Falling on Dead Ears

Deep inside a wooden chest lies a shoebox. Once as bright as a freshly picked tangerine now as milky as the inside of the peel. Formerly home to a brand new pair of shoes along with all the daydreams and hope of the future they might be a part of. Now imprisons the past. My past. Intentionally put in a place that is ever so slightly out of reach. Just enough to create a barrier between me… Me and her.

I open the bulging box, confetti of well wishes and love spews out from it.. They almost look like they’re gaining new colour as they breathe in the fresh air trying to capture my attention like a viperfish attracting its prey. I start to rummage through the scattered items that have broken free. A signed fashion show leaflet from when I was a child, a keyring filled with Tenerife sand that my sister got me from her first holiday, a pink playboy petrol lighter my mum brought me – the first and last lighter she got me, letters many letters from my family friends and birthday cards every birthday card I’ve received from the past ten years.

‘To George, let me know what you spend the money on, love dad’.

Tear drops balloon from my eyes before I can consciously understand why.

‘I’m proud of you’ ‘beautiful young woman’ ‘amazing’.

Words I don’t remember ever reading before. Had they been written all along? Why am I only seeing them now? Large droplets fall on my arms yet my face is stoic, my eyes are still first to know, to see what it is I am ignoring. I don’t want to ignore it anymore I want to breathe in the hurt. I want to drown in the knowledge that I didn’t see his efforts until it was too late. To accept that I was part of the problem. I want to grab him and hug him the way I should’ve the last day I saw him. I yearn for the satisfaction of a resolved ended. I have picked the scab of a wound but would I be able to see it scar? It is all I can do but twist my face, jerk my shoulders and rock my sitting body on the floor. To let the guilt seep out of me and hope that maybe just maybe he can hear me giving him the goodbye I should have given him 3 years ago to the day.

La Tormenta

Watch me steal sustenance from the land. Watch me accumulate my mass with with divine grace. Watch me form with trepidation. Watch me create with foreboding.

The veil has been lifted, its time. Time to feel the air change and let the tangerine hue envelope you.

Enjoy the show because it’s all for you.

Watch as we swirl, glide and twirl into each others embrace, converging together in a harmonious dance of natures will.

Watch our entangling forms create structures of magnanimous proportions, organic sky scrapers engulfing the atmosphere.

We are falling down, down, down to earth under our weight.

Time is pausing an uncanny silence penetrates your soul, our collision course is set.

In a desperate bid to relieve pressure pearls of ice are released and fall in the thousands.

Bleak, dismal shades of grey set the scene, lighting is dimmed to maximise full effect of sorrow and tragedy to come.

Our voices, what began as simple chanting through soft blows of rustling leaves now bellow with purpose through make shift instruments. We whistle through your buildings. Clatter with your roofs. Creak with moving trees and pitter patter with the debris moving with us. Our dance of harmony turns into a battle of the skies. A marching rumble starts so deeply it can be felt more than heard, felt through the strands of hair that rise and prickle up you, until finally the two running sides meet and fall into one another. You will see the spoils of the casualties as electric blood penetrates through a communal artery before hearing our collected scream of agony, our entrails fall in heavy waves of persecution.

We fight again and again, blinding flashes of purple white and pink as our life force escapes followed by the imposing scream of torment. We are incapable of yielding to fatigue.

Our war can only conclude from the lack of available warriors. A hiatus of peace ensues as our bodies have been dissipated and torn apart. We are no longer in a position to stand and fight. The aftermath of our wrath is all that’s left to see. The damage of our battle being imposed onto the death of plenty.

We forced you to participate in the tragic show even though there are no winners or losers for we were opposing branches of the same tree.