On the shore he wandered, lost in his own thoughts. With his head down, he watched the surf lapping at his boots. The sea would be cold, he knew but still he took his boots and socks off. There was just something irresistible about walking barefoot on the beach.
Socks in his pocket, boots in hand, he carried on walking. The sand was cool and the sea cold, but he liked the feeling in between his toes. He let his thoughts go off again, like the seagulls that took flight when he got too close.
The beach was empty at this time in the morning which was how he always liked it. He could be alone without people staring and trying to ask him questions about what happened to his body. Children called him a monster and parents would quickly drag them away.
I was fighting for this country, he wanted to say, a bomb fell on a house, I tried to save the innocent family trapped inside but the fire was too bad.
Unfortunately, he knew it wouldn’t matter. His words couldn’t change the effects of his actions across his skin. However, out here away from it all, nothing cared. The sand and sea couldn’t judge him, he could just be himself, alone with his thoughts and scars.
I had come to the coast for my nerves. That’s what they did in the old days. They would get away from the coal smoke chocked cities, filled with diseases and death to the clean, brightness of the sea. For some that worked and they felt refreshed enough afterwards to return to their lives.
It had been three days and I wasn’t feeling any better. There was far too much more to worry about now then there was back then. We laugh when we read the classic novels were marriage was the biggest issue the characters faced because now marriage is meaningless.
Money and power and still talk though but I no longer have an interested in them. I’m yearning from something else, something deeper. I don’t know what it is though, expect that in quietness, I get close.
I watch the sunset across the beach. There is a river which is running straight out to the sea. The sunlight shines on the water, the light reflecting off the waves. It’s still, almost like a photograph.
Is this what I’ve been looking for? A single moment of silent?
It’s gone before I can capture it.
At least, I know now what I’m looking for and next time I shall reach Nirvana.
Summer is here but the weather doesn’t feel like it! It’s rainy and windy, with dark clouds and a sense of autumn more then anything.
I wanted to go for walk but have decided against. It’s a cup of tea and a lengthy novel to fill my afternoon out with.
The living room feels cold so I feel chilled which doesn’t help the aches and pains in my body. A bath later will ease things and pass more time till I can go to bed again. Sleeping, once I get there! does help.
I have been doing the exercises the nurse recommended too and spending more time standing up and less sitting which is fine on a good day but not on a bad. Swimming also has helped. In the water, I can forget anything and act like I did in the days before becoming ill. I’m going to do more swimming soon.
Warm, dry weather also helps and I’m hoping summer does settle in soon and I can spend more time feeling well enough to do things.
Till then as always, it’s trying to stay as comfortable as possible and distracting myself with as much as I can.
Darla held her breathe, watching the new cat sniffing around her living room. Darla had never had a pet before, being highly allergic to animals but now she took strong antihistamines. For the past few years, she had done lots of research into getting the right cat and had even spent time being around lots of different breeds.
Darla had finally chosen to get a Sphynx, well known for being a hairless cat. Some people say they are ugly but watching the sliver-grey coated and pale green eyed cat, Darla was all ready in love.
She called the cat over with a ch-ch sound and the cat came. Rubbing it’s head against her hand. Darla picked up the cat gingerly and placed it into her lap. The cat looked at her, mewed and rubbed her hand again, wanting more strokes.
‘I thought of a good name for you,’ Darla spoke as she run a hand down the back of the cat, ‘Cleopatra. Cleo for short. Because you are a Sphynx cat and in Egypt they have statues of Sphinxes. They also worshipped cats like Gods. Cleopatra was a female pharaoh and she’s real famous. What do you think?’
I stopped the car too desperate to find a proper place and ducked into a field. I checked there was no one around then fumbled with my clothes. Squatting down, I happened to look across and the breathe caught in my throat.
Three figures were standing in the middle of the field watching me. I felt heat creeping across my skin, my knuckles turned white clutching hard on my bunched pants. There was nothing I could do and nowhere to hard.
Finishing, I redressed and thought about going over to apologise and explain I had a water works infection and couldn’t help it.
I half turned away before swallowing my embarrassment and striding across the field. I could feel my heart racing, my pulse beating loudly in my ears and my face must have been beetroot red with heat.
As I got closer, puzzlement crossed my mind, these figures didn’t look right. They were too still but perhaps they were in shock about seeing my accidentally exposure?
Closer still and the realisation hit me. I laughed loudly and went right up to them.
‘Wicker statues! Not real people at all!’ I cried out.
Zemblanity; the inevitable discover of what we would rather not know.
I stood by his headstone and re-read the words written there. They revealed a secret I never wanted to know about.
For years, mum and I had thought dad had abandoned us because he was depressed over the death of his brother. I told myself that story so many times it had become truth but now I knew it wasn’t the whole truth.
Dad had moved countries looking for peace in the aftermath. However, in Spain he had found more then that; a new wife and children.
The headstone told me I had a younger step-brother and step-sister but I didn’t ever want to meet them. Their father wasn’t really the same person my dad had been to me. I’d rather not know anything about his new life or family, all of that could stay with them.
I had just wanted to see where my dad was buried and the gravestone prove he was gone.
Rastrophiliopustrocity; a spontaneous combustion of creative spark that is followed by action in order to manifest and bring into existence.
I took the drug again, I just had to! Within minutes the creativity was upon me and I was scrambling for canvas, paints and brushes.
It was like someone else had taken over my head and hands, I didn’t know what I was doing, wasn’t aware of what I was creating, which meant have been because the drug partly caused temporary blindness.
Paint splashed all round, two, three brushes in my hands at once as the need grew, I had to get everything out of me and put it onto the canvas as fast as lightening.
The drug lasted only a short time so I could only do one painting. I had in the past tried for two or three canvas, that I had set up ready but the paintings hadn’t turned out as good, they had been blurry and frantic. Not my normal artist flare, so I hadn’t sold them.
The minutes seemed to race by as I worked, still unaware of what was being brought to life before me. My body started to trier, my hands aching and a headache building. The drug was wearing off.
Exhausted, I stepped back and looked at the painting, it was one of my finest yet.
Komorebi; sunlight that filters through the leaves of trees.
Six months trapped in hospital with a brain tumour and I didn’t want to spend another moment in doors. But my wife and nurse insisted on a few days resting and strength rebuilding at home before I went back to my hobby of hiking.
‘Take it easy,’ my wife said as we arrived at the forest trail.
‘I shall do,’ I replied and we set off.
Spring was high in the air. The flowers and leaves on the trees out in full and the gentle breeze carried their scent to me. Birds were singing loudly, making the perfect music to our walk. Sunlight was coming down through the trees, creating dancing patches of light on the ground.
The air was so clean and fresh, a shock after the disinfected air of the hospital. There was colour everywhere, so different from the blandness I’d been in. Warmth kissed my skin and I looked up at the sun through the trees’ leaves. I took deep breaths, eyes shut, let the light play across me and relaxed fully for the first time in almost year.
‘Are you okay?’ my wife asked.
‘I’ve missed this,’ I said quietly, ‘nature is the best healer.’
Dustsceawung; contemplation of the dust. Reflection on former civilizations and peoples on the knowledge that all things will turn to dust.
I dreamed again last night. Everything was gone. Dust storms blew through empty buildings and burnt out cars. The wind howling like a dying animal, the sound amplified.
I walked, face wrapped in a scarf. There was a children’s playground. A skeleton against the wire fence. Didn’t like real. Reminded me of models in classrooms. The skeleton had yellowed bones. Fingers curled around holes in the wire fence. Empty eye sockets staring. Mouth open in scream.
Instantly, the skeleton crumpled. Dust at my feet which the wind blew away from me. Crying out, I ran away. Tripped and fell. Dust in my eyes, nose and mouth. Dust suffocating me! Wind deafening me. Gone. Gone. Gone.
We are all dust. We come from dust and we return to dust.