The oldies


If I ever leave this world alive.


It hit me fast, like a tsunami exploding over the buzzing city that was my brain. My head felt like it was inflating, flooding every nook and alley way with a new light: Colors, music, sounds, people. Nothing could be better than this. It was pure, and beautiful. I new that I was laying on a blanket , on the ground with my eyes closed listening to Radio head. Although my body lay motionless on that blanket, my brain took me wherever I wanted to be. Flying over the Eiffel Tower, through the wrought iron, watching the light show, I was the light show. Lying on my back in front of the escalators inside of an empty library. I took myself away, under the sea, into the Titanic while it was still afloat in all its splendor. Nothing could possibly be better than this. Someone is touching me, massaging my back, my feet, my legs; I was tingling all over, while Tom Yorke sang to me, for me. The bass was my heart pounding in my chest, the beautiful noise, it was all a part of me, I was the flowing colors. I had no being, no body to inhabit, I was free.  The red room with the never ending bed. Geometric shapes everywhere for me to fly through, ribbons of paint for me to feel, pools of air for me to float in, people everywhere for me to touch, the world is my canvas and I, its painter. Holding a hand, touching hair, feeling skin. My fingertips were numb but I could still feel it as if I was the person being touched. The best feeling that I could ever feel. This is what happened the night that I met Molly.

years ago:

The villain does not know right from wrong, does not understand the concepts of thought; the complicated things that make human beings, human. She wants to do what is right, but the right thing is just as fuzzy as the wrong thing. Her world is ruled by impulse, the only wrong thing to do is to hurt someone then lose that person on bad terms. She wants to be perfect, she wants to make the right choices, but does not want to regret anything. In matters of love, boredom is a vile thing. It makes her fall into the traps that she had laid out for herself from the start. Boredom leads to wandering eyes and eventually to human suffering. She is always the middle woman with too many choices to make, too much to think about at once an invisible trail of broken hearts following her wherever she goes. It is unintentional yet unavoidable. She is destined to break your heart. Next time that you see a tallish woman with honey eyes, bent over her favorite book at the coffee shop, beware. She might be the one that leads you to a shattered heart. A Shakespearean tragedy with legs.

Malainie as a character in my brain:

She opens her eyes only to find that the world is not the perfection that was put in her head when she was a girl. She opens her eyes to the brutality that can be life. No one to turn to, everyone has abandoned her. She steps out of bed and finds it difficult to face a world of empty faces, and dirty places. She can’t breathe. The medication on her side table beckons her, calling her; telling her that they are what she needs. Happiness will come no other way. Her eyes, but two tiny slits on a round (not fat) brown (not black) face. Her hair is a mess, her extensions slung casually over the back of her desk chair call her, and tell her that the secret to beauty is within these black shards of hair, hung on by a clip. She looks around her room. Empty Starbucks cups littered on her desk, full ash mugs pollute her nightstand, dirty clothes carelessly tossed around the room, an orange curtain hangs ajar. With legs unshaven and feet swollen from the pharmaceutical menagerie that she eats from day to day. Her computer is resting on a pile of faux designer purses that her mother has attempted to buy her with. Playing on the screen are the lives of her so called friends, in small sentences flaunting their perfect lives. And she slouches forward and wonders where she went wrong. What did she do to make the people that she needs the most, run away from her so quickly and without warning. She takes a half smoked cigarette and re-lights the end. Looks at her dying phone, no missed calls there.

About falling from a tree [years ago]:

Just before your body makes contact with the unknown that a waits, you brace yourself, you expect the worst. You can imagine the brown blades of grass, sharp as knives, waiting for your plummeting body, welcoming every snap of bone, and every break of heart. You clench your eyes shut. You know that you are mili seconds away from meeting your fate.  You open your eyes, only to find that the grass that your body landed on, was not grass at all. You scan the scene around you, all the while, waiting for the unbearable pain that is sure to come. You glance down to see if your legs are still where they should be, and, of course, they are. Your eyes scan the ground on which you sit and realize that you are in a bed of flowers, wild flowers, all in bloom. The thought of the razor sharp, lifeless, brown blades of grass seem so silly to you now. And you begin to see what grandma has been trying to tell you all along: Sometimes you fall, you never know how, when, and where but the fall is inevitable.  Everyone falls off of what seems to be the Empire State Building, many times in their lives, all of them hope for a safe landing, all of them expect the worst landing. But most of the time, the landing is as soft as a bed of flowers in full bloom.


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