Tonight there is quiet. Your mind takes a final yawn before slowing down into the melodic sway of sleep's compassionate rhythm. You are surrounded by love and respect. Though through the distance, yet do warm heart-waves float upon your shores, bringing mysterious gifts from far-off lands. Your dreams permit safe passage to your utmost desires, and you find that without the inhibitions and practical limits of time, you can fulfill all that you long for. You simply make a wish, and branches eagerly sprout fingers to point the way to your path of choice. And the many arteries of possibility interweave feathers of flight and fantasy into the fabric of your everyday existence. You are complete. You are worthy. You are capable. You will carry on and the sun will light your eyes with gleaming streaks of absolute delight. Love to you my dear one.
Things will get better.
You will have joy<3
Jennifer Burnside
Contemplations In Time
Thoughts and whimsy
Saturday, January 10, 2015
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Arches of Ice
I was gliding upon a
chunk of ice which slid across frozen expanses of still chill water. Natural
arches of crystalline substance beckoned in a sinister fashion as I approached
at high speed. The icy arches were pale blue and arctic white, blinding in their
purity. But I knew that beneath the glossy exterior, filthy dirt festered
beneath- a core of wormy goo. I attempted to maneuver my way across a
landscape, dizzy with expectation and adrenaline ringing in my ears. And the
air was thin with altitude and smelled suspiciously minty as if enhanced by a
man-made chemical substance.
I felt terrified, angry, and yet somehow
increasingly determined as I skimmed the frosty crests and snowy depths. At
once, I attempted to escape an entity and yet pursue something so beautiful
that its goodness outweighed the ugliness of my fears.
My grandfather had arranged for me to stay
with him as a guest on a very large skyscraper-boat. Very tall and wavering
with the uneasy shifting of water’s liquid body, the building pulled at its
anchor, trying to float away. On the other hand, the mighty architecture’s
regal presence as portrayed through the jaws of its elaborate entry doors
boasted an aura far from flighty.
The mullet-man approached me, beady dark
eyes sucking energy out of the surrounding atmosphere. I exhaled over and over
again in hopes of avoiding his dark stench. He gaped wide and foreboding like
an ancient cave, while his garments proved misleading…so sporty and modern. My
grandfather had retired to his penthouse for the evening with a couple of
buddies, which left me alone in a faceless heartless crowd with Mr. Mullet. He
sat down on the floor beside which I rocked back and forth upon my heels,
planning my escape. His two silent parents, visiting from a distant land, took
their seats in blue plastic chairs rimmed with silver studs.
Meanwhile, “he” had begun his presentation
regarding underwater plant-life. Describing how various saltwater vegetation
digested its food and reproduced, he spoke with arrogance and obstinate
certainty. But he was sharing untruths merely to appear educated. I picked up
what seemed to be a paperweight or clear bubble-like cage of sorts, but Mr.
Mullet quickly snatched the piece out of my grasp. I began to wonder at the
life inside as I saw movement and leaned toward the silly man so as to get a
second look. The small red creature had coarse crocheted skin and very much
resembled a sea anemone. And it was twitching and writhing in short electric
spurts as if tormented or even deranged. I believed the exhibit to be a
life-form while Mr. Mullet argued with me before an ever-increasing audience
that the fabric exterior was nothing more than yarn; that beneath the rough
weave danced a tiny fish who used the costume as a full-body mask.
I was dismayed, though even with the man’s
insistent and superior attitude, I did not fully believe him. To prove his
point, he presented other examples of underwater stitchery within which the
small fish was prone to hide. He exclaimed with delight when the fish darted
out of the clear bubble and into a long shallow aquarium, in order to travel
from one crocheted galaxy to another. I looked on in horror and disbelief.
Suddenly, I felt the irresistible urge to leave the building which had over the
course of time become as dark as a basement.
I ran across a field so green and freckled
with wildflowers it felt as if I were dreaming (interesting- the sensation of dreaming within a dream). A sense of liberation washed over me as I savored the
cool breeze which whipped about my long tangled hair. The sky was blue, the atmosphere clear, and
in my rush I forgot my worries…for a mere instant in time. Out of seemingly nowhere appeared the
man with the mullet. He was running beside me. I turned to look at him as we ran and he was
smiling. So I returned his smile, feeling warm and happy. But then he began to pass me up; I
increased my speed and passed him, then he returned the gesture. Pretty soon the world felt mangled
and raw. I awoke angry.
Jennifer Burnside
Dream of Destruction
She was running down a dingy hallway
and encountered a dark green apartment door. She was looking for somewhere to
hide and didn’t know where the baby was. Bursting into a barely lit room, she
doubled over, breathing heavily. She felt a presence in the room and looked up
with a start. Two men sat cross-legged on the floor in the midst of chaos.
Rumpled piles of soiled clothes and dirty dishes lay in mounds all around them
as if their empire. They gawked at her in a hypnotized stupor, glassy eyes
shining like the glint of a wild animal’s gaze from the shadows of the forest.
They giggled together in slow motion, though their voices were high like
pre-pubescent boys. With long scraggly hair shifting across their faces, she
could not tell where their eyes kept wandering, until she realized that they
were watching small rats scuttle across the floor and through the trash that
surrounded them. She was stunned when she looked at the hands of the two men,
which were stained red and brown from dirt and dried blood. For they were
catching the rats in their bare hands and grasping them with such specified
force that the rodents slid right out of their own skin and fur, to land on the
heap of rubble, pink and naked. As she watched a few rounds of this gruesome
activity, she suddenly felt free to leave the room and walk away from the
ugliness. As she turned, the men began whispering to each other in slithery
little tones, mentioning what a shame it was that she was leaving them; that
they would have no one for whom to present their violent talents. But as soon
as they expressed their disappointment, their faces contorted into moldy clay
masks, and slid off to glide down their lean bodies. She exited the room and closed
the door firmly behind her.
Funneling
Entering the chamber that boasted no
access, a wall of wailing creatures barred the way but did not deter the lava
from taking its victims by the throat and sucking out all of their life juice.
The volcano emitted the most putrid of grimaces, seizing the land with
arrogant derision, and what was once lush and green lay flattened and ashy gray
in the aftermath.
A war was fought at the base of the mountain, in circles the fighters
beat at their own chests and mutilated their own faces until the vultures flew
in to serve as masks and to fawn sadistically over the loss of the others.
Like a twisted carousel of dead ponies and princesses, the sinister
upheaval that was your glance fell upon the happy dandelions, quickly putting
out their weak flames which they had borrowed from the sun at the moment the
solstice turned her head away from the road to catch a glimpse of yesterday’s
apologetic smile.
Dismantling the notion of time itself, premonition makes its way into
the straw, lights a match, and sets her free.
And she is none the weaker…only brighter and more steadfast, as
necessity deems fit.
The smoke is invisible to her and not even the scalding of such
partially-penitent souls will move her as she enjoys life and looks to the
future, claiming all that is genuine as her own manifesto.
Jennifer Burnside
The Truck
The
white delivery truck had been parked outside the tidy little convenience store
for more than half an hour. Fine dust yet churned in the wake of the truck’s
sudden halt, where it had scraped up against a crumbled curb. And the vehicle’s
flurried driver, lacking in either time or consideration, hadn’t made the
effort to straighten out her crooked parking job. It was very unusual for the
time, that a woman would operate such a large vehicle, without the presence and
aid of a man. And even more extraordinary was it to see a woman lugging heavy
merchandise over her shoulders and under her arms- without the least sign of
effort. I always marveled at this sight which I had the pleasure to behold
every Monday morning at 6 a.m. sharp. And I now wondered about the woman as she
remained inside the store- much longer than was usual. While I kept watch from
a mere dozen paces away, across a one-lane dirt road, I perched on the sagging
porch which overlooked my Uncle’s meager gas pump. Chewing listlessly on the crushed
tip of a striped straw, I felt the huge distance of the short space which
divided “us” from “them”, and closed my eyes to avoid reality- as if escape
were that easy.
The sweet little girl with the cherub face
peers inquisitively out the rear window of the delivery truck. One day a week
she savors the bumpy ride down country lanes with her adventurous mother at the
wheel, as they make the rounds to those merchants in town who purchase their
dairy goods. According to the girl, Monday is the one day worth living for. She
gets to enjoy the passing view without lifting a finger, and recently at one of
their stops, has taken a special interest in a particular ramshackle abode, a
dwelling so tiny she imagines that elves live inside. The girl stands on her
tiptoes in the back of the truck to look out the smudged rectangular window.
She is mesmerized by a shimmery veil which wisps like smoke in the soft breeze,
partially masking the interior of the one-room shack. Oddly enough, a decrepit
and stained porch broaches two sides of the structure in front of which stands
a dingy gas pump. And along the railing, miniature sculptures, potted plants
and brass trinkets sparkle in the sunlight. From the lean branches of a
hovering tree hang coins and glass eyes which spin around from their threads of
twine. How the girl would love to venture out and investigate…but her mother
has forbidden her to leave the safety of the truck.
With my two stringy braids swinging in my
face, and floral head-scarf flopping over my shoulder, I stood up with mock
determination as if I had something important to do, as if I had somewhere to
go (rather than stagnate there on my uncle’s greasy grimy porch, awaiting
customers who never appeared). I knew that I was being watched, which was a
familiar sensation for me, being a stranger in a strange land. Lacking proper
attire, and unable to communicate in the native language of the region, I spent
all my time observing and contemplating. I was certainly accustomed to being
noticed, as one might notice a stray mutt. Not only was I being noticed, but I
was being observed with actual interest, by a peer. Uncomfortable, I wandered
over to the gas pump, and feigning concentration, began to inspect it as if it
were a rare fossil. In the meantime, I contemplated the porch and its infamous
reputation. The fact that I felt pure envy toward a place rather than a person
(since I spent more time alone on the porch than in the company of any person),
clearly illustrated the depths of my solitude. My loneliness thrived in the
quicksand of sticky guilt and recollection. I remembered absorbing the constant
thrash of fighting and destruction throughout my first few years of life. I was
the child of a sailor- always on the move- riding waves of sadness out at sea,
in to port, on the town, and so forth. My father had left me here in this place
so he could follow his desires, while I continued to miss him each night, my
dreams increasingly laced with resentment. Adults had never made sense to me;
they bated me with their lies, used me as a pawn to manipulate each other, and
then abandoned me with frustration after they were exhausted from the seemingly
endless responsibility of caring for me. The voices in my head would not calm
themselves; like so many wild birds, riding the breeze only to crash repeatedly
through the windows of my mind. It was as if I sifted through other people’s
chaos; a recycled form of chaos which rarely had anything to do with me, but
which somehow paved the painful path of my second-hand life.
She tries to deduce what her mother must be
doing at present- she has far over-stayed her normal delivery time. Usually,
the hearty woman with bobbed hair and an unusually carefree demeanor, throws a
couple of goats over her shoulder and heads into the immaculate shop by way of
the delivery entrance. She makes several trips back and forth, carrying baskets
of eggs, metal kegs of milk, and glass bottles of cream. She usually returns to
the truck in 10 minutes at the most, with a wad of cash stuffed into the pocket
of her horribly stained apron, and a grin on her face. The girl knows the
inside of the shop intimately, even though she has entered on only three occasions
when the shop-owner had invited the “poor little munchkin” to come in for an
early morning ice cream cone (made with the milk from her very own farm).
Though quite young, she recalls details with surprising accuracy. She sees the
back entrance of the shop- its spotless white-washed metal door and fresh-scrubbed
rubber matting. The floor of the reception area is black and white checked tile
which proudly glimmers in the early-morning light. Display cases protect the
purity of frozen delicacies and artfully placed cold-cuts. Atop the counters
sit pale wicker baskets brimming with eggs and wedges of cheese. And behind the
counters uniformed ladies bustle in their frilly blouses and pressed aprons, each
of them with elegant hair swept up to overflowing in arrogant little ringlets.
They appear to be setting things in order, sweeping away invisible dust,
arranging and rearranging the order of displays, and obsessively plumping the
pretty clusters of daisies and baby’s breath which drink from wells of fine crystal.
Never before has a place felt so foreign to the girl who remains hatless in her
simple frayed shift and bare feet. On the farm, she plays a part in the process
of everything around her. In the truck she is her mother’s proud daughter. In
the local chapel, she is the adorable wildflower who sings like an angel. But
inside the convenience store, she is like a ghost; transparent for the most
part, but if encountered, viewed by the “others” with something akin to
distress. The girl hops from one foot to the other, causing the truck to shimmy
back and forth. She worries about her mother who must be haggling over prices
at this rate, and remembers how even with her confident beauty, firm handshake,
and a strong sense of business, the kind woman was on one occasion inexcusably belittled
and harassed by the pudgy, pink-cheeked shop-owner. Short and egotistical, the
man had claimed to “catch a whiff of the latest fragrance- manure musk” in the
hair of his supplier as he had peered down his nose at her “filthy little
piglet”. The girl is whisked back to the present when a sudden movement flashes
in the corner of her eye. Fixing her gaze upon the small shack across the lane,
with the hope of glimpsing an elf, she is surprised to witness large dark eyes
staring back at her with unabashed wonder.
Tearing my attention back to the porch, I
relived the humorous episode which earned the porch its celebrity status. I saw
the multitude of cats in the eye of my mind. They were everywhere, climbing the
walls, feeding from fine saucers of antique china, mating, hunting, and running
the household like a band of gypsies. My aunt was the culprit who dragged me into
this hole-in-the-wall she called a palace for the gods. Our inadequate home
had, quite literally, a “hole” in its wall, as the single room was only held up
by three walls. And a luminescent paisley fabric veiled in parts the gaping face
of where a fourth wall must have at one time existed. Here I had resided for a good
six months, struggling to accept my fate among the feral feline nation, which
my aunt so obviously worshipped. I had never developed a liking for the
independent and rather narcissistic nature of cats, simply because, despising
water as they did, the lithe creatures seldom lived on sailing boats or in my
father’s damp transitional hovels. At any rate, the daylight was in full bloom,
the sun was pale like my heart, and my aunt had just arrived from town lugging
a metal bucket. Coagulated blood jiggled in the bucket and over its sides with
gelatinous glee. In her white lace dress and white canvas boots (stained
crimson in an abstract fashion), she looked like a gory ghost, torn from the
pages of a murder mystery. She approached me with murder in her eyes, exclaiming
that our local greasy-spoon diner wouldn’t spare the best of their leftovers
for “her family”, so she had been forced to gather what she could from their
dumpster out back. I was horrified by the sight of my eccentric aunt, and her
foul words stunk more than the stink of gizzards, livers, and other edibles
which had grown rancid with the heat of the day. My first inclination was to
call my uncle and tell him that my aunt must have lost her mind somewhere along
her trek home- that the heat must have gotten to her. But suddenly, I realized
that my once-pretty aunt with her almond eyes and long tangled hair remained
nothing more than a vessel, full of empty dreams and endless regrets. Her
feline “family” had been feeding off of her adrenaline and angst for some time
now. She was in every way their human puppet, their clown, and their only
source of sustenance. Something inside me lurched with fear and disgust, and I
screamed. In a flash, my aunt began tearing at her clothes, at her eyes, and threw
the bucket along with its hideous contents directly at me. Fortunately, I
ducked before the heavy object could collide with my head, but the faded
chipped porch wasn’t so lucky. The porch railing was instantaneously doused in
a warm goo of carcass leftovers. Without so much as a word, my aunt stepped out
of her ruined attire and marched away from our abode, feral cats in tow. And while
the memory of a slim woman in bloomers and camisole, leading a pack of cats down
the lane was etched in my mind forever, no one ever saw or heard from her
again. The story became somewhat of a legend in town, although for some reason,
I was completely left out of the picture. It was as if I had been invisible, or
even worse, non-existent. After the incident had blown over and the stains on
the porch had faded to a lovely mauve hue, I continued to linger in the shadows
as I was prone to do. I learned to serve as the eyes and ears for our little
corner of the universe (since my uncle was usually down the street in the town
pub, and if he did happen to be home, which was seldom, he was too blurry-eyed
from drink to comprehend anything he thought he saw). I kept my ever-expanding
knowledge private, and busied myself with maintaining the gas pump and
preparing simple meals for my uncle. In my spare time I collected trinkets from
the roadside, which had most likely fallen from the harried merchant vehicles I
occasionally witnessed fleeing from town in the middle of the night. It was the
big old truck from the dairy farm which brought me the only delivery I would ever
receive during my era at the gas pump shack; the only delivery which would
actually deliver me from my woes.
As she stares at the dirty creature,
dressed in the most exquisitely colorful rags she has ever beheld, something
familiar lurches within. She feels at once a connection with the other little
girl, knowing that they have something in common. But she also knows that the “other”
is weighed down by sadness and loneliness- eyes uneasily darting about, fingers
fiddling with the handle of the gas pump, thin shoulders hunched in a sense of
defeat. The girl in the delivery truck strains on tiptoes, willing the other
child to notice her through the hazy window. Her heels and calves become hot
with the effort, and she finally eases down into a squat to rest briefly among
her farm’s fresh products and supplies. She unscrews the metal cap of a cold
bottle of milk, her hand smearing the moist sweat of condensation that has
formed on the outside of the glass. Guzzling the creamy liquid, she refreshes
herself, taking comfort in the simple pleasure of quenching her thirst. She
gets up and heads back over to the small window to continue her curious
observation. She gazes upon the porch across the lane with its blushing stains,
sees a small group of crows cavorting on the roof of the shack, and then
realizes that the gypsy child she had noticed is nowhere in sight. For a moment
the little girl panics, skimming the area for any movement. Suddenly, something
collides with the door of the delivery truck. The little girl feels the vehicle
heave with added weight, and soon after, a colorful scarf appears in the
truck’s rear window. Next appear loose strands of wavy brown hair, large
startled eyes, smiling mouth, and the two young children quickly find
themselves face to face through the glass. The humidity of their happy
breathing fogs the thick panel, and this triggers a round of giggling. They begin
making silly faces and from either side of the thick door, they instantly realize
that they have found in one another a friend.
She looked like a perfect little doll. With
her blond ringlets and sky-blue eyes, I thought she was a miniature replica of
“them”. I thought she belonged in the starched and arrogant world of the
convenience store across the way. Her rosy cheeks and innocent smiling mouth
boasted the comforts that only love and nourishment can provide. But when her
mother returned to the truck, started the engine, and dashed around to open the
back door of the delivery truck, I saw that both the woman and the child had
callused working hands which were rough and soiled. There was dirt under their
fingernails. Just like me, the little girl went barefoot, her frock was torn
and her apron quite stained. I felt right at home. The girl beckoned wordlessly
for me to sit down with her on a crate in the corner. She grabbed a cold bottle
of milk, opened it, and nestled it between my empty hands. I thanked her in my
language, my voice bursting out like a song; so this was how happiness was
supposed to feel! The little girl’s mother stood outside, with one booted foot
wedged against the bottom step of the back of the truck. She was looking over at
my trinkets, at the gas pump, meager clothes on the line, the slouching porch. The
engine of the delivery truck was still running, humming with contentment. With
a start, she clapped her hands against her hips as if wiping something clean.
The woman darted like a fawn over to my sacred tree and from it pulled the
glass eyes and a few coins. Wrapping these things in my old red shawl which she
tore from the line, she ran to the truck and tossed the “gift” in back with us.
She looked at me shrewdly and I knew that she awaited some kind of response. I
smiled, nodded, and hugged the gift to my chest along with the bottle of cold
milk. Our mother grinned with joy, blew a kiss to each of us girls, and slammed
the door firmly shut on my former life.
Jennifer Burnside
Wiser with Time
This is not a time where being nice
has its advantages. Being curtly polite is the only thing that we can offer to
such despicable cowards who fester in the slimiest of puke-holes, repelling
other such loathsome life-forms. Known to only the most remote species that
evolved from stagnant feces so ancient, it had a life and body of its own, the
dwellers drip with deceit. Vapors light their path, preceding them with a proud
stench, as they traverse hideous fields of rotten rubble and refuse. With our
strides so light and agile, our footsteps erase their own remains in hasty
wake.
We do not heed their morbidly obese warnings as they wobble with
self-contradiction, their falsehoods becoming confusingly entangled with every
pathetic maneuver as they writhe in the stupidity that is their fruitless
dimension. They are not worthy of a glance, nor even a nod. We will not listen
to their breaths as they exhale excuses and sharply breathe in the cynicism
that blinds them from their own contemptible reflections. There is no way to
make up for the fact that their very existences drive stink-bugs to the grave
with one mere whiff riding the traumatized breeze. Like sticky fingers lumpy
with the debris of past, present, and future abuse, they massage one-other where
it matters the most: precisely at the center of the top of the head where a
soft spot is ever growing, where the skull never actually closed as there was
not enough bone matter or brain substance to form complete structural spheres.
Attempting to make up for their wrong-doings, only because they wish with all
their acid hearts to commit even more fraud and destruction the next time
around, they sit on their hands, defecating upon themselves in ignorant
fashion. Monstrous visions of demonic throats clench and release the bile that
foams from their deformed mouths, and as their lips deteriorate with
quick-release chemical action, we needn’t fathom the discomfort in which they
find themselves. And we will not sit in wait- the time is upon us where those
who have illustrated all that is delightfully evil will publish their suffering
beneath the mighty weight of humiliation.
We will not give in; we have nothing left to
give. We scorn them as we crush leaves with our toes and grind the memory of
their sour faces into a sheer powder which will scatter itself across the ocean
at the gaseous center of a vengeful earth. Despicable dedications are in order,
and tension hangs heavy in the air, right before their smutty noses. We wash
our hands of all that once consisted of their dirty little secrets. And as the sweet
oil of love’s pure hope courses through our hair like the wind through the
trees on a picnic-day, we await their doom with giddy abandon. The parade will
pass, and good riddance, but oh what a show they will put on for us in the
imaginations of our once-injured, twice-wiser hearts.
Jennifer Burnside
Monday, June 25, 2012
Water
Water rushes throughout your entire being like anguish up against itself. Your mind reels, wondering about your reactions, wondering why you are so eager to please and so prone to tears. How painful it is to say goodbye; you would almost rather not say hello at all because you cannot fathom how you were looked up after so much time in the first place. What is the meaning of your existence in the eyes of one too many someone elses, and why does it matter anyways what others think about you? They’re generally wrong, and such criticisms are a toxic fertilizer deceiving your heart into breathing deeply only to cough out the heart-ache a few miles down the boulevard. And you don’t know what is worse, the deception, the attempt to recover from the blow, or the tangle of emotions that tear you apart from the inside out. You wonder what it is inside of you that spills so easily and how shall you clean up the mess, each and every time? Is it a horrible mistake to allow a stranger to view your depths and what does it mean when someone known becomes a mere stranger? Ghosts take over the lives of those you resist loving and haunt you like the residue of carelessly applied glue. Some will eat glue in early school years; a sticky attempt to remain faithful to the self. Others manage to spill the glue all over so as to secure lingering deadweights and the guarantee of stagnancy galore. Lack of movement is the cluster of hallucinations that come into effect when view is limited to one wall lacking shape, lacking color. No memory or desire can beat the feeling of importance, of knowing that one fits and is rooted. Landslides crash down the hillside with you as the target, adding fuel to the fire of hypocrisy when what you say is what you veer clear away from doing. There is nothing more harmful than feasting upon self and forgetting the rest of the world. But what is there to do besides worry about the rest of the world, its tastes and reactions, and the complexity of each individual? Each and every one of us creates reactions by way of choice and then we in turn stand back to admire the results that may either implode or expire. The best of times are when absence blossoms and a silent moment grows slick with idea. Time alone burrows away from the dry and greedy sun, requesting two waters instead of one. And even while one voice so close and full of insistent claim drops monotonic through a floorless floor, closer echoes bear witness to appreciation, clasping honor head-on. Number one on any list is trust, for a series of taut backs are oft to be seen fading into a grey horizon that is neither dawn nor dusk. Lies are the juicy middle of endless dream worlds; without beginning or end. Arching into submission, a beam of light twists around to face the enemy of its nonexistent head; the false curl of its sadly unborn tail. No introduction or familiarity is necessary when all that you mean is goodness; rounded like a song in mid-air stretching across an expanse of liquid so dense it makes earth look drinkable. A smile stretched across the pupils consoles the soul by way of closure. Yet, trying too hard is sheer method for transparency, the kind that does not lead to intimacy, but strips away thick bark to reveal deadly mites with needle-point teeth etching away your life story across the back of a towering and yet strangely timid tree. You cease to fight because you come to fear joy itself, sidling over to the companionship of book ends, hollow at center but still standing. To exist as the substance for the support of a structure long since dismissed reminds you of how the familiar becomes so vague in the blind eyes of the weary. A good ways down the road you will encounter a lady on her porch rocking to the rhythm of life itself and rolling with the punches. Resistance feeds the black and blue like how the fight within yourself over yes or no seems to rip out your throat and feed it to the masses. Far better it is to meander apart from the others and trace shadows with your mind’s fingertips. Better to feel nothing at all; to save it all for later when more is safe. Sometimes the enemy has not the right to know or the ability to understand that the pieces of a heart while shattered will always remain close at hand to ride the waves of sweet and delectable pain each time they, together or unescorted, cross one kind of threshold or another.
Senses or not, it is kind to be aware. Slowly tasting the heat of a day, you savor and ponder experience before releasing it into the space of pure absence. It is good to keep in mind that most things make no sense whatsoever, especially concerning themes of love (which are all of what makes anything worth-while, either savored for the flicker or the flight). Sentences blend in this night of clashing and clanging and no one beat can agree to link or unlink, to defile or decorate where ground grows soft and water hard on the hair in the green of a day after plenty of words unsaid create stories in your head molding form into fiction and loss into delight...Yesterday you lost something that for someone else was a blessing and the only disguise worn was the cold lack of dismay. Still, two sweets tickled a fancy so in tune with reluctance the warm air bore down and you couldn’t make up your mind, so you merely sat and stared at them as if you were one of them churning with the wind against traffic and shortly prior to the click of a hang-up call. Certain people feel as if they are the hang-up call; that they have been put out like a match in a damp cave. Conversation continues on in your head and that is the most dangerous thing of all. Imagination chases away adoration with a cleaver and mocks all forms of amusement like reading backwards and upside-down in order to open a drawer in the subconscious mind that long ago stuck shut and rusted over. As of yet there exist no handles, and while bare in appearance and completely lacking any apparent function, the wooden contraption has lasted beyond the harsh words and farewells. Your latest lesson in life, whatever it may be, is something to practice frequently and with utter sincerity, as you plough forth into the land of ever-evolving enchantment.
Jennifer Burnside
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