Spinach Fettuccine Alfredo:
Fresh spinach fettuccine
Sauce:
Cloves of garlic
Butter
Milk
Cream
Parmesan & Romano cheeses
Salt & pepper, to taste
Parsley, to garnish
Progresso lentil soup:
Open can, pour in pan, heat on stovetop, serve in bowl
Corona with slice of lime:
Open bottle, push slice of lime down the bottle neck
Hot Dr. Pepper with orange slice:
Pour Dr. Pepper into mug, microwave, float round orange slice on top, serve hot
Spinach Salad with mustard dressing:
Spinach
Sliced red onion
Sliced white mushrooms, uncooked
Sliced hard boiled eggs
Cooked bacon pieces
Dressing:
Dijon mustard
Red wine vinegar
Oil of olive
Juice of lemon
Clove of garlic
Salt & pepper, to taste
A child looms over the console of a spaceship drifting above Earth & everything is the color of jewels. She doesn’t know what any of the buttons do, hopeless as those dogs they send to space to die.
She’s five and singing Leonard Cohen, she’s a story within a story and in her tin can floats a handful of oranges. She bites one and her mouth fills with metal. Outside the window shapes begin to form the upholstery of the Universe;
she clutches Euclid’s hand. Inside her is some sort of static, a deep clawing, a dog barking behind a chainlink fence.
Ground control watches on silently and the women are crying and the men are looking at their feet, ashamed to have created something
so beautiful and doomed. She doesn’t know what any of the buttons do and couldn’t reach them if she tried.
Collective Memory – Fill in the blanks
I feel the _____ crunch between my toes. My tongue darts out to wet my lips. I can taste the ____ like a reminder of _______, ________, and a ______, __________________ day. Pulling on the _______ of my ________________, there is a ________ sound somewhere amid the chaos of _________, _________, and __________ carelessly shoved under the ___________that takes up most of the space in my __________. The heat radiating from the inside of my ______, embracing me and covering me in a slick of sweat like a thousand kisses were placed on my body. It is my fault though. I had forgotten to _____________________________ and it has __________________ instead.
“________________?” My friend’s voice travels over the _______, _________ sounds of the ___________. He’s cozied up with the others under _____________, back against the ____________ that are scattered all over the __________. They are all looking at the quickly rising ____________ we had been trying to ___________ before I realized I had forgotten to bring the _______________. I turn back to my _____________ and pull again, stronger this time. I pull at the __________ and marvel once more at how a person’s life can be ____________. I would know. This had been my life for the last ___________. I roam around the inside of it until I can feel the _____________. A few __________ escape through a ____________ and are lost immediately to the darkness of what are the contents of my life. I squeeze the ____________ back into its original position. Quickly, I grab a ________ that I had spotted discarded between __________________. I turn around, feel the cooling ___________, and head back to my friends. The __________ stays open in hopes of catching a ______________ and a promise of a _____________. It will be hours before I return with whirling laughter still ringing in my ears.
Turn down for ___ sticker that I got my sophomore year in high school. I’ll let you finish the phrase.
A cartoonish picture of Einstein and a green frame surround the “Einstein bound” picture. Also got this sophomore year in high school.
A faded Gamatatsu sticker. Gamatatsu is a frog and my favorite character from an anime titled Naruto. He likes butterflies and yummy snacks but not anything salty. My sibling gave me this sticker to my junior year of school so I would stop talking about Gamatatsu.
Neuron sticker with the quote “reach your potential” under the axon. Got this 3 weeks ago.
Anatomy of the heart sticker that is labeled with different fonts. Got this 3 weeks ago.
Tye Dye brain sticker that is pink and purple near the medulla oblongata and cerebellum, yellow at the occipital lobe, blueish green at the parietal and temporal lobes, and purple at the frontal lobe. Also got this 3 weeks ago, which was replaced by another brain sticker that faded out.
6 dents at the top of my water bottle. I don’t know when they formed, but they probably happened from me dropping this poor bottle so much.
A sticker at the top of my water bottle labeled “This is my emotional support water bottle.” Even though I got this sticker 3 weeks ago, It has always been my emotional support waterbottle for the past four years, and it will forever be my emotional support waterbottle till the day I die.
“Get off!” A woman grabs her boyfriend’s hand off of her arm, pushing him off. He turns away in anger.
“That’s mine!” Two children fight over what appears to be some type of stuffed animal. “Give it back!” Says another one. The parents immediately pull the children away from each other and take the stuffed animal.
“This wind is ruining my hair!” A woman lets go of her boyfriend’s hand to move her ponytail out of her face as he helps.
You scan the dim park and there she is. The most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. She is illuminated by the sun. You can’t help but focus on her. Her blonde hair, twinkling blue eyes, and cherry colored lips. Her face, expressionless with her lips slightly parted. Suddenly, a raindrop rolls down her cheek. Her face refuses to change. You can’t help but wonder, why?
You look around and see that the park has emptied. The sun is beginning to set and the wind is picking up. You wonder, how long have you been staring at her?
You look back at her. The drop, still rolling down her face, has made its way to her jaw, falling off of her face. The sun has set, but in its replacement is her.
I was having a lot of difficulty with this assignment, so instead of finding a piece to scramble, I took pieces from my notes (beginning at the time the class started to present.) I was quite overwhelmed by the relative enormity of the task, so none of this makes much sense.
the sort of person I am:
cold dust / metal? / old wood / what else to call it / some piece of my past / similar / waxed wooden floors warped windows radiators / and quiet / i don’t know / i like it but it’s hurting me / i like it but it is / and i do
SHE FEELS THAT SOMETHING HAS CHANGED WITHIN HER:
The tragedy or survival: yes or no.
To grow in slow motion —
Something is alive
And unwell
In the torso –
I haven’t heard this one before.
I want a house like that someday. A living room like that.
“I WANT A LAWN. A HOUSE I’M ALLOWED TO PAINT.”
And it’s more than that. Of course.
Today’s date:
I have been rotting in the light for a while now.
I am the bad luck.
Having difficulty with just being
Let me be good, or evil, or nothing.
I have revoked my privilege
To know about my own life
And whatever might become of me.
It makes me too sad.
Don’t lie to me.
My parents dream of a different time:
I get good grades, date a mediocre man, get drunk on the weekends, a degree in something of use
I will be something of use, one day.
But –
“Empathy is the understanding that someone else’s world is just as real as yours.”
WE BEAR THE BLOOD
violent collarbones –
It is February
And October seems an impossible distance away
I am smiling in the video of my summer falling apart
Why would I do that?
Come follow August!
Be most alive
Essential beauty, grow up
Going up –
“Why do you do it?”
“The same reason you do anything. It makes you alive.”
TIME DOESN’T CARE ABOUT ANY OF US. TIME ISN’T SENTIENT. TIME IS A SWEET, TRITE PET NAME WE GIVE TO THE INEVITABILITY OF OUR BODIES THE EROSION OF OUR CHOICES THE CONSTANCE OF THE SEASONS AND THE STARS – presence cannot inoculate you from death.
The window is warm from the sun.
The quality of light –
There’s something here –
It looks distantly real
And it is beautiful.
A GOD PERSPECTIVE:
Life after life
“HELP HOPE LIVE”
Assume in pencil. That can be erased.
You don’t even know my name.
What of the body is left behind?
How much change
How much difference
Can it hold?
I’ve grown
Or gained weight
Everything is new
It’s odd
All of it
Odd.
She has always been with me.
“I LOVE HOW MUCH I’VE GROWN!”
We are subject
To acts of god
or Nature
Time stands still
And goes on forever.
Maybe I’m weak,
But I could be weaker.
“I WANT A BIG LIFE.”
We’d pry the poisonous pods open with our dull fingernails anyway
The tiny seeds –
The giant swollen ones we crushed to a paste just to see
Red berries to dye small scraps of fabric
I didn’t know anything about heat or water
Just a broken china bowl
A rock – not a stone
Slowly rocking and pounding them to a pulp
To no effect —
“We are here to help. This account isn’t monitored.”
This is a reworking of the “letter to yourself” exercise.
If you walk through the darkened forest you might encounter a spiral of smoke, its gray fingers waving to you in the distance. You might acknowledge their beckoning and greet the quiet fay feeding the flames. A stillness will hang in the air, and unlike most silences (which fear being broken) this quiet atmosphere demands your silence. So, you sit. Resting on a trunk, the fay sends over a warm smile. Somehow, you know you are safe. As you listen to the gentle crackling of the fire your mind begins to wander off…
But today, the familiar path your thoughts follow has become overgrown. Never before have you felt this way, riding on a train without a conductor, simply letting the tracks take you where they need to. Flashes of sound and light press themselves against the window– echoes, fragmented voices, pieces of memories long forgotten. As you approach the station, these flashes become longer and longer until the carriage doors open and you are greeted by a familiar face. You recognize this moment in time, an ordinary day from what one would consider to be “the good old times.” But good times are in the perception of the observer, and your apprehensive consciousness is confined in the naivety of your younger self, omniscient but powerless. You know better than to struggle, since this is not your first encounter with the Past; an absolute, unyielding, and unforgiving entity.
You watch as the person displays a desire they mask as a shallow imitation of love; an obsession born from a need to control. Somewhere within a psychopath lies the hidden awareness that they cannot love, a strangling knowledge which drives them to break those around them, because if you think you are unlovable you won’t ask to be loved.
And it Hurts. It’s painful to go back and be there again, to have to keep yanking worms out of your brain, insects wrought from hate and sowed through gaslighting. You want to be free of the wiggling in your head, the voice you know is not your own, but it’s so hard to deprogram thoughts implanted in you from the moment you were born. And from the Pain comes anger, toward the universe for putting a helpless child in a terrible situation, at everyone who didn’t do their jobs to help you, but especially at them for hurting you in the first place. Anger is powerful, it inspires action and creates change. But once it’s over, anger is the antithesis of healing; healing requires understanding, a willingness to be present in the Past and allow all those sharp edges to dull, like water on broken glass. Healing means forgiveness, not for them but for you. Not to justify, excuse, or to prompt a rekindling of the relationship. Forgiveness means to Remember without Pain–the absence of Pain being the purpose of Healing.
The longer you spend in your younger self’s body, the less sharp the pangs get. In those experiences there exists a child who just needs to be held, supported, loved. Love from others is powerful, as it shows you that you deserve kindness and attention, but the only true healing is born from love for yourself. The Past is unyielding and no one can love your younger self anymore, so now it’s up to you. You witness your younger self’s Pain, holding them and resonating with their Hurt. You protect them as much as you can as they relieve their trauma, and provide a comfort which allows them to move on.
Time does not exist in this dimension, as songs of sorrow only wane through audience. Years pass, but the journey is immediate. You open your eyes and once again see the warm fire’s soft glow. Tear’s salty trails lay dry on your cheeks, and your heart hurts with a gentle sort of pain, one you know will fade with time.
Kara; Oddly empty, recently filled up. Quarter to five. The water stain she’d bored into with a glare she reserved for her mother. Quite some time. She couldn’t remember how she’d ended up in his bed. She supposed the night’s events. She’d gone to the dive bar around the corner alone, had a drink, had a drink, had another, ahd a drink, had drunk, been drunk. This man, the one who’d been inside and out of her, in his early thirties, good looking enough, (For what? The lurch of disgust of his self all over her?). Good looking enough to sit by her and hold a conversation, as his gaze held her hostage. Eyes sliding over her figure, claiming as only men can. Cheap drinks and cheap jokes, almost too much to stomach. Time and blanks filled the silence of leaving. His hand a claw around her denim clad waist, steering her to his car. His crummy Sedan, empty cans and food wrappers watching from the back seat as she’d shut the door behind her. They judged, glaring as they rotted in their dirty state.
Hand on the wheel, and one on her right thigh. The closer his apartment was, the higher his hand had slid. They’d stood in silence in the silver box they’d rode up in, lights and sound dinging every floor they left behind, leaving the realm of reason behind until doors tore apart revealing a dim hallway. Stumbling after him – the open door – stepping over thresholds. Where had he grabbed her? The kitchen? The living room? Pinned her against a wall, ramming a tongue deep down her throat. She remembered drifting away, not really conscious as he’d stripped – not really conscious as – his hand lifting her dress further up. Detached she’d lain, grunting he’d thrust into her until worn out, he’d rolled over, one hand still clutching her chest. His sleep almost as heavy as her heart was.
The struggle of remembering: what had possessed her to indulge this man’s base desires? The slow burning in her gut intensified, as turning over, she bared her back to the man to get up and away. It’d been there a long while now, the searing snake coiled deep in her gut, eating her, eating away at her. Or maybe – was the burning just the alcohol? Stood up, raw in flesh and soul, she picked up her dress and crept to the man’s en suite bathroom to wash away the night before. Through the door, down to the grimy tile, heaving forcing her body to convulsions. She retched. She choked. Vomit struggled in its escape from her body. As she stood up the mirror stared back at her. Had she thrown up due to the alarming amounts of alcohol she’d consumed? or due to the revulsion she felt towards the frigid reflection of a girl; Hair mussed. Mascara smudged. Reality ebbing away.
Her outstretched hand on the chilled glass before her, leaving ghostly fingerprints against the dirty surface. Splashing icy water on her face, she glanced through the door at the clock hung on the bedroom wall behind. Quarter past five. She slipped into her mini dress and went back to the dingy bedroom. Quietly gathering her things, sure not to wake him. If she did, he’d want more. Take more. Her sarcastic wit worn thin; she couldn’t give any more. Another breath to him would crumple her completely. Knowing she had nothing left, she made sure she hadn’t left anything, rather never seeing him again, she left.
Sat at the bus station, sliced through by crisp wind, waiting to forget.
Dawn’s first light embraced the horizon, drawing me to North East India’s mystical allure.
Sikkim unfolded as a symphony of colors and textures, a vibrant tapestry for the senses.
Garden of Dreams:
Encountered a garden where each petal whispered earth’s secrets.
Fragrant melodies of blooms painted a living canvas of nature’s masterpiece.
Colors ranged from fiery reds of rhododendrons to gentle purples of orchids.
Cityscape Revelation:
Ascended to a vantage point unveiling the bustling city below.
Rooftops and winding streets woven with stories of past and present.
Vibrant heartbeat echoed through ancient walls and modern facades.
Call of Water:
Beckoned by a waterfall’s siren song to a hidden sanctuary.
Cascading silver veil against the emerald forest backdrop.
Mesmerized by nature’s power and grace, feeling the cool mist’s embrace.
Reflection and Departure:
Felt the rhythmic dance of beauty and wonder in North East India.
Time slowed, allowing deep immersion in nature’s magic.
Carried soulful connection and eternal tales from Sikkim’s embrace.
9 responses to “Experimental Prose—03 Wednesdays”
Recipes From My Father’s Kitchen
Spinach Fettuccine Alfredo:
Fresh spinach fettuccine
Sauce:
Cloves of garlic
Butter
Milk
Cream
Parmesan & Romano cheeses
Salt & pepper, to taste
Parsley, to garnish
Progresso lentil soup:
Open can, pour in pan, heat on stovetop, serve in bowl
Corona with slice of lime:
Open bottle, push slice of lime down the bottle neck
Hot Dr. Pepper with orange slice:
Pour Dr. Pepper into mug, microwave, float round orange slice on top, serve hot
Spinach Salad with mustard dressing:
Spinach
Sliced red onion
Sliced white mushrooms, uncooked
Sliced hard boiled eggs
Cooked bacon pieces
Dressing:
Dijon mustard
Red wine vinegar
Oil of olive
Juice of lemon
Clove of garlic
Salt & pepper, to taste
Major Tom to Ground Control – Remaster
A child looms over the console of a spaceship drifting above Earth & everything is the color of jewels. She doesn’t know what any of the buttons do, hopeless as those dogs they send to space to die.
She’s five and singing Leonard Cohen, she’s a story within a story and in her tin can floats a handful of oranges. She bites one and her mouth fills with metal. Outside the window shapes begin to form the upholstery of the Universe;
she clutches Euclid’s hand. Inside her is some sort of static, a deep clawing, a dog barking behind a chainlink fence.
Ground control watches on silently and the women are crying and the men are looking at their feet, ashamed to have created something
so beautiful and doomed. She doesn’t know what any of the buttons do and couldn’t reach them if she tried.
Collective Memory – Fill in the blanks
I feel the _____ crunch between my toes. My tongue darts out to wet my lips. I can taste the ____ like a reminder of _______, ________, and a ______, __________________ day. Pulling on the _______ of my ________________, there is a ________ sound somewhere amid the chaos of _________, _________, and __________ carelessly shoved under the ___________that takes up most of the space in my __________. The heat radiating from the inside of my ______, embracing me and covering me in a slick of sweat like a thousand kisses were placed on my body. It is my fault though. I had forgotten to _____________________________ and it has __________________ instead.
“________________?” My friend’s voice travels over the _______, _________ sounds of the ___________. He’s cozied up with the others under _____________, back against the ____________ that are scattered all over the __________. They are all looking at the quickly rising ____________ we had been trying to ___________ before I realized I had forgotten to bring the _______________. I turn back to my _____________ and pull again, stronger this time. I pull at the __________ and marvel once more at how a person’s life can be ____________. I would know. This had been my life for the last ___________. I roam around the inside of it until I can feel the _____________. A few __________ escape through a ____________ and are lost immediately to the darkness of what are the contents of my life. I squeeze the ____________ back into its original position. Quickly, I grab a ________ that I had spotted discarded between __________________. I turn around, feel the cooling ___________, and head back to my friends. The __________ stays open in hopes of catching a ______________ and a promise of a _____________. It will be hours before I return with whirling laughter still ringing in my ears.
My Waterbottle
Turn down for ___ sticker that I got my sophomore year in high school. I’ll let you finish the phrase.
A cartoonish picture of Einstein and a green frame surround the “Einstein bound” picture. Also got this sophomore year in high school.
A faded Gamatatsu sticker. Gamatatsu is a frog and my favorite character from an anime titled Naruto. He likes butterflies and yummy snacks but not anything salty. My sibling gave me this sticker to my junior year of school so I would stop talking about Gamatatsu.
Neuron sticker with the quote “reach your potential” under the axon. Got this 3 weeks ago.
Anatomy of the heart sticker that is labeled with different fonts. Got this 3 weeks ago.
Tye Dye brain sticker that is pink and purple near the medulla oblongata and cerebellum, yellow at the occipital lobe, blueish green at the parietal and temporal lobes, and purple at the frontal lobe. Also got this 3 weeks ago, which was replaced by another brain sticker that faded out.
6 dents at the top of my water bottle. I don’t know when they formed, but they probably happened from me dropping this poor bottle so much.
A sticker at the top of my water bottle labeled “This is my emotional support water bottle.” Even though I got this sticker 3 weeks ago, It has always been my emotional support waterbottle for the past four years, and it will forever be my emotional support waterbottle till the day I die.
“Get off!” A woman grabs her boyfriend’s hand off of her arm, pushing him off. He turns away in anger.
“That’s mine!” Two children fight over what appears to be some type of stuffed animal. “Give it back!” Says another one. The parents immediately pull the children away from each other and take the stuffed animal.
“This wind is ruining my hair!” A woman lets go of her boyfriend’s hand to move her ponytail out of her face as he helps.
You scan the dim park and there she is. The most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. She is illuminated by the sun. You can’t help but focus on her. Her blonde hair, twinkling blue eyes, and cherry colored lips. Her face, expressionless with her lips slightly parted. Suddenly, a raindrop rolls down her cheek. Her face refuses to change. You can’t help but wonder, why?
You look around and see that the park has emptied. The sun is beginning to set and the wind is picking up. You wonder, how long have you been staring at her?
You look back at her. The drop, still rolling down her face, has made its way to her jaw, falling off of her face. The sun has set, but in its replacement is her.
I was having a lot of difficulty with this assignment, so instead of finding a piece to scramble, I took pieces from my notes (beginning at the time the class started to present.) I was quite overwhelmed by the relative enormity of the task, so none of this makes much sense.
the sort of person I am:
cold dust / metal? / old wood / what else to call it / some piece of my past / similar / waxed wooden floors warped windows radiators / and quiet / i don’t know / i like it but it’s hurting me / i like it but it is / and i do
SHE FEELS THAT SOMETHING HAS CHANGED WITHIN HER:
The tragedy or survival: yes or no.
To grow in slow motion —
Something is alive
And unwell
In the torso –
I haven’t heard this one before.
I want a house like that someday. A living room like that.
“I WANT A LAWN. A HOUSE I’M ALLOWED TO PAINT.”
And it’s more than that. Of course.
Today’s date:
I have been rotting in the light for a while now.
I am the bad luck.
Having difficulty with just being
Let me be good, or evil, or nothing.
I have revoked my privilege
To know about my own life
And whatever might become of me.
It makes me too sad.
Don’t lie to me.
My parents dream of a different time:
I get good grades, date a mediocre man, get drunk on the weekends, a degree in something of use
I will be something of use, one day.
But –
“Empathy is the understanding that someone else’s world is just as real as yours.”
WE BEAR THE BLOOD
violent collarbones –
It is February
And October seems an impossible distance away
I am smiling in the video of my summer falling apart
Why would I do that?
Come follow August!
Be most alive
Essential beauty, grow up
Going up –
“Why do you do it?”
“The same reason you do anything. It makes you alive.”
TIME DOESN’T CARE ABOUT ANY OF US. TIME ISN’T SENTIENT. TIME IS A SWEET, TRITE PET NAME WE GIVE TO THE INEVITABILITY OF OUR BODIES THE EROSION OF OUR CHOICES THE CONSTANCE OF THE SEASONS AND THE STARS – presence cannot inoculate you from death.
The window is warm from the sun.
The quality of light –
There’s something here –
It looks distantly real
And it is beautiful.
A GOD PERSPECTIVE:
Life after life
“HELP HOPE LIVE”
Assume in pencil. That can be erased.
You don’t even know my name.
What of the body is left behind?
How much change
How much difference
Can it hold?
I’ve grown
Or gained weight
Everything is new
It’s odd
All of it
Odd.
She has always been with me.
“I LOVE HOW MUCH I’VE GROWN!”
We are subject
To acts of god
or Nature
Time stands still
And goes on forever.
Maybe I’m weak,
But I could be weaker.
“I WANT A BIG LIFE.”
We’d pry the poisonous pods open with our dull fingernails anyway
The tiny seeds –
The giant swollen ones we crushed to a paste just to see
Red berries to dye small scraps of fabric
I didn’t know anything about heat or water
Just a broken china bowl
A rock – not a stone
Slowly rocking and pounding them to a pulp
To no effect —
“We are here to help. This account isn’t monitored.”
This is a reworking of the “letter to yourself” exercise.
If you walk through the darkened forest you might encounter a spiral of smoke, its gray fingers waving to you in the distance. You might acknowledge their beckoning and greet the quiet fay feeding the flames. A stillness will hang in the air, and unlike most silences (which fear being broken) this quiet atmosphere demands your silence. So, you sit. Resting on a trunk, the fay sends over a warm smile. Somehow, you know you are safe. As you listen to the gentle crackling of the fire your mind begins to wander off…
But today, the familiar path your thoughts follow has become overgrown. Never before have you felt this way, riding on a train without a conductor, simply letting the tracks take you where they need to. Flashes of sound and light press themselves against the window– echoes, fragmented voices, pieces of memories long forgotten. As you approach the station, these flashes become longer and longer until the carriage doors open and you are greeted by a familiar face. You recognize this moment in time, an ordinary day from what one would consider to be “the good old times.” But good times are in the perception of the observer, and your apprehensive consciousness is confined in the naivety of your younger self, omniscient but powerless. You know better than to struggle, since this is not your first encounter with the Past; an absolute, unyielding, and unforgiving entity.
You watch as the person displays a desire they mask as a shallow imitation of love; an obsession born from a need to control. Somewhere within a psychopath lies the hidden awareness that they cannot love, a strangling knowledge which drives them to break those around them, because if you think you are unlovable you won’t ask to be loved.
And it Hurts. It’s painful to go back and be there again, to have to keep yanking worms out of your brain, insects wrought from hate and sowed through gaslighting. You want to be free of the wiggling in your head, the voice you know is not your own, but it’s so hard to deprogram thoughts implanted in you from the moment you were born. And from the Pain comes anger, toward the universe for putting a helpless child in a terrible situation, at everyone who didn’t do their jobs to help you, but especially at them for hurting you in the first place. Anger is powerful, it inspires action and creates change. But once it’s over, anger is the antithesis of healing; healing requires understanding, a willingness to be present in the Past and allow all those sharp edges to dull, like water on broken glass. Healing means forgiveness, not for them but for you. Not to justify, excuse, or to prompt a rekindling of the relationship. Forgiveness means to Remember without Pain–the absence of Pain being the purpose of Healing.
The longer you spend in your younger self’s body, the less sharp the pangs get. In those experiences there exists a child who just needs to be held, supported, loved. Love from others is powerful, as it shows you that you deserve kindness and attention, but the only true healing is born from love for yourself. The Past is unyielding and no one can love your younger self anymore, so now it’s up to you. You witness your younger self’s Pain, holding them and resonating with their Hurt. You protect them as much as you can as they relieve their trauma, and provide a comfort which allows them to move on.
Time does not exist in this dimension, as songs of sorrow only wane through audience. Years pass, but the journey is immediate. You open your eyes and once again see the warm fire’s soft glow. Tear’s salty trails lay dry on your cheeks, and your heart hurts with a gentle sort of pain, one you know will fade with time.
Moments, Memories; Forget
Kara; Oddly empty, recently filled up. Quarter to five. The water stain she’d bored into with a glare she reserved for her mother. Quite some time. She couldn’t remember how she’d ended up in his bed. She supposed the night’s events. She’d gone to the dive bar around the corner alone, had a drink, had a drink, had another, ahd a drink, had drunk, been drunk. This man, the one who’d been inside and out of her, in his early thirties, good looking enough, (For what? The lurch of disgust of his self all over her?). Good looking enough to sit by her and hold a conversation, as his gaze held her hostage. Eyes sliding over her figure, claiming as only men can. Cheap drinks and cheap jokes, almost too much to stomach. Time and blanks filled the silence of leaving. His hand a claw around her denim clad waist, steering her to his car. His crummy Sedan, empty cans and food wrappers watching from the back seat as she’d shut the door behind her. They judged, glaring as they rotted in their dirty state.
Hand on the wheel, and one on her right thigh. The closer his apartment was, the higher his hand had slid. They’d stood in silence in the silver box they’d rode up in, lights and sound dinging every floor they left behind, leaving the realm of reason behind until doors tore apart revealing a dim hallway. Stumbling after him – the open door – stepping over thresholds. Where had he grabbed her? The kitchen? The living room? Pinned her against a wall, ramming a tongue deep down her throat. She remembered drifting away, not really conscious as he’d stripped – not really conscious as – his hand lifting her dress further up. Detached she’d lain, grunting he’d thrust into her until worn out, he’d rolled over, one hand still clutching her chest. His sleep almost as heavy as her heart was.
The struggle of remembering: what had possessed her to indulge this man’s base desires? The slow burning in her gut intensified, as turning over, she bared her back to the man to get up and away. It’d been there a long while now, the searing snake coiled deep in her gut, eating her, eating away at her. Or maybe – was the burning just the alcohol? Stood up, raw in flesh and soul, she picked up her dress and crept to the man’s en suite bathroom to wash away the night before. Through the door, down to the grimy tile, heaving forcing her body to convulsions. She retched. She choked. Vomit struggled in its escape from her body. As she stood up the mirror stared back at her. Had she thrown up due to the alarming amounts of alcohol she’d consumed? or due to the revulsion she felt towards the frigid reflection of a girl; Hair mussed. Mascara smudged. Reality ebbing away.
Her outstretched hand on the chilled glass before her, leaving ghostly fingerprints against the dirty surface. Splashing icy water on her face, she glanced through the door at the clock hung on the bedroom wall behind. Quarter past five. She slipped into her mini dress and went back to the dingy bedroom. Quietly gathering her things, sure not to wake him. If she did, he’d want more. Take more. Her sarcastic wit worn thin; she couldn’t give any more. Another breath to him would crumple her completely. Knowing she had nothing left, she made sure she hadn’t left anything, rather never seeing him again, she left.
Sat at the bus station, sliced through by crisp wind, waiting to forget.
Introduction:
Dawn’s first light embraced the horizon, drawing me to North East India’s mystical allure.
Sikkim unfolded as a symphony of colors and textures, a vibrant tapestry for the senses.
Garden of Dreams:
Encountered a garden where each petal whispered earth’s secrets.
Fragrant melodies of blooms painted a living canvas of nature’s masterpiece.
Colors ranged from fiery reds of rhododendrons to gentle purples of orchids.
Cityscape Revelation:
Ascended to a vantage point unveiling the bustling city below.
Rooftops and winding streets woven with stories of past and present.
Vibrant heartbeat echoed through ancient walls and modern facades.
Call of Water:
Beckoned by a waterfall’s siren song to a hidden sanctuary.
Cascading silver veil against the emerald forest backdrop.
Mesmerized by nature’s power and grace, feeling the cool mist’s embrace.
Reflection and Departure:
Felt the rhythmic dance of beauty and wonder in North East India.
Time slowed, allowing deep immersion in nature’s magic.
Carried soulful connection and eternal tales from Sikkim’s embrace.