Happily Imperfect‎‎ Random

There was a tree

Posted on June 24, 2010

It was a large tree, all leafy and green as a tree should be, standing tall and proud at the top of a small hill. On the ground beneath it spring flowers were bursting into life their vibrant colours proclaiming new beginnings, fresh growth, a new season full of heady fragrances.

The tree was old and wise, with countless rings and scars testament to the experience it had gained, the life it had lived. Every now and then the tree would think back, reliving each moment when it had grown a little more. It knew it was governed by nature, that it wasn’t in control, and was more than content and willing to submit to the whims of the breeze.

Like all trees it understood that sacrifice was envitable, leaves had to be shed, rotten branches had to fall. The boughs would break.

Looking out over the fields and hills that lay beneath its roots, the tree was happy and content in the moment.

But an ill wind was blowing.

At some point during the summer, the tree realised something was changing, that something was different to how it had been before and at that point it knew that time, as far as the tree knew it, was coming to an end. Basking in the summer sun, the tree prepared itself, soaking up the energy for one last push towards autumn.

It was with a mighty crash that the tree fell to ground, but as no-one was around the tree decided not to make any noise.

As it lay there, the tree realised it had a few moments left and took those seconds to enjoy the change of view, the closeness of the grass, the blueness of the sky above, silhouettes of birds flying to pastures new. And, with that, the tree was finally at peace.

Months passed and slowly the tree started to wither and rot, feeding the ground beneath it. Soon enough fresh saplings poked their heads through the soil and started their long slow climb up towards the blue. The tiny trees thickened and spread their wings, repeating the cycle once more as the world continued to turn.

Darkness unbeing

Posted on February 28, 2010

It’s an itch, and urge, a pulling, scratching, gouging force churning away inside him. His chest is tight, knotted, formulate and plotting. Despising and demonic he plots revenge, he charts the motions and savours the instant. Brutal and vicious, he is animal.

A deep breath.

It refuses to move. Tensed, he is ready to pounce, his actions are driven by constriction, a rope taut around him, pulling him this way and that yet leaving him bound and motionless. Rooted here he spins it round again, and again the vitriol stirs.

Where is the saviour?

Is it pain, is it destruction and violation that will wreck this feeling, lay it to waste, hammerblows to his head?

It spins again, fuelling itself by feeding him more of what he doesn’t need and doesn’t want. He hates it, will not succumb to it and the fight burns on.

His violence scares him, the snarling beast within rips and claws to be set loose, his ribs containt it and it roars behind the bars. He used to let it out, he used to let it roam but never too far. Bruised knuckles and dented metal, macho posturing hiding the truth.

Rage.

It flows within him, consuming him. The constant unerring swing of the pendulum blade, the gentle tick, metronomic, insistent, unforgiving, unrelenting.

Floating on white

Posted on January 2, 2010

He shivers in the sterile air, pristine and shimmering as the last light of the day clambers over the rooftops. The yellow-pink hue setting a million and one diamonds ablaze, ice and snow twinkle in the embers of the day, crackling underfoot.

Each steps snaps through the silence, echoing against brick and stone, gravel and mortar and his breath barely escapes before falling to the ground. A flare of light as a car slides past, careful on the icy road, and again he wonders why he is out tonight, why he is trudging against the biting cold.

Pulling his coat tighter still he steps on.

He thinks of the future, resolutions drift through his mind and he discards them wantonly. He knows which one he is waiting for and with the patience of solitaire he continues to deal with each one as it comes to him.

Lose weight, the card says. He chuckles at the banality, far too obvious.

Read more books, it says. He considers this a worthy aim but knows all too well that if that were to happen, things would stay the same.

Keep in touch with your friends.

Keep in touch with your friends, it repeats. He forces it from the deck, knowing it to be the best of all yet fearing how it will play as the year unfolds.

He turns the next card in his mind.

He is resolved.

Interlude

Posted on October 11, 2009January 31, 2013

His footsteps tread heavy on this path, twigs crackle and splinter under him as he wearily walks on. He surveys the land around him, the sunlight playing through the trees as the last remnants of life wither and die in the early winter air.

He has always enjoyed these walks, the solitude revealing more to him than any conversation or sound, his emotions raw and real, unfettered by implication, speak to him in a clear voice, offering a clarity he knows is false but enjoys all the same.

His steady pace never falters whilst his eyes cast around catching movement in the undergrowth, a flickering shadow here, a gently bending stalk there. Tiny moments of life that continue regardless, and again he is reminded of the future and his dreams rush back to meet his reality. He walks on through the wood, past places he has visited before, knowing that he will soon find something new.

He takes a fork in the path, making his decision and wonders where it will take him. The air changes around him, a gentle breeze carries the chill of the sea.

Elsewhere she is drowning, clawing at the surface with her fingers, desparately casting around for something, anything, to stop her going under. Her fingers brush something only to push it out of reach, but she is in luck and the tide brings it back, a dark looming shadow above her and as she reaches up she swears it reaches down for her, pulling her up until her head is clear of the water and her gasping lungs gorge themselves on the night air.

She clinges to the log as best she can, slipping on the slimy surface until day breaks, and the warm sun helps her grip tighter and tighter until she can start to haul herself from the dark water, head and shoulders first, until soon she is sitting on the log, floating high. She throws her head back to feel the warmth of the sun on her face, and a smile slowly emerges.

Her feet dangle in the water, aware of the current beneath, feeling it’s pull and drag, the old familiarity. She resists, and watches the soft pulls of cloud slowly pass overhead as a gull floats high above, cartwheeling elegantly through the sky as it watches the world slowly spin below.

Death of a tear

Posted on March 30, 2009

It was a quiet tear. Formed and full of pain as it silently glided down an already slick cheek. Blurry eyes and tightened throat the only acknowledgement of the source. There is no sound, no drama, but each one is noticed as it emerges, followed on its path, and grieved for when gone. There is no other sign, just tear after tear after unwiped tear.

Elsewhere the laughter echoes, proudly proclaiming the joy and release of itself. A booming noise of resonant depth, infectious and heartfelt. Tear after tear after tear are removed with a rough sweep of the hand. Forgotten in an instant as the laughter continues.

Other tears form unwanted, fought back through rage and determination. Caught in their birth moments and crushed defiantly. Aborted in anger. Smeared on the back of palms, a momentary lapse.

And there, in the black, where the tears flow freely, where they rush and tumble in their hurry, cheered on by gulping, choking and wretched cries, the tears willingly sacrifice themselves. Valiant and brave they take what they can with them, their silvery beads clinging to grief as it smashes to the ground, engulfed in the puddles.

Pity not the quiet tear, the sadness and heartache that it holds should not be despised or ignored, chastised or feared. The quiet tear is true, is alive and vivid and beautiful. For only the quiet tear exists purely to exist.