Mystery

179.

How quickly do I forget that the beauty of space is its menace itself: the void and all the emptiness lurking within. If we were planets I’m no longer sure if we orbit the same line.

I miss you, this I wish to say in a heartbeat, in the reach of a hand hesitant, but I don’t know where to stand in this room where silence is the loudest noise. Overcome by sorrows not mine to hold for it keeps close like a shadow.

Now — will the same gravity that drew us together, draw us apart?

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176.

This is how you and I will go. Making a mistake, and living the days regretting such choices. I am a useless princess, a girl only able to watch the kingdom suffer. Why must I always be weak for glittering things? Stupid fool (not even your charming smile will save you now).

Humpty Dumpty, the sinister shell of a man sitting on the high wall. I’ve brought your lost sword, so why won’t you let my people go? You’ve cracked their minds and hearts, a mental affliction to madden my soul.

Once upon a time, this land is a place free from all harm. Even now, however, we both know that all the kings’ men and horses couldn’t put you together again. You, son of the depraved, first to destroy your mind and now with brute strength, have you broken others. My hands cannot keep my people’s minds from shattering.

How dare you come, how dare you say that you are only trying to make me understand. If being a monster is what it takes, I will turn away from your eyes (though they shine a bewitching green…).

I don’t believe that you’re innocent just because you’ve got a screw loose in your head.

175.

Not all secrets have to be filled with the weight of a drowned corpse, guilt hanging on the leg one cannot shake loose. I am accustomed to keeping sad things secret, but more so for the happy things too.

There’s something about preciousness that cannot be shared with others, lest beauty and wonder is lost. Don’t gain partial ownership or the ability to change it up, let it stay an unbroken memory for the cold days ahead. I am no fool, to leave a gem on the beach for the enchanting ocean to steal.

Call me selfish, and I will perhaps find no heart to deny — for sometimes we hold on so tightly until the insides of our palms make crescent cries. Take a look at what is photographed in quiet, the boundless whispers stalking across the mind. The things to immortalise.

I don’t know about you (if you exist), but for me? With numbers need not be told, I have stood in a place watching, hoping to remember for always.

172.

I know what it is like to cradle regret

To search for a ghost long gone

Shyly keeping the umbrella of two to oneself

Wavering in grey principles

Trapped in the labyrinth of the mind.

 

And yet I know also to grab on to chances

To say I miss you more than ever

Sending the letter written hastily

Hand reaching out despite not knowing

Leaving doubts and fears behind.

 

Sometimes chances and regrets are going to look the same but until I know what lies in my hands, I will choose to stay.

170.

This is where it begins: over the garden wall.

The red, faded brick wall, tall and mighty, an enclosure stretching far, astoundingly wide. Chipped, degenerate, bits and pieces floating upwards before cosying themselves at the corners. The layered wall measures four foot, but the solidifying particles increase the humble defense in stature, crawling in delayed time.

Grassy green runs around, spill roots onto uneven clumps and ends. The sweet scent of daisies, gentle petals swaying lightly even in still wind as they lie asleep on the ground. Glimpses of white float in the atmosphere, hung by invisible strings that only the angels can see, them bound to the tired trees. Soft like snow, beauty that melts upon a moment’s touch.

The circle of trees with its array of russet leaves, wizened and wise. A hollow in its heart deep, a possible access to the centre of the earth. Cold and unresponsive save for the lines its rough branches shed. Leaves, first shaky then still, colour of brown turning lighter and lighter into vermillion and sea green. Roots dipping loftily into the stream for a drink.

The tinkling, how lean, clear crystal even when the sky is feeling grey gloom. Where the stream widens, the water gushes with a threatening overflow upward to the narrower path. Fishes, red, blue, yellow and green in delight challenge the current. The occasional hop backwards, as though they are circus creatures putting up a show, their audience the disinterested earthworms and planktons. Goes on and on, a cycle of reverse.

A drenched silver pocket watch, dislodged with fury from the stream and into the nook between overgrown roots. The black seconds and hour hand point at the eight and four respectively. A sad face on the one who knows time best. Any attempt to interfere, turn its frown upside down (hands placed on ten and two) is futile. The whirring sound stirs its hands to where it should be, before a low, sombre hum fills the place. A subtle disharmony to the trickling of water and the occasional blow of the air. Leave it alone, slumbering in the dark, it has done no harm.

The tumble of an odd disposable plastic bag rolls from the stream to the wooden bench, one engraved with constellation marks. Aside from the plastic bag hooked on its arm, it stands alone, almost by the wall. Dedicated to the one who dreams to the stars and beyond, its Latin phrase per aspera ad astra perceivable on its centre. An imperfect frame, likely cut by a knife, slowly etches itself on the bench’s skin, bleeding to remember, bleeding to catch the fleeting.

A glass marble wobbly at the top of the wall, kaleidoscopic, reflecting both the wonder of visible light and its invisibility. Darkness and shadows encapsulated along in this gem. How can one thing hold on for so long before breaking up and apart.

Take it back. Take it in and keep it, only to find out that it’s lost through a pocket hole when it’s too late to turn around.

This is where it ends: over the garden wall.

155.

Walls have eyes and I have nowhere to go. Man in the mirror, there you stay. Not what I willed, but stuck with you. Dust upon dust upon dust. How long will it take for a flightless bird to fall? One out from the cuckoo’s nest.

Align the stars. Do you see what I see? Do you see me?

Flower on the wall, please continue to stand tall. There’s a light I want to keep by. There is a thudding strange. Does my heart still beat.

You are the monster in the mirror, and it smiles at me. I have a thousand thoughts but none with a key. Where will all the other voices go?

Count with me. Let’s count in reverse: the removing of fingers, the seed-head of a dandelion broken like a blown-up head. Where will this pain lie?

Mankind proud, but small and insignificant in the light of eternity. There is a darkness that no man can hope to destroy.

Name the stars and see if they will do your bid. At the age of the Saturn turn something big is supposed to happen.

There was a post talking about someone being filled with sunshine, and I thought of you. Out of sight, out of mind, they say. But I beg to differ. In this vast digital space, I’m still searching for a ghost. I wish for you a thousand times. You are a sailor, lost in your wandering, and if my pieces could guide you back to the shore, I would do so continually.

Alone. Alone when a glass screen impressed itself between me and others. When thoughts cloud clarity and my mind turns everything into a blur. Who are you, and what have you done?

In dreams, my feet step where I’ve never been before. I am paralysed in the eye of the storm. I see flickering lights. This length reminds me.

154.

I remember being told that I’ll have a gift from that day onward, but know not what it’ll contain for years more.

Can it be folded? Is it fragile, does it come in pairs? Can it be seen or is it like the warmth you feel by a fireplace. Is it heavy, will it find strength to float in the throes of desperation? If I try to unpick it, will I find it empty.

How am I to decipher this item? Two years ago I thought of it to be mercy, but it would seem that 2018 tells me otherwise.

Let’s count in reverse, from ten to zero.

Know that this gift, be it revealed or not, should be used for His glory.

145.

They refer to it as the call of the void.

It is the feeling that slips in while standing at the edge of a cliff, or driving a car. There goes the mind that wonders, what if this body stumbles over a loose root, what happens if the foot brake is faulty in its functioning. What if one day, standing by the tarmac pavement, there is a crazed vehicle steering dangerous and there is no want to move aside.

There is no desire to let go of life itself, yet the hand is not clutched tight to save it as well. The emptiness that the darkness of nothing tries to fill. Continue running, this mind.

What if the glass walkway shatters at the act of the maniac. How long will one fall?

Hold a knife innocent chopping the onions, when it could be elsewhere far more sinister.

So many ways to go, but only one determines the end.

Everyone bleeds in red.

133.

My favourite memory might not even exist in your head.

A smile small and nearly impudent, the peculiar pinch of eyes while thinking deeply.

Slow gentle clap of hands when things go well.

Tremor of the ground turning into courageous steps.

This yell, childlike brimming delight, when it comes to the matters you care best.

I wonder, I truly wonder if we can ever know all of ourselves, if we are fragmented stardust particles gleaming in lives other than our own.

So maybe I am your mirror just as you are mine.

And oh, how I desire that you will continue to shine a brilliant bright.