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The Past

The Past

May 15, 2010

“We never knock, for nobody’s there / Just me and my shadow, all alone and feeling blue.” – Billy Rose

Dreams are clouds… hanging so low in the sky you think you could just almost reach out and grab a fluffy piece for yourself, but really we’re grasping at nothing at all. Why is the sky blue? Why are our oceans blue? Why are the meadows green, and gradually changing shades of yellow, orange and red hues, then withered brown? What are we doing right, and doing wrong at the same time?

Each smile, an upturn at the curve of lips, painted light coral pink with a dewy hint; what’s really underneath? A mother’s aching heart, a father’s troubled mind. A lover’s worry, a child’s innocence. It’s been a long while since I’ve knocked on any doors. If I do, will you let me in?

The Past

September 13, 2010

One day you are sitting at your desk, and everything is perfectly fine. It’s late, perhaps 1am in the morning, and the world is quiet. You are alone in your house, slight breeze coming in the windows, faint whiff of roses and chamomile lingering in the room. Wham. Not a huge revelation sort, or the kind of loud noises cars make when they hit a fellow automobile. It’s the soft, whispery kind, like the gentle rustling willows make in the wind, and the river’s tide is rising. First a gentle ripple at your feet, then a lap at your knees, then a wave of sorrow comes crashing into nostalgia, fears, and uncertainties. You are not at your desk anymore. You are crying into your pillow, muffling the tears so you won’t wake your neighbour’s parrots. There’s an ache, no, it is a stinging anguish in your heart you simply cannot explain. You wipe away the tears with the back of your hand, and rub some snot on the pillowcase. An indescribable pain, so unfathomable, so familiar. Moon river is playing in the background, it is on repeat. Gentle music, broken heart. Oh dream maker, you heart breaker, wherever you’re going, I’m going your way…