quirkyblue

It's quiet. In the pit of the stomach, the last of the memories churn Hear the levers disengage one by one. There's no yard sale, no listings, Just a disengaged observer, Amused at what was, Peering at the sticky tendrils still weakly stretching out  to ensnare what was left of her A whiff of agony flutters around looking for a place to land Dreams, no longer clutched closely, float around, like torn pieces of paper descending to the ground. Colours - crimson and blue - paint time, Shucks, it's losing colour. Falling, falling, falling, with nothing to hold on to, The blast of change rushing through the hair Forcing the eyes shut Nothing to hold on to, nothing to fall on. There. That's it.

And then there was pain Searing pain That cut through the Red hot lividness that was her breath and throttled it midway She choked Unable to decide between The desire to obfuscate her world And the temptation of perennial oblivion Both offered completion. Buddha or Shiva? Surrender or annihilation? Giving up or taking up? Too many questions Serpentine thoughts with sinewy claws  enmeshed her endearingly sweetly and surely  and hopefully (for them), forever. Except for time There's no forever Who are you kidding?! Just here and now The only possessions At any moment That's all.

The hum of the refrigerator clickety-click of the keyboard The misplaced notes of a piano A distant bark, and then another A knock– far away Muffled slamming of a door Padded footsteps A whirr of a truck driving past Carried within the wave of time Sounds of the moment Perceived in the limited Circle of light Of this lamp in the living room Hushed sounds of the night Withheld, whispered sometimes whimpered Complete silence eludes Night, unlike day, goes on A show behind the curtains.

Heaving, aching, exhausted Yearning to have control, nay, not possible Not over the world, I pray, Just this tiny inconsequential thing in the scheme of the universe also known as the heart But how can that be? Poison births life, it does Even if only to kill No, not kill, but strangle, carve out, control Lift, only to shatter Embrace, only to toss away Support, only to withdraw when over a chasm Alone Lone and lonely I drift down down down "Stop screaming, stupid!" What's the point? Meaning, meaningfulness, purpose heavy words I'm but an idiot who gets triggered "Snap out of it!" Sure, your majesty. Addictive? Egoistic? Perhaps. Who knows what's real, what isn't. To borrow from the bard, "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players..." So play shall I, be stupid, be the fool And I shall snap out of it And smile And keep going Because if life's a play, The show must go

She soared above the clearing. The grass below was a striking green. She watched as the individual blades merged together into a stunning green carpet. The clearing was surrounded by plantations. On one side was bamboo and on the other, eucalyptus. The air rushing past was redolent with the fragrances of both, a heady mixture she couldn't quite describe. But it was extremely refreshing, nevertheless. She thrust forward and upward and watched in glee as her feet skimmed above the treetops.  She tilted lightly to her left and circled back towards the edge of the clearing. The treetops rushed underneath her. But she wanted details. There, someone stood among the tall grass – she knew not who. She went low, just high enough not to scrape against an occasional tree. It wasn't easy. She was still going too fast. There were thin branches, not visible from afar, that kept getting in her way. But she zigzagged her way forward. The sharp turns were thrilling, but also tiresome.

The afternoon sun shone into the dense expanse of lantana bushes. Two young girls nimbly stepped over the spiky twigs, doubling down where the undergrowth turned into a canopy with an opening, just big enough for a small goat to go through. They had been going on like this for a while. Their legs were scratched, seeds of wild grass clinging on to their dresses, palms itching from having touched undomesticated shrubs. The elder one, a 12-year-old, led the way. Her hair was tied in a long ponytail, beads of sweat accumulated over clearly drawn brows, thin lips slightly parted. The one behind her was younger by around 3 years, with shoulder length hair clipped up to keep it from coming on to her face. She kept looking ahead and back in measured glances, taking in the terrain, the signs and everything else in between, her eyes shining with the excitement of discovering a new trail. Once in a while her sister would make a remark – about the peculiar shape of a bush, or something – a bott