious mementos all over, that body,
But Ophelia! you tragic little girl,
you never sought our worldly lust and warped passion,
A penchant you carried in that forlorn heart, solely for a soul,
as lonesome as you were;
All the shades of blue and none the red
Carrying all these feelings to your bed,
We saw her wasting away, a cold heart that ached no more,
She stepped one day into the sunset, pulled the trigger and laid
on the cold ground, a merry escape she finally found,
A life beyond the world
We laid the dainty corpse softly in that coffin ~~ the room still alive with whispers,
Oh Ophelia! A fond memory you shall remain,
Etched in our hearts till the dusk of the last day ~
the beauty you had, shall move us to tears for evermore,
Immortal and unyielding,
the girl with the pursed lips and purple wounds
‘Dead deader deadest
Dead daddy dearest’
I hummed the familiar tune whilst lighting my cigarette, felt the sole of my foot touching the cold leather on the inside of my boots, through the ‘traditional’ hole in my sock. I have always been in the habit of concocting new habits to replace old ones, buying old, worn-out socks from shady places to replace the older ones was my new habit or quirk. Very Bukowski-esque, you can say.
I hummed along as we took a walk by the fountain, the water glistening under the piercing moonlight from a full moon. We both amusingly looked at our reflections, his being more vivid than mine. The silhouette of his lapels- I remember them distinctly-so sharp that they could be traced easily by a finger. Without a second thought, I immersed my long bony finger in the water and we both stared at the ripples it made on contact, following the path of each wave with our glowing eyes till they reached the end and died.
The fog caged the vast ground once more as l gazed at the empty park bench; the only visible thing in my sight. I looked down at my brown boots,then looked up, and replied to his question.
‘Callous?’ he asked me with his eyebrows raised, his stoic face harboring a sly grin which, he ever so desperately tried to turn into a laugh, but it was merely a pale imitation of an actual laugh. I wouldn’t even liken it to a smile. Sad, really.
‘Yes, callous.That’s the word I’d best use to describe myself, I am a profoundly callous vilified human being, even the blood that runs through my veins becomes sluggish.I feel..I feel..as if I am nothing more than an anthropomorphic entity, a mere exaggerated version of the man the world expects me to be.’
My friend chuckled as I responded to his question. His smirks and grins were a rather poor effort at attributing some normalcy to all the eccentric conversations he had to endure, at my expense, of course.
I disregarded it almost always, maybe he needed that.
Don’t we all need a little normalcy to get by? To be sated by normalcy is a feeling I too wanted for as long as I could memorize the spellings of the word, ‘normal’ or the moment I first looked for its meaning on a torn page of a dictionary, a tea stain on its right corner, or was it the left one? I cannot recall. Honestly. But for a boy of mere eight, surfing the dictionary was a rather precocious act, no?
A breezy Saturday night it was. I had become accustomed to this new town.
‘I think it will rain again.’ he shouted as a huge truck passed us by, drowning his voice.
‘Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. Are we actually going to start a new conversation based on the weather, Sy? Shame.’
He didn’t listen, but merely stared at the empty pavement before him.
Quirky comebacks and disapproving nods, were perhaps the only two ways it were possible for anyone to ever describe him. He had a common face, or not too common. Truth is, I never spent much time directly looking at him, chalking out his features; observing the presence or absence of a mole on his lower lip, chin or the middle finger. He was just a friend after all, should I even call him that. Maybe, we both preferred to simply co-exist in the same vacuum of space or maybe I preferred to simply have a listener.Every performer requires an audience, even the shitty ones.
Socialism and humanity repelled me, and I was happy to have someone to share my slightly distorted perspective of seeing the world with. I’d call him up and tell him about how think scarves are better off as fancy nooses, how private investigators are nothing more than stalkers with a fancy name and an even fancier paycheck or how I had been having recurring dreams of orange peels on Proust books placed on a vintage 1969 handmade ebony side table, ‘Shawn’s way’, was it?
Never mind. Not important. Move on move on. Let it all burn. Burn and turn to black. Let it all be turned to red and die.
‘You know who loved Proust, Sy?’ I mumbled without even realizing the words my mouth seemingly blurted out.
‘Who?’ he asked without looking up.
‘Mama did. She loved Proust.’
‘Do you miss her?’
‘She was a nice old lady. She’s dead now Simon.that’s all I know. My father died from drowning in that lake. Being an only child she cared for me..umm..decently. The memories still rush through my head, as I struggle to retain the intricacies of each memory hewn together I lose it all.
Sy are you listening?
Are you listening to me, friend?
That is the last time I heard from Sy. The memories are blurry, all I can remember is smoke rising from flames.
Ashes and dust. Dust and ashes. Golden figure. Dead?
Or was it red?
Why do people write?
Why do I write?
A question which has intrigued me many a times now and then, and despite some gallant efforts in the past to offer an answer, every attempt and conscious effort falls short by an inch.Yet here I am again, after some endlesss self indulgent monologues, much needed re-evaluation and driven by some caffeine induced wakefulness, to give an honest answer, or a semblance of it at least.
so why do I write?
Simply put, writing is a solace. Similar to an anchor, to which I latch on to, time and again, when this seemingly sapid world becomes perplexingly insipid and devoid of its colors. It is an ichor which sates this otherwise insatiable desire for something new to ponder on or to bask in the glory of a new awakening whenever I feel a rush of blood to the head.
Because tell me, in all honesty, wouldn’t you ever wish to catch every fleeting thought by your pen and ink them on paper? Don’t you ever find yourself vying for a place where you could willingly submerge yourself in paranoia? Does your heart not ache to retreat to a place away from the deafening chants of morality? Don’t you want to perpetuate the kaleidoscope of memories dwelling in your consciousness? Don’t you too, ever attempt to rest a myriad of epiphanies on the soft comfort of that paper right in front of you?
Of course you do, we all do.
And writing offers me that very place, enabling my senses to delve into a rather unfamiliar lucidity, a place where the perversions; I hopelessly try to eradicate (to no avail, sadly) find a place to eternally prosper. It’s a refuge for these thoughts which after; wavering incoherently without pause,ultimately find their roots. It breathes life into a million different worlds thriving inside my head, a place where I am no longer afflicted by the fear of retreating a lifetime of throbbing contemplations, to a state of dank submission. A mythical safe haven, where every well nestled secret that possesses the stature of treasured gold, is given wings and soars.
It is the place I hopelessly revert to when I feel as if my muddled up conscience is clawing against my head, beckoning me to cleanse it. A barrage of worn out and somewhat thawed out emotions, course back to their origin, to the rawness that truly defines them.
So with all these aforementioned things being said and done, the answer in a nutshell would be that for me, writing is an asylum or a mere utopian land, call it what you may. Regardless, it is a place I always find my way back to because maybe, it is the place my sole existence is most accustomed to.