just a phase

I saw my father's sad eyes look away, his hand reaching for his broken heart unconsciously. The spark of light in my eyes had gone out, and it hurt him. I don’t want to hurt him, I only want to live. But I can not live his way. If he knew the length of path I’ve taken it would kill him. I couldn’t do that to him. I had to make sure I played the part right and well in his company, as much as it killed me to lie. It was so hard to lie.

It was funny that he too had rebelled against his father’s ways, and my children will assuredly do the same to me. I can only pray that I will handle it well.

The need for change arose when I stood near the brink of death and debated whether or not to dive in or fight. When I looked back at my life, I saw that it was lived entirely for others, and the well had run dry. My life was maintained and controlled for the approval of the community in order to validate the authority of my father. The role I had to play sucked the life out of me, denying my wings because of god, religion, gender, race, or age. Every opportunity I had to bloom I was stifled, and it ached like a need to breathe. I took the world that so restrained me and forbade me and limited me and walked away.

I can never go back. It’s a jacket that doesn’t fit any more. It’s too tight. It makes me feel... Claustrophobic. So how do I answer to my father, whom I love with all my heart? How do I tell him that he didn’t fail me? How do I tell him that I haven’t failed at all? It was only when I escaped that I discovered the world. I saw perfection. I saw God in everything. Even in the vices that are so forbidden from the life of a Muslim, I saw God.

He will never hear me or understand me… which is how we arrived at this point.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” I said, forcing a smile, “It’s just a phase.”

tick tock

I swallowed the lump in my throat, and tried hard to settle the fear in my heart. I forced my eyes to look again at what so shattered me. That was indeed my face in the mirror. With newfound lines and wrinkles and dark circles around my eyes. I touched the thin skin under my eyes gingerly, fearing it would only darken more, and I felt the ache in the joints of my fingers, crack in my wrist, the muscle twinge in my arm. I saw the wiry silver strands of hair jutting out from my scalp, stubborn hairs refusing color or control, daring me to deny them.

My time was running out. My time was always running out. I spent my whole life playing catch up but no matter what triumphs I had or what shortcuts I took, I was always late. My smile was young, my age was average, but my body …. My body, my mind, and my spirit were ancient. Broken, battered, bruised, tattered and torn. Brittle. Weathered by the racing thoughts of unsolvable problems and the sharp pangs of every heart ache, both my own and of the ones I loved.

Yes. My time is assuredly running out. And I am ready to embrace it. I have no interest in the rivers of heaven. If our spirits do not cease existence, I only want my consciousness dispersed across the cosmos. To be a little bit of every element in nature, inside and outside my beloved earth. I couldn’t wait.

There’s no warranty on these vessels that carry our spirits. Even if there were, I’d have a hard case. The packaging is perfect in your peripheral vision, and maybe even at full glance. But much like a bad watermelon, you will never know until you take it home and cut it open … and throw it aside. And some hungry kid will rush towards it all excitedly, show disappointment … and toss it in the garbage. And some homeless man digging in the garbage will find it and try to eat it, but even his tastes are too refined.. so he would toss me on the ground where I decomposed and became earth once again.

I smiled at myself. When did this watermelon become me?

Even if I am the watermelon.. it looks like it all works out in the end. So long as I rejoin the earth. Fly with the wind. Mix with the water. Burn with the fire. With no concept of time. That would be beautiful.

passage

Too much too often
Too little now done

Too old too fast
Too naive I'm woken

In heart in silence
In tears for the one

Enraged in hatred
In bitterness I've become

In smiles in eyes
In lies I run

A ghost to most
An old life I shun

Free from He and they
and we, I've come

I've lived, I died
I'm risen a new sun

writer's block

Just staring at this horrible white screen. This ugly white box of infinite realities daring me to take a stab at playing god. Telling me that I could not create a world worth surviving in.

Oh that's easy, I tell my screen. I can invent people and make them suffer for the sake of the plot line. Or for the fun of making them suffer. Because their misery would only make mine so much easier to handle. It's not that I couldn't write a story, it's just that every story had already been written. By both myself and life in general.

Well. Even god's writing has jumped the shark.

I sat with this general feeling of not wanting to think any more. Not wanting to feel, emote, express. I don't want words any more. They did no justice to what laid in my heart of heats or my mind of minds. I wanted only the purity of music. Where only the deepest notes of a standing cello could truly tell my stories. Only strings and bows can weave this reality.

My stories weren't those of loss or despair, nor were they of hopes and dreams. They were of heat and cold. Sweet and bitter. With varying degrees of Red and Green. And still no adjectives could convey to my reader the intensity of said sensation and perception.

So I seek only the highs and lows of sound, swim in the vibrations, enjoy the pain of calloused fingers. A transmission of heart and soul with no room for misconstrual.

the prophecy .. prologue

I stood behind the thick velveteen curtains, watching the coronation of the new prince. The king and queen sat on golden and diamond studded thrones. The crowns of high nobles with olive skin and long black hair sat with their heads raised high. The servants scurried about, shaven like hairless babes with no eyebrows and plucked eyelashes, pale as ghosts, with eyes the color of a cloudy sky.

I was a servant, but I was not welcome at this event. So I took the opportunity, poisoned blowdart in hand. I looked at the king and queen, their girth matching their height, so cluttered with riches and wealth that they could barely turn their heads to look left and right.


The king and queen... my father and my mother. My blood. My source of life.

In my line of site. With my target on their foreheads.


This was me. Punished for my biological make up. Punished because someone in their ancestry was a lesser human being and the only evidence of this was my eyes. My cursed, green eyes.

I slowly drew in my deepest breathe and propped the blow dart onto my lips.

If I died tonight, at least I would have left the world slightly better. I didn't fear death. I looked forward to the next adventure. I there was no adventure, I would likely cease to exist, which I wouldn't realize anyway. I was ok with this.

I blew as hard as I could, packed in the next dart, and blew again. I didnt wait to see if I made my target. I knew I did. I always make my targets.

I leapt out of the window and ran as fast as I could, cloaked in black to match the night.

in search of tabula rasa

Have you ever eaten so much of something that the very thought of it makes you want to hurl? These were my people. My friends, my family, my life, my history. Me.

I sat at the very back the room, waiting for the discussions to wane and crowds to disperse. I wanted my living room back. Even more than that, I wanted my silent, peaceful bitterness and resentment back.

"What do you think, Emma?"

Darren startled me back into the moment. Good old Darren, always trying to include me in his world. He was sweet, but in a sickly kind of way.

"I agree," I said, trying to play off my ignorance in the matter. "It's the only way we can see any progress."

Others began to pipe in their concurrence. I zoned out again. Whatever it was they were talking about, I strongly disagreed. I disagreed with the very core of their existence. But I would never say a word. It wasn't about pride, or even about survival. It was more like pity. They needed their world view in order to survive. Who am I to bring about destruction?

My father used to talk to me about this time. He used to tell me how he wished he could live in a post-apocalyptic world just so he can be a part of humanity rebuilding itself. To see if we can catch ourselves before we make the same mistakes over and over again. He didn't realize that our mistakes defined our humanity. Our delusions were necessary for our survival.

The meeting had finally adjourned. People came and talked to me about how wonderful my husband was, how lucky I was to be a part of his world. I smiled and nodded and responded appropriately, sipping my wine with poise. I wanted to tell them that he ate and shat just like everyone else. That he probably didn't even believe what he was telling them.

But discord was a burden to me. Pretending was also a burden to me, but it allowed me certain things. I had a roof over my head, food, warmth, and a steady supply of wholesome sex and alcohol. I knew I would leave one day, but I wasn't ready to give up my comforts.

Everyone left, leaving evidence of their attendance in every corner. paper cups and plates, scraps of paper, scattered pens. I poured myself another cup of wine and took a heavy gulp.

"I feel like things are finally going to happen, Emma," Darren said, putting his arms around me.
"I'm happy for you," I responded.
"Are you really?"
"Yes, of course! Why wouldn't I be?"
"Sometimes I feel like you're just playing along, you don't really believe in me."

I turned and faced him. The music was cued, curtains were drawn, the lights were on, the audience was watching.

"Baby, you know I believe in you. I always have and I always will. I know that you are the answer. Right now, for these people, you are the answer."

His eyes watered. Sometimes I think he believes his own bullshit.


===



I went outside looking for the sentinel. It was Jamal this time.

"Where's your husband?" he asked me, without making eye contact.
"Asleep, dreaming of the new world order."
"He's a good man."
"That, he is."
"You should be sleeping, too."
"So should you. Go back to Liana and the baby. I'll keep watch."

I took his gun from him and gently pushed him aside. I didn't give him a chance to argue. Thankfully, I had the type of authority that didn't leave room for questions.

People quietly complained when I stood watch. A woman should never be put in the position of protecting men. It was amazing how the recreation of the human society always began the same way. Secretly I waited for the day a hedonist would come crashing our camp. I wanted it. Even more so, I was ready to die. I was not suicidal, just bored of the mediocrity.

I wished I could go back in time and speak with my father. And tell him that this world was nothing like his video games or sci fi books. It was a schism of cult and chaos, and no middle ground. Yes we stood guard, we killed, we struggled to survive, we fought, we strategized, we'd win and we'd lose. But it was ugly. Our mission was false. There were no alternatives.

I began my walk through the camp grounds. Every family had their own tent. Many of them were empty. Missionaries went out once a month but most of them never came back. Some left the faith, others were killed. No one really knew. I was going to go out there one day.

I didn't need the Hedonist's self indulgent lifestyle. I was a very simple person and I could live on nothing if that was all I had. What I did need was freedom. The maintenance and presentation of our faith was both stifling and draining. It wholesome in and of itself, but it was too much for me.

I peered over the mock fence we built of tattered buildings and old car parts. It was quiet out there. No lights or sounds, not even the movement of trees in the wind.

I looked at the gun in my hand, Glock 9mm, fully loaded. It wouldn't hurt to just scope out the embankments nearby.

I looked back at the camp in all its silent deluded glory, and hopped the fence.


======


My eyes adjusted to the darkness quickly. Shapes of a tatterred civilization loomed around me, almost ready to topple over should the wind gain a little strength. it had only been 20 years since the demolition, but you'd thing we'd have been able to come together by now. Instead we were a small group of revivalists clinging to the false hope of a coming messiah in a vast world of anarchy.

Darren said that because they had left religion, their only moral scale was the government, and without any authority people were left to do as they pleased. He said they spent their days dancing about naked, participation in massive orgies, and doing nothing but cultivating illegal drugs and alcohol. He said they had insectual and beastial sex all the time. They fought and robbed and abused, and it was survival of the fittest. It was a freudian wet dream.

It didnt make any sense to me. was that humanity's naturally intended behavior? There had to be more people out there, with ratrional minds. Who didnt feel that the loss of goverment meant the loss of sanity. Or at least a people who could define morality without god or government.

I walked what felt like 10 miles from my camp seeing nothing but rubble and wilderness. I prepared to turn and make my way back when I smelled firewood smoke.

I followed the scent quickly and quietly, almost prancing on my toes. My eyes focused on a light getting closer. I came upon a large group of people surrounding a fire. A large pole stood up from the midst of the fire. a man was tied to it, his head limp, and his toes catching the tips o the dancing flames.

Several men were playing patched up instruments, including a stand up bass and full fledged piano, making quiet, sleepy, somber music. A young girl in tattered rags was dancing seductively, moving delicately around the circle of watchers.

I settled behind a cracked and raised segment of what was once concrete sidewalk pavement. I must have been watching a funeral, as several attendees began crying when the bound man's pants had finally caught flame. an older woman began vocalizing, chanting in a strange language what seemed like the saddest song I'd ever heard.

I saw nothing of the beastial orgies and rampant violence. Just an obscure culture that must have come out of the woodworks after the demolition. They looked like they could be native american. i knew there was more to the world than what Darren told me.

I was only 8 years old when the war began. I spent the past twenty years on the run or in hiding, with the same people never once walking outside the walls of their shelter. All I had were the books my father left me and a game console with one game in it that I had beaten over and over and over again until the battery died, and then it just sat there. They were books that defined who I became and a game that gave me the confidence to face the unexpected and think on my feet. He gave me everything I needed. I was long due an adventure away from the confines of the cult religion.


====

I woke up suddenly with the sun bright in my face. The camp must be in a panic looking for me. Poor Jamal will be punished dearly for letting anything happen to me. The theory that women were incapable of keeping guard and must always be protected by men was further reinforced. Fuck.

I peeked over the concrete and was startled by the two heads leaning on the other side of the slab. Two young girls eating some type of breakfast and speaking a strange language. a little boy shouted and pointed at me, and i couldnt hide fast enough. a team of people came crowding around me. and older man asked me a question. what he said was oddly familiar, but i still couldn't understand him.

i shrugged in response. he pulled me up by my arm and grabbed my gun. he looked at me accusingly and asked the question again, with more force and anger.

"I'm sorry, I just fell asleep." I said, "I'm heading south."

The group around me were startled by my words, looking at each other curiously. i was dragged into a looming building I hadn't noticed the night before. They tied my hands and feet to a chair and left me, watched by two burly teenagers with machine guns.

I settled myself into the chair and tried to relax. Darren would probably send a search team for me, and arrange for a trade of sorts. Maybe a ransom. I'd go back and explain that I had left of my own accord, hoping Jamal would be let off the hook, and everything would be back to normal.

One of the teenagers came at me with a bowl of water, pouring it into my mouth. That was kind of them. It certainly wasn't how we treated an outsider who stumbled into our camp. They were taken into a private tent and never seen from again. I learned later on that they were killed without an opportunity to leave or explain themselves. Darren denied everything of course.

Hours later, I was presented with a heavyset woman in glasses that didn't do her much good. she peered at my face very closely, examining the whole of my visage like i was some kind of animal. She asked me a question.
"I don't understand you," stated. She turned to one of the older men and made a statement, then turned back to me.
"What were you doing at our camp?" she asked me in a broken accent.
"I'm so glad you speak english!" i gushed, "I don't know what language they were speaking or what kind of people they-"
"What were you doing at our camp?" she asked again, interrupting.
"I was just watching, I was going to leave but I fell asleep."
She translated to the men behind her, they asked her a question in return.
"Why do you have a gun?"
"To keep myself safe!"
"Where are your people?"
"Just a few miles south. Please I didn't mean any harm.."
She left me and had a long drawn out conversation with the older men in the corner. She came back to me with a heated look in her eyes.
"Do you know Darren Kingsman?"
I didn't want to tell her he was my husband .. I dind't know how they would react to this. What better way to start a war between tribes than to kill another camp leader's wife?
"I know of him." i said quietly.
"We have a message for him," she said. "We will send you back with it."

They all abruptly left the tent, leaving me alone. I suppose it was good that they were letting me live. At least I thought they were. I tried to wriggle free of the rope, but it was bound to tightly..

the return

There has been a longing, unyielding
An emptiness, unceasing
Resting in the place you once were

An emptiness that clouds my eyes
A longing, ever growing in size
Festering since our affair

I left you in pain, with no way to cope
I left you in anger, but mostly with hope
That for once you would come to me

I waited for years upon years
I shed millions of tears
When I saw what would never again be

I come back to you now in defeat
Embarrassed by my gall and conceit
Only wanting to rest in your shadow

With unconditional love, I come back to you
With an unquenchable desire, I beg you
To let this colloquial conversation grow

Knowing the pain of losing you
And the torment that would ensue
I hold onto you with intensity

I come from you, I return to you
I belong to you, so I live for you
That is all that matters to me

====

It's been a long time
How have you been?
Empty.
I see.

...

I'm sorry
What for?
I left you
You're here now.
Do you hate me?
I don't hate.
Do you love?
I am love.

...

I hate myself.
You shouldn't.
I miss you.
That's good.
Can I come back?
You are always welcome.

...

I have too many questions.
Ask me.
But you never answer me!
Because you already know the answers.
What does that even mean?
You know that too.
All I know is that there is no right and no wrong and nothing matters.
Ok.
Am I right?
Sure.
Am I wrong?
Sure.

...


This is why I can't do this.
Can't do what?
I need something clear, defined, absolute
Why?
Because...
Just be
Just be?
Just be. And don't oppress my people.
Ok.
That incudes yourself.
Ok.
That's all you need to worry about.
Ok.
Ok.
Thank you.
You are welcome, my child.
Am I your child?
Always.