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.
But, the hollow in my mind is nothing compared to the concave, barren cavern that drills itself into the lives of blood connections, flesh and bones and heartbeats multiplied, and, while I remain intact though I peel and I shred, like tissue burnt and charred, this life that has never lost is lost at a life that has just.
A trance punctures the insteps of my feet and I jolt in movement, a rigidity locking my legs in spiked traps as I make my way through the day, into a mirrored hall of memories, tears and embrace. There are quivers in throats, vibrations in lungs, cracks in cords as hymns rise alive, as stories unveil etched, as lives open transformed. Nothing hits harder than a storm unannounced.
Its aftershocks have no end, its hour cannot be predicted, there is no Richter scale for death. How prepared are we for a natural disaster? [VIA THE-CHO-BLOG]
Smiles seem to sparkle more in dim nights, under fogged lights. I ride my way back home, a still shaking set of lungs in the driver's seat, and I remember, after a night to remember the remembered.
There is a surge of hope as wisps of actions flood back in ripples -- little tasks, little help, little errands that were ran selflessly. There is warmth as rumbles of laughter thunder in from miles -- jokes, misfortunes, stories. There is grace as life descends -- the friend, the comrade, the brother.
And then there is an icy chill, nail-biting feels, hammered nails to the heart, a ripped muscle battered, bruised. There is an oddity, a murky discombobulated uncertainty. Windpipes blocked, pained eyes drop.
I close my eyes and something flutters by. There is a hitched breath, a gasp caught and I turn. Soaring and gliding are wings like art, and there is a tug, a pulsating twitch at the corners of an organ meant to be downturn.
What do I do? What should I do? What is there to do?
Written in the memory of a man whose cheerfulness will echo in triumph.