The topic of this month was to write something utilizing at least 3 of the following words: White Noise, Black, Dust, Onion.
Your feelings are real your fight is real, your want is real your might is real. What isn’t real anymore is your purpose for fighting. You’re walking up and down this place trying to make it yours, going faster every time a passerby claims to know you. You walk through the entire street without saying a word hoping that maybe one day everyone will recognise your face, maybe one day you will be seen, but for what’s worth? As you scurry around the street barefoot you’ve forgotten that at home you have a beautiful plant you promised to water. You promised yourself you would shape and let the plant grow until one day you saw a man on the road walking in oddly placed blue pants as people looked at him in awe, calling out his name time and again. You walked out, out of sheer curiosity but you never returned.
Awhile has passed by and you’re now called Mr. Hurry scurry and maybe that’s for all the right reasons or maybe for all wrong. None of that matters for as long as you realise what is going on. On a bright sunny afternoon your feet beings withering almost like the plant you forgot about, you walk a few more streets this time only to slow down right near a quivering old man. You look into the man’s eyes and find something in your heart ‘crack’ . “O old one, you begin. Have we ever met before? “Once or twice I passed the lane of ozara, the streets of compassion and light” “I had a need to be liked and wanted and everything went right” Until one day I was on my daily runs to fill the streets with my presence when I saw a little kid holding on to her mother’s feet, shivering and crying”. Said the old one quivering like a toddler himself. “What’s wrong old man?”, you ask. “My wife, she walked out towards the streets in search for me, she was a kind one, my daughter walked behind her. They could never find me because I was lost into the madness of the streets, the madness of being wanted all I heard was white noise instead of their calls and the smell of onions in the dusty old streets of Darr. My wife is now no more and my daughter perished through her dead soul”, “I don’t wade through the streets anymore, no-one calls out to me. Like they used to before, I only seek to hear my little girls voice but all I hear is white noise.”
You take a step back hearing this, your mind turns on and you take a step back, the turnaround and run, run so fast you realise you’ve walked too far, yet you don’t give up until you reach the streets of ozara. You find a little blue cottage amidst the dust with a green hint of glow around it. You push open the door and sit back on your armchair as you grab your almost weak plant. But somethings going on in the streets of ozara, you hear footsteps thumping across the street, you look out the window to see a young boy in his mid-twenties dressed all right in black, wading through the street as everyone in unison call out his name. Time will tell, only time will tell! You close your window shut and warm the fireplace, closing your eyes shut for the first time in many many months.
I am sitting here wondering why you’re peregrinating from the shelter of your home as you ambulate into the rain.
Is it innocence that I am failing to understand as you bypass map to map struggling to make amends, attempting to stay awake, holding your breath, waiting for something to transpire, losing yourself piece by piece as you walk from one place to another, crossing borders, meeting strangers.
I don’t feel alright with this, one moment you’re here and the other, you’re gone evanescent into the dusty lane.
This is the last time. I will say these words.
I remember the first time we fell in love. I was swept into the corner, obnubilating under the bed, asking you to leave.
But they never went away, the demons, we were in a state of deadlock and somehow I forget now, but I seem to recollect a little every time you ambulate away.
You can shine and fall on me for anytime you like, but one last kiss of several years does not fix everything.
I know I don’t mind at all but This is the last time that I will show my face at the tender hall, fine-tuning your torn map, so you can bypass map to map struggling to make amends, attempting to stay awake, holding your breath, waiting for something to transpire, losing yourself piece by piece as you walk from one place to another, crossing borders, meeting strangers.
Then I am out of the place parading into the carpet hoping for a doomsday but then they say, something’s is never due.
Something’s I’ve opted to be but I was in the middle of fine-tuning you a map and I seem to let you allude me into moving with you, expressing you don’t want to be adored or be first in line or make yourself heard.
When I cogitate what you’ve expressed about how you’re aching and breaking, I don’t understand, I don’t perceive how you cannot be mendacious.
Why do I have to go wondering every time up and down the dreadful map if you died in the clouds above if your unclad ashes were consumed by it?
I hoped I had a friend in you, that you ravaged the maps claiming you’re sick of strangers and tired of gazing a million stars you wanted to reach out to.
But I wake up, it’s a bad dream and there’s no one on my side and I was fighting but I just feel too tired to be fighting, guess I am not the fighting kind.
How will we meet our fate when I know you’re a resplendent mess born this way?
Your map meets my end and in a better time maybe you could be my friend.