Tuesday, December 28, 2010

A Vintage Musing

The light from the lantern was pale and dull. Barely enough to hit the cracked walls. It outlined the face of the rustic lectern, fenced with bundles of string tied parchments. The windows were sealed with vintage flows. But for the lamp, it was distictly dark. The room is small, the walls close in. A perfect place for solitary writing.

 I am often visited by vintage musings, it's a wish to live out of a classic novel. To witness the existence of bygone years. When thoughts were simple, quiet and subtle. When there was time to cull the garden blossom and heed to the world of mystic silence.

I want to write long letters, on brown, stained parchments. Wear satin gowns and walk by the lakeside. I feel like I've been misplaced in future and I know this is an imprudent wish. A wish for a day when I'll don those wings, and fly my way to the '60s.

I see that day, of solitary writing, thoughtfully dipping a quill in the inkwell.


Monday, December 27, 2010

Like a Clownfish

It has become an imperative elixir. An often used apparatus to conciliate, that allows a cheerful bid to decamp. An effortless escape to a world, as real as I can imagine it to be, a world that I will never want to jump out of. Because that is where the heaven is, that is where the bliss is.

So I will dive into that ocean like a clownfish. I will wriggle on the tips of the anemone , and feel the warm rays that cleave through the water bed. Because that's what I want to be, today. To be small, invisible and painted bright orange.

I find a strange sense of ecstasy in such deviant fantasies. Somehow I want it to remain my ' fantasy '. What if I really were a clownfish? I guess I wouldn't know the difference then. Or maybe my dreams would change.

It's just a simple revelation, that there is always a place elsewhere, to let go, to get away. I leer at all the creations around me, that inspire to dream this written fantasy, to imagine a life that isn't mine.

This is a beautiful world. It's a beautiful dream.


Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Memories of an orange

There was a faint sound in the distance. I stared into the darkness ahead, a hollow black cave. The pounding was getting louder now and somehow the darkness made it worse. It filled my head, the vibration, the sound.

I opened my eyes again. It was dark and cold. My head felt heavy as I got up from the bed. It was the flu, yet again, a regular winter bane. And nothing was more seemly than a hot pepper rasam cure, another one of those grandmother specials.

There's a lot going on when there are geriatrics at home. It isn't just the novelty, but the classic lifestyle, strictly living by the rulebook. They've seen it then, they see it now, and what a preposterous change. Conceptions maybe paradoxical, but there is still a curiosity. Ethics maybe complicated, but it makes all the difference.

Everything now will be a memory later, a memory of them, a memory with them. Sixty years later, I will still remember today, when I ate an orange with my grandmother, when I smelled the fresh fruit, and when I freaked to find a white worm in it.