Sharing some new writing. I blame this squarely on my insomnia…and my dog. Read if you like.
I think I am losing my mind, especially on rainy afternoons between one and three in the afternoon. I can see vague images of places I visited, people I saw, things my hands touched… I think. At times I do wonder what would it feel like to really care for someone. To worry about what they would want for supper, if the dirty clothes need cleaning. Then I remind myself… I knew that feeling rather intimately once, I am sure of it. Or was that another dream I cannot remember? I am sure I am losing it. If only I could remember what ‘it’ was or is. It will all be lost, spiralling far away from me. Travelling just fast enough so I can’t hold on to it, to a place where where memories have no color.
At least I managed to hold on to that. Memories feel like colors. The really good ones are turquoise blue, green, gold. And they taste like dark chocolate, rum and a perfect cup of cappuccino with just enough sweetness to compliment the cigar on the table. Your lips getting a small taste of each in the best imaginary time possible. Not musical time where one can hear the tick tock of the metronome on an old black piano with stained white keys. But luxurious time where it stretches its arms to yawn as the first rays of the sun hits one’s eyes. Or transcendental time when your mouth, fingers and all the parts of your skin intimately play every instrument of an unheard melody. Your lover’s small and big responses echoing certain notes or reverberates others while floating blissfully between two bodies harmonizing sound. Sighing with surprise pleasure or moaning with awe, the song complete and your bodies spent.
My memories are disappearing, even the dirt colored ones where I saw someone I think I once knew demand answers at the top of his lungs. He shouted words, banged the table, the couch I sat on. If I try real hard I can see his mouth move as a silent rage shoots into his eyes, but whenever I strain to remember I hear only the sound of rain.
The last images, are they real or a reminder of a story I once read? I can’t remember anymore. All I recall are small bits and pieces. His beard changing color, turning blue, one strand at a time. Until the blue caught the edges of his ears, his eyelashes and slowly filled the entire room. That’s when I wake up. With memories spiralling in between the clouds as rain falls to the ground.
Dearest Faraway Child
I feel compelled to share the story of one of our First Mothers. This is both a warning and cure of sorts. She was given the gift of sound. And while her voice could trap the hearts and minds of those closest, it’s what they sang back to her that caused pain. In the end she lived alone, the only sound being that of the wind. And even he wasn’t always as silent as one would suppose.
Our First Mother did not miss songs carried deep under the skin. She could hear it, faraway child. The secrets caught in the bones of the weary. The unrelenting lust in the eyes of old men sitting on corners, the toneless sadness of those who feel only cold when they sleep. They called to her wherever she went, begging for release. What good is the gift of sound without discernment child? Without knowing what to listen to and when?
Your gift of Remembering will be tested, as all gifts granted by Those Who Guard The Gates are. First you must learn to forget ,to put aside the voices of your own past,the places where it hurts your heart to linger. Forget you must and forget you will. This gift requires everything you are and cannot mire itself in a being filled with memories that serve no purpose.
This you will only understand when you find yourself alone, as the most painful memory is gently removed from your skin, and in its stead are swirling black holes cascading with light. All you have to do is close your eyes and place one foot in front of the other.
These are voids, faraway child, where other worlds can be found. Places at times similar while others are far removed from the what you call home. In every world you will find one door you must not open. These are places you can travel to when you are in need of answers or an escape.
Not all paths in time are worth exploring and not every person you encounter benevolent. And some doors will tempt you more than you could imagine or endure. Remain safe child. Do not be afraid to remember or to proud to forget. Just close your eyes, place one foot in front of the other and wait for the sound of falling rain.