Beautiful Light

He sees a beautiful light as he stares straight into space.

It was almost pitch black that engulfed his being as he sat perched before the world, allowing himself to be enthralled by the eternity of night sky that was a sea of shadow save for a handful of lambent stars and a golden moon. It emanated an ambiguous but strangely powerful force, the boundless expanse of darkness immersing his mind in curiosity and wonder.

If only he could be up there, he wished, instead of craning his neck out the window, arms planted firmly on the frosty sill to prevent him from falling forward and to his death, gazing dreamily at the void of the night. He had been at his desk, under the bright white lights, but he never wanted to be there. The blank walls encapsulated him within, and the lights blanched his face into cold stone. He wanted out; he wanted to push apart the walls and their austere exteriors, freeing him from their claustrophobic clutches, and leave the world behind.

He would float upwards, as if gravity were just a figment of our imagination, soaring past the rows of buildings and the homes of his friends, waving goodbye to them as he glided up to the abyss that hung above and he would be gone. Once in the weightlessness of space he would put on his space helmet and breathe in fresh air. Pausing after a slower but deeper breath, he would marvel at the planet Earth below him which sparkled in a conglomerate of green and blue. He would soon miss home, but that didn’t matter then as he searched for meaning in adventure.

But what he visioned wasn’t retained in reality. Miserable as a shredded photograph, what he pictured lay decimated in fragments on the ground before him. He would pick them up, piece by piece, but there just wasn’t an urgency in him to do so right there and then.

*

He sees the beautiful light, and she sees it too. She’s wrapped in a spacesuit lying back on the moon, throwing rocks at the faraway stars and watching them float further and further away. One day they may even collide, and burst into a larger conflagration, blemishing the deep space with a flurry of flames. But all that would eventually diffuse and everything would return to the plain ordinary.

She doesn’t remember where her spaceship is, but that doesn’t worry her. One day her dreams would last forever, and till that day, she’d be happy floating around in the vastness of space, flicking moon rocks at whatever she pleases.

Chasing November

I look down at my watch and its hands are chasing November in my mind.

The year begins and all the months are gathered and seated in the room. They are waiting for their turn. January looks over at all the other months and drums her fingers on the edge of her seat nervously. She knows it will be over pretty soon, but the nerves still get to her somehow. The warm sun seeps through the glass windows and the room heats like an oven. I unbutton the top button around my neck, and I see that October has already taken off his tie and has placed it next to August’s, who was always ready to get more comfortable in the sweltering heat. When I look up, January’s already gone. And the room has gotten chattier. I see relatives enter and leave with their goodbyes, along with February, and when March begins to speak, the room obediently drops into a wealth of silence. With the help of September, the teacher walks down the aisle to hand out test papers, and April soon enlightens us after that December has failed them all, but still sits back with his unpacked suitcase by his side and air tickets tucked in his pocket. May seems to be as disciplined with a lashing tongue, but shortly hands a break to June, who is beautifully relaxed, her earphones channeling tunes that calm her soul. She is beautiful but it is November who has an undisputed elegance. I remember the times it were her turn. At the mention of her name a sigh would escape the mouth of whoever it was speaking, and one’s eyes would close just to listen to the wind brushing against the leaves out the window, and recline on the floor just to feel the layer of cold that blanketed the frosty ground. Sometimes the gale howled, but we were safe within the walls of the room and so we rested as the hours seemed to drag on and on. But no one complained; no one made a sound as they seized the liberty to catch back on their sleep and catch back on their dreams, all in a weightless atmosphere without a care in the world.

A long zephyr catches a tuft of my hair in July.

I look down at my watch and its hands are chasing November in my mind.

Golden Years

Lethargy.

It’s what you get when you think that the best days are the ones in the past.

It clings to you as you pull aside the blankets, step onto the cold hard floor and saunter drowsily to the bathroom. Even the morning shower isn’t able to wash it away.

It rests upon my aching shoulders as I walk towards the new busy school environment I’ve been thrown into, where I wait to escape every day. There’s not much inspiration when you know your best friends aren’t beside you anymore, and that adapting has taken longer than anticipated.

It’s hard to be yourself in a place you find you not yet belong.

Age has left me with something: It’s not exactly homesickness, but then again its not quite like anything else. It provokes thought of “I’ll never be able to… again” and “It’ll be a long time before I ever see…”. It brings out lament and regret, and a feeling that the future won’t be as special.

As we roll by with the years, it’s always advised we move on.

“Look ahead”, they say. “What’s in the past remains in the past.”

“Let go.”

But how often are we truly able?

There are the numbers of such fond rememberance you wished that time, perhaps on a little time train, could bring you back, for you to relive or even prolong those moments. But time won’t stop, and it forbids you to return, no matter the strength of your longing.

Are our golden years behind us?

I can’t tell for sure, but when the sun rises on another stilly morning, I hope it’d be the start of a new one.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/03/10/weekly-writing-challenge-golden-years/

Window

It rains on the worst of days.

Instinctively we’ll go shut the windows; lessen the agony on our already dampened spirits, and keep the rain outside.

But today I let the rain pour in. The floor got a little wet but it wasn’t a mess. As I lay in rest, I watched and listened for the patter to die down, and then cease altogether. The scrunching of tires against the wet road outside echoed softly in the distance as a vehicle turned.

As time grew older, the disarray of little water puddles on the cool floor soon vaporized, and the heat carried it back out the window to the heavens above. I could imagine it all; like a little misty whirlwind headed out to the sky. It was slow, but it was real.

Maybe sometimes we should pause and look at ourselves and the things that hold us down. We’ll let them for awhile, before their grips eventually relinquish and we shake free.

Maybe the rain wouldn’t be as bad as we thought it would, and out the window, we’ll see a new day.

A new opportunity awaiting just in our reach.

Searching in the Fall

I’m falling.

But this time, I land softly into the arms of consciousness and find immense relief in realisation; it’s one of those dreams again. It’s the one you awake to with your ribs rising and falling, taking in deep nervous breaths which gradually fade to reveal a morning replete with silence. You’re only certain you’ve roused when the colour of the walls are familiar, the ceiling is in place, and when the gentle coziness of your bed and blanket hugs you and reminds you of home.

There’s probably a soft rumbling from a car engine moving by in the distance that your ears pick up, but it’s not enough to get you out of bed. All of a sudden you’re exhausted, your legs weighted; it’s as though you’ve been running the miles your mind had flung itself in the depths of the night. It is as if I’ve been running and galloping in search of someone.

And in fact, I have.

This person’s difficult to find; he knows no fear, hardly a reflection of myself. Just yesterday I suffered the wrath of my most formidable enemy. You may shrug it off as mere flight turbulence, but ‘the fall’ or ‘the drop’ is a fear unlike any other. I had seen it coming. From the comfort of the soft cushioned seat in which I reclined, I could pick up the muted patter of pelting raindrops starting to raise into a violent drumming on the airplane body. There was a short sharp tremor which vibrated through the small oval windows as the plane began to shiver in the blistering cold. The stewardesses vanished from the isles with deft footsteps. Little choppy waves rose and fell in the glass of water in front of me, which sat in a holster attached to the back of a seat where a child began to cry. I closed my eyes, picturing everyone aboard the plane, doing their own thing and unperturbed.

But like a hypnopompic jerk it came without warning, hauling my heart down towards my stomach and sending it into a pounding frenzy within against my chest. My vision takes a step off a ledge and enters a brief but startling plunge. It is like the moment a loose picture frame slips and slides down a wall; everything moves, and for just a split second there comes a thought that the momentary descent would never end.

Thank goodness and bless the pilots.

Somewhere encapsulated in that drop, however, hides someone. There is a boy in the moment that doesn’t fear it. He is silent, brave, but overwhelmed by the older boy’s ironic phobia. It hadn’t been in him.

There was a boy who was once young and free, and loved adventure whenever it came. Adventure camp had high ropes, and the high ropes he would conquer. When it was close to the end he knew he was going to make it. The breeze wasn’t going to push him off his feet. His hands held firm as the next rope was in sight. But as his foot left one plank to the next, the other slipped and off the course he went, downwards through the air, falling, holding on to life by a mere safety harness which he didn’t seem to bother about. The boy looked up fearlessly at the glistening sun, half eclipsed by the swaying plank he had lost his footing on, and beamed.

Maybe I’ll find him one day.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/12/16/challenge-collecting-detail/

She

We’re on a subway train.

Her eyes meet mine, and I greet hers with a mild countenance and perhaps a small smile. I can’t tell if its there. It is a quick reflex; not the most noticeable but neither all that regrettable.

Her bright blue gems have caught hold of me. They remind me of the ocean and lure me irresistibly like the dazzling summer’s sky. My mouth draws slightly agape to resuscitate my mind to consciousness. I didn’t want to look away.

Had she noticed the gesture? Would she return it? Was she the type who would talk to strangers? I wanted to know. Maybe she’d laugh. That wouldn’t be too bad.

She smiles.

My heart turns into a bright little red balloon, floating insouciantly in the air with blithe ignorance to the world.

I begin to wonder if we should start a conversation, and if we would ever meet again somewhere.

Maybe I’d go forward and ask her where she’s stopping, and if she takes the train often. Maybe she’d reply in a sweet voice that would take me to the clouds, and up there, I’d ask her to join me. We would board the train up in the air and cruise high above the busy city and feel free and alive and bursting with vivid ecstasy.

Maybe we’d even fall in love.

After the twists and turns through the clouds the train would slow and stop outside her place. I would stand at the doors and watch her leave, and whisper a goodbye through the frosty glass. Without looking back, she would open the gate and stroll up the porch where someone would be waiting. She would get smaller and smaller, until in the distance, she vanishes before my eyes.

She looks away.

We’ll probably never meet again.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/12/02/weekly-writing-challenge-snapshots/

In Quiet Moments

In quiet moments we lose ourselves
sometimes to thought, sometimes to dream
Maybe this time
I’ll dream of something better

In quiet moments sometimes we change
the way we are, the way we think
Whether or not
I’ll push on any further

In quiet moments we seem to fall
through the miasma of yesterday
A phantasm
haunts my daunted soul

In quiet moments they speak
and sometimes in our heads we listen
The weight of words
drumming relentlessly against our hearts

You’ll never amount to something good
You’ll never amount to something good

Maybe then
I’ll amount to something greater

(In quiet moments our tears run dry
and out the window we look outside
The evening sky
has never felt so beautiful)