Afternoon Light

Keepers of time,

They were scattering light 

In refracted smudges 

Onto me.

I laugh to the ceiling and 

You laugh with me.

We're light and floating

Like in a glossy movie.

I trip like a fairy

(Afloat on a drug?)

She's lithe and pretty

And today so am I.

It's the consequence 

Of the study and all the academic 

Glances that you have been using

To unravel me.

So tea in a pot, 

And all the fancy what-not,

Adds to the shine

Of the afternoon that was mine.

And you will know my truth, and my truth will set me free.

Look at me
But not through your eyes.
It's not you that the voice wants to break and grind into the ground.
It's not that you are the one that I am lashing out against.

My voice, leaping and soaring into the reaches of 'disrespect' and 'insolence',
'Arrogance', does not want to tear through your flesh at all.
No.
It's not you.
It's the glass cage I'm stuck in.
The sort that allows you to believe that I look and seem to move OK.
Ergo that I cannot be anything but 'OK'.

So imagine, the sort of resistance my voice has to face;
To scratch and drill through the diamond walls
That I built for myself;
To belt out and reach you,
Through the gag of your self righteous anger at me,
At my brazen 'disrespect'.
Imagine the dense glass and convincing glamour I've cast,
That it has to splinter through
To draw you out to the point where you might flinch
Because of my version of the truth.
My truth.

Imagined it?
But it's only for a split second, before you realised,
'This is not supposed to be my reaction.'
Yes, so far, your role has always, always had to be that of the injured party,

The poor mangled victim of my youthful bitterness
That clearly has--
And can never have--
A logical reason to exist.

Because my 'negligible age' cannot possibly have reason
To think beyond myself.
Obvious.
That I am nothing but self-centred.
Individualist to the point of hurt and torture.

So be it.
You shall remember these years
As the worst of my life,
Maybe the worst of your lives with me.
You will think that I will eventually apportion blame.
But remember that this wasn't the sound
Of young, arrogant pride.
It was the gunshot, the sharp, heavy crack
Of something reaching a breaking point.



me.

Light and Stone

Isn't it just so odd how there are things about people that you just simply cannot remember? Like the teeth of that classmate who refuses to smile...to smile right... in any of her pictures. Or that particular route that you took that took your breath away. Sure, you're standing on the cobbles and your friend asks 'where's ----?' and all you can do is daftly (and oh so confidently, after a few moments of cleverly gathering up your scattered bearings, or so you think) point in the opposite direction, All you can do and then, is be led, almost  dragging yourself away from the breathtaking sights, down fascinating streets. And that is when you remember why you have no recollection of the place! It's not the lack of familiar surroundings. Nay, the feeling of being 'home' is undeniable.

Reach out and touch the stone, run your fingers down the grey, old spines. There's a story for every crack and crevice, there's a little secret nestled in the eaves and you know that secret...if only you could remember it. The walls are whispering all the time and if you tuned out the sounds of the throbbing city, you'd hear all they have to say.

But! You were too busy gawking at the pilasters and the capitals and looking for other motifs like the polar bear on the Canada House (if the name is even the right one) or maybe looking to see if there were any diamonds accidentally caught in the leaves of the peepal trees. You missed the talking door frames and the ancient locks, you missed the wrought iron grilles and the feeling of erstwhile grandeur.

Maybe the gargoyles distracted me.

But i remember now, the feeling of the sunshine on my face and not a care in the world; besides that the day had to be over soon.

Maybe people had never noticed that places could be warm without referring to temperature. That stone could glow and that skylines would sing in hypnotic baritones. I could live in a tent on those streets; where buildings have names with ampersands and arcades flood with jewelled light. Is the light a sign of time trapped? It's still and i feel a sense of an era frozen in the grim lines of stone that sometimes flower in symmetric Gothic obedience and sometimes plummet in great, sheer heights.

Light and dark, this is where my heart lives sings soars!