"Mam, we're playing funerals now"

The view of the cemetery crossed me at the corner of my eye. I was on a bus, going at 50kph on the small winding roads of Surrey. The bus stopped at the junction, waiting for the traffic line to turn green. I turn around and take a second look at the cemetery and took note of how old some of the gravestones were - chipped and moss-devoured, the headstones' details were lost to the running of time and age.

The light turns green.

Just before we sped off down the countryside, I noticed a small old woman kneeling by a headstone with flowers in her hands. Could she be the only visitor this cemetery had left?

The bus began to move and we turned around a corner.

I lost sight of the old woman and the cemetery but the thought of a lone visitor lingered. I wondered how it must feel to be her, the only one left who seemed to have any longingness to visit the dead loved one. Where were the other funeral-goers who cried over the coffin of the dead? Were they all merely playing the role of 'Mourner'?

I got off the bus at the Bird in Hand. In the pub, there was a loud chanting of the birthday song and I knew that all those singing were just playing the role of "Friend".

Something Amazing

The twang of the guitar
in the cold winter's air, holding
the note in eternity
to captivate the listeners,

and onlookers. I shall not say
what I wanted them to see, I just wanted them
to sink -
sink into the melody, nostlagia
and hope for the better tomorrow.

The sky cried silently onto the pavement.
The spectators left and I took
the guitar home with me
to be laid next to a burning fire
to dry away the emotions
but I knew that there were stains on my listeners.
They had gone home with it,
drenched.

And I Lose my Thoughts..

The storeroom is empty - I mean, I am the only one in there with the books and the files and dust-covered boxes. There really is not much in here but the four walls - and the books and the files and the dust-covered boxes.


I wonder if books could talk?

I consider the possibility of life within this room. I'm the only one breathing in here. With every exhalation, more hot cabon dioxide seems to burden the atmosphere. That's how small it is in here.

I can hear the mysterious tinkling of mugs.

Coffee-stained mugs sit behind the small stack of books. I know they are there even if I can't see them. I know this because I put them there, to hide them from the boss who always grumbles at the sight of dirty mugs.

Omnipotence. I know everything. I am the only one with a mind in here.

I love this feeling of knowing everything. I am a level of intelect above these books and I am more well-versed about the present than these files and boxes. I snicker at the thought of this power - I am in control.

Suddenly, the door slams open

"What are you doing in here?"

And reality is calling...

So Real

Sometimes I wonder what my eyes are telling me - is the sky really as blue as it seems? Or is all I sense based on what I was told to believe, want to believe?

I stare at myself in the mirror.

Distortion...

Is this what is real or what I want to see? I pull out a fisheye lens from the bottom of my camera bag and stare through it. I watch the warped space of the room dance in front of me and wonder whether this perception was more real than my own raw perception of myself.

I drop the lens and it lies by my right foot - I remember how I could once see the veins snake beneath my skin. Now they were embedded under flesh - flesh that shouldn't be there.

I leave the lens on the floor and think of perception no more.

Days Gone

I cry about it less these days...and I think about it in moderation

I still get glaze-eyed in Tesco and confused and indecisive in the health food shops. But I know it's all an after-effect.

Although many days have gone since the worst and many negative instances have flashed by, I am no different from the initial days of the symptoms. But what is different is that I now know where my line stands and where my self should stand.

I think my self stands a good distance away from the edge.

Tingle

One year on and I still sigh at the thought of it. I play the songs I played all that time ago and try to make sense of the journey I've made so far.

Somehow, I'm still not happy..and I question whether I ever will.

I still remember the times when I could fit between the gaps of the door left ajar and disappear into the crowd of clubbers without my presence ever being noticed by the people around me. I wonder whether I could still do it and whether I should still try to do it.

It is just a tingle...a reminder of what I used to be and what I'm still contemplating of being (in time...)