Monday, August 31, 2009


Written a little over a year ago, this piece remains the dearest to my heart. If I am to restart writing, there is no better way than to publish a piece that I wrote as a totally different person. This piece was a turning point in my thought, and my writing approach...

The person writing this piece is long gone, but the emotions left buried within the words are resurrected whenever read...

A mere fraction of darkness, a minute yet dividing moment of pure dark engulfs the globe. The moment perfectly embraced by the arm of dying light from one side and the arm of re-born darkness from the other side. A paradoxical hug, the moment just in the middle. Then the moon rises… The bluish white beam cuts the early night sky with its translucent illumination, just like a beautiful pearl shines at the bottom of the ocean when its shell finally reopens. One may wonder, in the middle of the darkness, why does the moon rise, why does it bother provide even the faintest of light. I say darkness is the master of the night, and at many times its most loyal lover. Nevertheless, even darkness needs to see… Like a champion archer the moon sends an arrow of light slicing space with deafening silence. An arrow of light so bluntly sharp and piercing, yet it is not sent to kill. It is not sent to ignite inferno. On the contrary, perfectly carved out of hail by the angry vengeful god of snow, it is sent to cast cold apathy and indifference upon its cursed target. A target yet unknown to the arrow of moonlight, that seems to have a mind of its own by now. A mind that is flooded by an insatiable thirst, ironically however…thirst for warmth and heat. The reason behind that thirst could have emanated from the jealousy of the cold moonlight that has the desire to eradicate and destroy every drop of warmth, or it could have emanated from moonlight's nostalgia towards being once a warm ray exploding from the core of the sun. The reason however, doesn't matter… Like every predator looking for prey, cold moonlight seeks the most vulnerable target, a target easy to control, and suck the life out of. Eventually and after a long journey…moonlight spots a dark seemingly worn down and old house, standing in the middle of deserted land, surrounded by leafless menacing tress. The predator feels its prey cowering inside the house, it circles and circles…and through a small break in a cobwebbed window covered by dust…moonlight enters. It finally finds something to quench its thirst with… Through the deep darkness of the room behind the window, lay a lifeless table, chairless and dull. In a room with nothing else lay this table abandoned for what seems to be years, from the look of a thin layer on the table. Through blurred visibility this thin film is apparently a film of dust. With no defined outline for this table, nor any remarkable observation, on can instantly notice a lonely figure standing at the far edge of the table near the window. At the far edge of the table… stood a glass of water. This is where moonlight chose to land… In a period of no more than a fraction of a second, the cold rays of the moonlight smoothly penetrated the particles of the glass. The glass breathed in…inhaling the cold rays. Moonlight in mere seconds shredded the glass' soul to pieces and put it back together as quick as it had shredded it. Yet the glass' soul was not put back in its old form, for it is now united with the cold seemingly illuminating light of the moon. The glass is now alive, again… Now in a dim circle of light one can see enough of the glass and a small part of the table on which it stands. The glass was fractured, suffering a massive crack running through its body, a scar to its already damaged ego. Empty of water, the glass was void…hollow, full of nothing but vacuum. The picture of the glass already shoots pain and hurt through ones being, but what hurts most…the glass stood in the far corner at the edge of an already empty table. Standing alone in the corner, the glass absorbs every drop of the cold light…savoring its bittersweet taste, enjoying the illumination, even if it was cold or bitter… For the glass felt lonely before the arrival of this light, the glass felt used, manipulated and sucked dry. The glass felt useless, forgotten. Why was I left alone, the glass a wonder…Why is it that when I was broken, cracked, I was not molten and reshaped? Why was I left? Why did they let me drip and lose my essence till there was none left? Why was I abandoned and left to bleed my soul out? Why was I left till it was too late? Questions to which I have no answers, yet the questions themselves have become an answer to why I have backed down to this corner… Why I stand at the edge with a strong desire to shatter on the floor I behold beneath. In my corner I stand in the embracement of the sides of the table, seeking protection, or the illusion of protection. At this point illusion and reality have merged like fog and morning breeze, creating a blurry yet soothing atmosphere. Ironically the sides in which I seek refuge and protection are the biggest temptation to seeking my own demise…enticement is my dilemma… Apathetic cold is all the glass has right now, it is the new refuge. It provided the glass with new ways of survival, filling its cracks with bitterness and anger. Vacuum is now replaced with newfound independence fed by the anger of hurt and the vengefulness of paranoia. Let me savor the bittersweet taste of the cold, for once let me be… Let me find myself…let me rediscover who I am… I may not remember what I was, but I enjoy what I am becoming now. I feel better than I ever have, I may not know how I felt before but I feel right. I know I'm better, I think I'm better. Let me savor the cold. I can't see any other road. Let me settle in my corner. I am this corner of the table. Darkness is now dying, and light is in rebirth. As darkness hits the grave, light grows in its cradle, as it is now the early morning sky. Dawn is here again… The champion archer is now walking towards the place he came from, as the arrow maker is now on the horizon. The archer has vowed since the beginning of existence not to ever meet the arrow maker. For the arrow maker has gifted the archer with the arrows it uses every night, under oath from the archer that he will use the arrows the same way the arrow maker would. Thus the archer wouldn't want to face the wrath of the arrow maker, when he discovers how the archer has been misusing the arrows. In another fraction of time the globe is now engulfed in yet another dividing moment, but a moment of pure and absolute light…the sun rises. The arrow maker is on his throne again in the morning sky; he looks at the opposite end of the horizon and can only see the trail of the fleeing archer. The arrow maker feels the agony of pierced souls by the archer's arrows. The archer has fragmented what was once whole, but that is a fight with the archer to be fought on another day. Sunlight doesn't need the time taken by moonlight to find its target, for it is not preying; it is already feeling miserable spirits and is on a set course to right the wrong the cold invoked. One specific sun ray has set sail toward the deserted house where the cracked glass once cowered. In the clear visibility of the morning light it appears that the deserted house in fact stands in the middle of a group of small herbs in need of care. The once menacing leafless trees tremble and twitch and the brown empty branches start acquiring a slight green color. The house itself is a beautiful two story masterpiece…an antiquity to be admired. Despite a few broken pieces and fading paint, it still appears as a beautiful mansion. It is the house every child had ever drawn at the age of innocence. As the sun ray arrives at the house, a small family of four stands at the door carrying luggage. A family is moving in… Sun light floods the house, leaving the darkest coldest room till the end. The dining room. Sun light moves in this room from the same place moonlight invaded. The broken window. As sunlight enters, early morning dew had already broken down and molten the cobwebs and dust covering the passage. Pure untainted light finally enters… With light in the room, visibility is finally clear… The dull table is actually a piece of art, full of drawings and beautiful carvings of angels and flowers from the center out. A mahogany beauty…What was thought to be a thin film of dust, is a beautiful hand knit white table cloth spread on the table with grace… There still remains a dark cold spot on the table however…the glass. It had absorbed the darkness and coldness and felt independence and self worth, but by dawn the glass felt lost again. It had all become bitter now, apathy is not sweet anymore. The once fractured ego was obviously mended wrongly. Is it too late again? By the sight of light, the glass starts remembering, missing and knowing. I miss who and what I was and what I was, but I need to know what I was. I want light. I gave darkness a chance. My fractures despite their temporary relief are still there. My ego has stopped me, I need out. I need to know…ask…help. I want this…light…I want help. I can ask for help. I want out. The glass exhales cold apathy and inhales the warmth of a beating heart. The warmth it once had. With every breath the warmth expels the coldness, and the glass shines. The bluish white light is now golden orange and the glass joins the rest of the world. The glass is now part of the world again, no more missing out. The glass remembers. What was thought to be a crack in the glass body is in fact a beautiful painting, a pretty glass staining that is only on this glass and none other, making it unique and one of a kind. The void in the glass is in reality pure essence of life. The glass is full of pure sparkling water up to its top, which had been impossible to see in the dark cold light of the moon. The glass was gorgeous. The glass remembers. It remembers the beauty it always had within. The glass remembers.

The glass stood long on the edge of the table, and in a corner.

However now, light is in the room illuminating every particle and inch of the room.

The glass was on the edge, but the table had always been round.

The Song: Anatomy of a Tidal Wave - Cold

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