Story: The Softer Side

The softer side of the man was hardly ever seen.
He was afraid of something, something no one knew about.
Or why – no one knew why he was angry and afraid.
It was easy to see him as a recluse; cynic; maniac – the worst there had ever been.

But he held a fear as we did – he had feared the concept of loss.
A loss of power; respect; greatest of all, a loss of the one he loved.
The latter had hit him hard, but which he would never speak.
So he took on a life of austerity – a rigid, unyielding pattern all across.

Because in severity, he found peace;
In systems, he found order;
In anger, he found reason.
He thought the unwanted notion of ’emotions’ could cease.

Of memories that could not fade.
Of tears that could not fall.
Of pains that could not falter.
The fear could never be allayed.

Story: The Tragedy

Eyes ablaze I hollered,
Now how could this be?
But all the pieces laid out on the floor,
So they wouldn’t believe me.

They saw my arm full of cuts and bruises,
All of which viewed suspiciously.
Self-inflicted; pretence; an artifice;
Oh, there seemed no end to my misery.

Did I do it this time, I wondered,
My concussed skull hurt a-plenty.
I would never and could never hit her,
These injuries, still a mystery.

I heard something about a broken neck,
Descriptives of a battered anatomy.
Crushed in the middle and cracked at the mouth,
I guess it’s assault and battery.

They looked at me in disgust;
The vengeance and power of my jealousy.
This time I must have gone too far,
Their looks showed no hints of flattery.

“You’ve hit the bottle again, haven’t you?”
A voice whispered soft yet bitterly.
Startled, I thought I had seen a ghost,
When she stood just inches before me.

“My god, I didn’t hit you?”
Relief quashed what I thought was the last of my agony.
But when he stood with arms around her waist,
My mind committed murder in the first degree.

“Get up, pay up and you can go,”
The officers stated all too blandly,
“For the eight broken vodka bottles,
And the fine-wood bar table cracked in three.”

I scanned the crowd and saw in those eyes,
Their enchantment by his wizardry.
They witnessed wonders in the man who held her.
Towards me? Pure apathy.

I’d wreaked havoc last night while drinking.
But I told her I could guarantee,
I’d promised this time I’ll drop the vodka…
(Just maybe not the whiskey or chablis.)

She’d shook her head and left with him, again.
It seemed no one would disagree,
She had made a better choice,
To have him in her company.

It came to light that this was
A tragedy; I was – a tragedy
She had indeed made a better choice,
To choose him instead of me.

 

 

 

It had to happen…

It was bound to happen.
I’d known there was no escape.
At some point it would all come to an end.
Such was life.

It had to happen, but I had hoped it hadn’t been so soon.
Yet time and time again, the fragility of life rears its ugly head.
It was only three weeks ago that the mind started to rake up people who lived in its memories.
It is three weeks later that we shall speak of them in past tense – now and ever after.

The unexpected turns, the unpredictable occurrences.
They repeat themselves, over and over.
Each time it hits, it takes away one more that you cared for.
You fear, as the time draws near, so slowly it comes, yet so quickly it claims away those you prayed would never leave.

Why is it easy to go to the extremes of obsessions and disregard?
Do we learn to cherish?
Do we learn to care?
And do we care enough to learn?

It had to happen. I had hoped it wouldn’t be so soon.
Losses in life, of life… they always come too soon.
I don’t want to it take those I care for away.
I could say I fear what will happen; but have I done enough to accept without regret?

Have you?

 

 

Story: Distraction

She’s a distraction, they say.

Her auburn curls fall neatly at the side of her shoulder blades, forming a shield around the emotions that fell upon her features.
Her dark eyes narrow into a quiet gaze that captivates your soul, as if reading the words that marquee across your heart.
Her lower lips press against the upper ones, pursed, but thoughtful, as if thinking of how to further tantalise your senses.
Her chest heaves a blend of sorrowful confidence; her breath exudes a scent of elegance; her voice …

I’m sorry, what were we saying?

By the way, did you hear that voice?
That low, calm and stable enunciation of each word, peppered with an alluring breathy hum, was teasing yet passionate, and could make one sigh with her rhythm.

Right, back to what we were saying.

Did you ask me what I was doing here?
I am a photographer. I capture the moment through my lenses, and pick the best angles of people, architecture, and our world. But today isn’t a good day – I just can’t seem to focus – I meant, the lenses, really.

I’ll show you the pictures of this heritage building.
Right, that’s the Baroque-style pillars behind. Yes, and the window frames, also Baroque-style – just look past the foreground and you’ll see it. It’s right there!

Hold on, why does it seem you’re only looking at the pictures with her in it? What, did you say the entire collection has her in it?  Focus, focus. I was only taking pictures of the place… she just happened to be in shot, always…

Story: Imagining Imaginations

You have no idea what Imaginations can do to you.
They clamour into your bed at night, hide beneath your sheets, and wrap themselves around your head, taking you on a journey far beyond what the mind can ever comprehend.

They sit across the table in the morning, fusing into the scent of your coffee as you inhale, bringing you on a adventure far more exciting than your day job can ever offer.

They seep insidiously into your life and leave you wondering – was that real or not?

How does it really matter, it would ask you when you wrangled the Imaginations and interrogated it.
If you liked what you saw, heard or experienced – why did it matter whether it was real or not?
Why did you have to insist on holding it down; apprehending it; encaging it? Why can you not accept it for who it is?

Imaginations – it had the power to persuade, convince and mesmerise.
Imaginations – it would whisper into your ears and embed itself into your mind.

But never, ever, try to capture it. Let Imaginations run wild.

What are you imagining today?

(PS: They are also very committed to their friends and would often visit. See, Imaginations came by not too long ago here

GASP! 2016!

How did it become 2016 already? And I thought I had started this just a few years back hoping to document some travels, stories and more.

The year started off…strangely.
It was first a set of dreams that replayed events in life, over and over again.
Then my inner voice had asked over 50 times – “what took you so long” to figure so many things out? It was almost berating my inability to possess higher intellectual capacity.
Finally, I’d crawled to this space to type a bunch of words …

Bizarre! Let’s see what lays ahead as the year pans out.

Here’s wishing everyone a wonderful 2016 ahead!

Story: Imaginations are Monsters

Imaginations are horrid.

I’ve got a hyper-sensitive hearing, and it doesn’t help when every story I hear, my mind forms into vivid moving images.

You’re telling me about the mysterious whispering winds at your curtains.
You’re recounting the day when you fell and broke your wrist.
You’re conveying the tale about how the pillars cracked and the structure nearly impaling you.

I’m terrified by these descriptives; I no longer dare to see the dentist; or face the winds by the windows; or even switch on the TV to hear the news.

These monsters are running wild; and they are scary. I can hear their feet running across the keyboard now. Type, type, type …