Speaking Of Sweet Dreamy NostalgiaTuesday, August 16, 2011
There's the wind greeting my skin, rousing me from a sleepy daze. There's rustling in the leaves which in turn, blows a sense of surreality as I hear the chipping sound of blunt honesty digging its way out from the inner sanctum of my mind.
Here's a picture of life receding in the dark hollows of the buzzing backgroud. All about me is nostalgia dancing, flapping her arms, tapping her feet in her pink glass slippers.
She cannot fathom that her hums and little moves are but mere distractions. I ignore her and come back to the present moment with a loud thud of a rock that I throw against the anonymous crackly wall.
My thoughts are burning from wanting to jump out from behind the mental wall barricade.
What is this unease that makes me want to lay blame on the serene full moon that's staring back at me?
It's a gift that I get to sit and wonder, but sometimes I wish I am a cat instead, appearing to sit in a reverie but isn't really having one.
Now aren't I amazing with planting distractions without stepping down the memory lane?
Of the times that irrationality and impulses ran the course of our carefree youthful lives, late-night silly conversations that never seemed to end or amount to anything except for the high that came from honest-to-goodness philosophical babble, with a company who was too disturbed to even suggest that I ought to just shut my trap and get some rest. Life's a bloody mess. Except when it's not.
There used to be this notion that something, someone, some place somewhere will make up for all this lack of completeness of just being this, being this fleeting existence of a self.
The idea did nothing except that it kept transpiring more of the same bottomless emptiness..
..leaving me with a bitter taste of impermanent ancient bonds that expired quietly the way the abrupt trail of the tail of the wispy gray smoke that went up and up and away from the burning end of the cigarette resting in the twist of her knobbly little fingers.
SMOKE watercolor painting by Shahrzad Ranji
shanaz@RS | 10:16 PM | Labels: short prose therapy