Day 355

It is eleven on the morning of day three hundred and fifty five.

I stir in my cell, the bright-eyed, keen and utopian soul of a child rests soundly beside my body. She passed away when eighteen arrived and destroyed, when eighteen crushed the rose-tinted glasses and carried, like the slippery whisper of a final breath, the soft calm away.

I stare at four walls and count the things I have lost, the things that perished when the child was taken.

6:06 PM

I never quite knew what one meant when one claims to be chasing the sun. 

That was -- until my mother and I had to bound after an orange orb of flames drifting amidst a canvas of fading blue to capture a few frames of a grid shift dress on a twilit Sunday, a digital clock blinking tauntingly at us in our vehicular hindrance: 6:06 PM.

Castaway

I am blue today, blue like the sky, blue like the ocean, blue like the encapsulating sense of freedom that horizons and clouds of puff bring. Standing on cushiony sand looking out onto the horizon, there is liberation in the heart of this castaway, chains breaking and snapping, thorns peeling and dying.

I had boarded the ship a soul weighed down by debts and loath, but lightning sent piercing down from the heavens as bullets of rain hurled down in hails have destroyed the poundage and wrecked my vessel of imprisonment. 

Now, there is light. Now, there is colour. Now, there is relief.

X

In the wake of a soul drifted sound, I am hurled into a limbo of confusion, raven finally wrapping its arms around me not because I will it to, but because there is no other choice. 

Ten minutes within which I learnt of a pulse line gone x -- within which the white noise had left the high C deafening, a line dead piercing my eardrums -- I had flung myself across the mindful universe and orbited twice the speed of light, past stars glittering at eyes dimmed, to plunge back to the pebbled cobbled rubble as empty as I had begun.

Fleeting Moments

As the clouds storm the sky, the moment flees into the dusk, into stars studding a dark, desolate canvas, and as they dance in the sky, flickering, they become nothing but memories left to be relived.

Wind runs across the sky, jumping and weaving through clouds of gray. He is swift, a smart gentleman, keen-eyed, interested. He had witnessed, between Sun and Rain, against the once blue sky a spectacular conversation that had bled into colours, into spectrums of light.

They had burst into showers of rays, like a fountain in a garden, well-kept and trimmed, but just as the gardener had fallen asleep, Thunder had roared and had sent them scurrying. What is left is a trace of their spark, a faint glow in the universe that will diminish and fade, yet Wind still searches.

He searches for Sun, the quiet charmer, the one with ideas but the one without intent. He searches for Rain, the pensive intellectual, the one with passion but the one without nerve. He searches for the voice that had risen between them, the heated debate that had radiated, the time that had spun into delightful discussion, but all is gone and all is quiet, and all that's left is Thunder roaring.

Cobalt Poise

She is the cynosure in the marbled halls, the axis aligning all eyes. A sweep of her hem, billowing dauntlessly behind her -- whoosh -- and she is set alight in cobalt poise. Like the slow burning candle in a stale, somber room, she radiates.

Favourite Books

Welcome to Exhibit A. Observe specimen M in its natural habitat.