Sounds of the Earth

The day was half done; the golden orb in the sky mocked him, tempting you to rest, for slumber’s deep calling. Sweat dribbled down his face falling into the cracks in the mud, disappearing into the fine black veins that covered the ground, like a capillary system carry nought but emptiness itself. A giant organ was this breathing earth, venous and pumping, if only people could listen to it like he did. He felt it pulsate, even under the glare of the sun, when his mind thought of nothing but the distance between him and home he did not know, he couldn’t resist stopping and listening. Deeper and louder it got, with the passing of the afternoon as he sat there with a stick in his hand drawing figures in the parched brown. It was sighing, what at first seemed like rasping agony was actually just thirst. He nodded. He understood thirst, it was not just the debilitating need for water, it was nutrition, it was hope, and it was life. One could achieve so much, if they only had water. Little seeds sucking on the drops of milk moist earth mothered into them, asking them to grow, whispering words of calm motivation, saying, Drink! And you shall be. To repopulate this barren wasteland, to decorate these once beautiful green blossoms that now were wretched crooked women, hunched in the sunlight, their witch-like fingers grabbing at weary souls that sat underneath them. He understood this too, and he tapped the earth three times willing for something to grow. The cloth wrapped around his head undid itself and fell to his shoulders. He looked much smaller than he was already without it. His frail frame, naked in the heat save for a loin cloth and his head cloth. He was the son of the soil; his skin was a piece of it, like dark cocoa baked in the sun. His eyes were small but accommodated the entire landscape, taking in every little detail, every contour or lack of it.

He unstrung a small satchel of water tied around his waist and sipped from it. There was little water remaining, he sprinkled a few drops on the cloth and tied it back on his head. This water would have to last until the next day, until he could find somewhere to refill it. He noticed a thin dried root protruding from the husk of the earth, like an umbilical cord between a long gone mother and its dead offspring. He touched it and it shivered, dispelling dust into the burning air around it. He stared at the root for some time, smiled and then poured the remainder of his water into the soil below it. The soil drained the water and in seconds it was as if there had never been any water there to begin with. His smile disappeared as he realized that his brother was dead for there was no hope. The dull ache in the back of skull became stronger, as something in his guts plunged. He began to breathe heavily, but continued to listen to sounds of the earth. Now they mimicked his breathing, raspy, dry and forced. He only listened through the deafening silence of the land, his own breath and the song of the earth. The deeper each breath was, the louder the earth responded. He forced his lungs to pump their hardest and his skeletal frame trembled as he heaved his chest trying to get the earth to reciprocate, to coax it into a duet. The answer came, this time with a drumming, a thumping beat in synchrony with his own aching. His eyelids drooped over his dry eyes and his head began to spin for the lack of oxygen in his brain. But his soul was alive, wailing with the earth, crying for every loss it had ever begotten. His body began to sway to this sound, this only sound he now heard. His mind called it deliverance; his soul called it the earth, the earth called it life and they all cried for it. In unison, his body, mind and earth all shook, daring somebody to stop them. They vibrated in the still air, until they all fell silent, for his body gave way first, and he collapsed to the ground. A cloud of dust rose with the impact of the body and settled back down upon his corpse. His eyes lay open, glinting in the sunlight, face packed with dirt. His mouth lay open, red on the inside, his lips a black miniature of the landscape. The earth rumbled a last time, and fell silent.

 Only the quiet remained for a while roasting in the sun, until the evening came and skies dimmed. Clouds began to gather, and it began to rain. A grey pallor tinted everything and his body seemed like a ghost, grey under the thundering sky. Water washed over him, down his face, clearing it of dirt, down to the ground where his body touched the earth, where a single, green leaf protruded from the soil.

[Please excuse any grammatical errors or lack of talent thereof]

Tired

Summer came. With the tired hands of a mother, it lifted me off the ground, playing upon a breeze. Carrying me this way and that, through fields and trees, above children that play everyday in the sun, above towns and cities,
and I smiled.

It lay me down among my friends, they told me stories of their past and enigmas of their present, they scolded me for my lack of scrutiny towards my own life. They sang, we danced, under smoke and fire, somewhere beside the rain and I felt home again. I drowned in the simple decadence of bliss and I smiled.

The wind picked me up again, forward this time, blew into the hands of a lover, that comforted my fears, magnified my hopes and thawed many winters in my mind. I smelt the earth after rain, the aroma of my favorite food, the tobacco on my breath and I smiled once more.

Another scene, this time I descended with the sun, with the back to the west and my eyes to east. I landed in the garden of the house I grew up in, and the Jasmine tree in the yard began to shed it's flowers. My mother stepped out, handed me a spoon and invited me in. She told me about her day and doted over my hair. I laughed and told her I was tired, that I must sleep because I'd lived a full life. I left for bed and as I fell asleep,
I smiled from ear to ear, immersed in joy I could not explain.

I woke today morning to find myself sleeping, and when I woke myself, I had stopped dreaming.

2 AM.

Dead dogs sing songs for living men,
Fighting for what they believed in then,
Mundane street lights
Need to stop flickering.

Dirty, desolate, signs without meaning,
Withered under seasons fleeting,
Without direction
For those who heed them.

Hurried footsteps convey more than they mean,
Flapping to the sound of the idyllic unseen,
Yellow, all yellow,
In artificial sunlight.

Glass tumblers pressed to grateful lips,
Company shared to those without bliss,
Silent crickets
Lurk in no empty corners.

Temptation beats the itching will,
To rescue the self from bleakness still,
Keep tempting the universe
To joke with you.

Breathing through, a silent night,
Dark acquaintances to take away the fright,
Still walking though,
As if the dawn isn't far away.

I did not know you, but I wish I had taken the time to do so.
But then I fear I would not be able to bear the grief of your absence.
Knowing you would have been a gift, for thinkers like you only come along once in a century, so young for their age, but too old for this generation.

I admired you for your brilliance and what you could have been.

Wherever you are, I hope you're happy.

A flame died last night, and you caused the world a loss it cannot repair.


Love and respect.


Rest In Peace.

Hole. Part 1

"You'll never make it that far."

I heard those words again. I'd been saving my thoughts for my evening walk home, like I did every day. Today was no different. I stopped at the skybridge that stretched across one of the many highways of this immensely large city. I love cities. Cities spoke to me of life, of vigour, of energy only the human spirit could imbibe into otherwise dead cement. As I leaned over the railings and closed my eyes, I imagined viewing the city from a bird's eye. Its geometrical structure, divided into boxes and rows delineated by gold lights that seemed to flicker when I wasn't looking. It looked like the top of a giant maze, made of walls that caged rats. Millions of them. These rats buzzed in a harmonious discord that made the entire box tremble, waiting to explode, into something, into nothing. 

I took a deep breath and opened my eyes, and hung my head in a wry smile. Trails of orange lights zoomed past underneath. My head began to swim as vertigo kicked in and I jumped and took a step back.

"I told you. You'll never make it that far."

Today was different, actually. The evening was darker than yesterday's and today's sunset more solemn. I was tired. Thoughts weighed upon me like metal bricks, and the tension had left me undone, a bundle of torn nerves trying to keep it together. I relished my time in this city. Every second I spent complaining, laughing or feeling anything at all, I kept fondly as a memory. If I thought about it, giving this duration any affectation of love was quite absurd. I hated the people that surrounded me for their passion for unintelligence, their pretentious ways and in general the facetious manner with which everyone treated everything. I enjoyed it because it was normal. Here, I was excused from all decision making that was detrimental to mine and my family's existence and  was free to indulge in my petty emotions associated with day-to-day existence. But today was different. I felt the floodgates of suppressed emotions burst open and flood my mind with questions, answers, decisions and bitter resentment. All this among the sensation of drowning loneliness. The nights were especially difficult. When the lights were out and the people asleep, the demons of your fears clung almost too realistically to the foot of your bed, inviting you to join them in your hellish nightmares. There were nights when even crying wouldn't help. Expressing sorrow of the issue in quiet isolation of the dark neither relieved me, nor smoothened the creases it had left on my conscience. Issues I had never given passing thought to, suddenly raised their heads out of nothing and threatened to invalidate the entire purpose of my existence. The ethos of my duty continued to prod and poke every unattended second of my consciousness and fought me with guilt and rage. I fought back with empathy and logic, refusing to budge from my selfish stance. In this battle, my mind was in turmoil as was my soul. Every day I contemplated stopping by this bridge, and every day as I walked by, I pictured what it'd be like to jump off it, down into the roaring traffic. 

Today, I had stopped.

"Are you going to do it, or not?"

The evening had gone and the night began to unveil itself. As it did, the number of people dwindled, each hurrying home to a family, or the lack of one. Soon, there was no one left on the bridge but me. I ran my hand over the edge of the railing, it was made of cold steel. Underneath, the number of cars flashing past fell too, it was almost as if the area was slowly diffusing its inhabitants. I only saw silhouettes leave, none come in.

I took another step toward the banister and felt the still air vibrate as I cut through it. Sounds boomed through my skull, unknown vowels and consonants came together in the chambers of my brain, conjured up by the pent up soul I had refused to relieve. Letters became words and I as I stared down at the black tar road, words turned into poetry I never wrote.

"Your man is made of mind and sin,

And intertwined they are the Devil's wrote.

You feel 'nought for the hand that you take,

And feel 'nought for the fear that you stroke.

Come with us, we will set you free.

Come with us, we will tell you your tale,

Follow us down, we'll make you see,

Where judgement left you weak and frail.

Into the night!

Into the dark!

The Larks are singing down below.

Dive into our world of hellish fire,

This unanswering land to be let go.

The Larks are singing, 

They do no wait,

The Larks are singing,

For you, of late.

Into the night!

Into the dark!

For your man is made of soul and sin."

I leaned over, breathed in, and jumped.

Hollow.

Child, the crackers are burning bright,
Why don't you celebrate in red and blue?
Mother, I have nothing, not a flicker of light,
Nothing to smile for, you know it too.


Hush child, 'tis not the end of the road,
Many more towns to come, much to see still.
Mother, I'm trying. But this handicap wont go,
My solidarity is shaken, and my manic is ill.


I hold your hand, see it doth not shake,
For perseverance lingers on inside your heart.
Mother, this stillness is lacking, 'tis not the make,
Of courage, but soulless in whole and in part.


What can I tell you? You will not listen,
For the glasses you wear of tinted grey.
My purpose was not to drown out the din,
But to merely  hear you smile and say;


I cannot smile, not in this yellow sun,
It beats too harshly upon my chest,
The ground is dry, the water has run,
And the shade is reserved for the blessed.


Child, I cannot reason with your kind,
That detest the present, though future be bright.
Then leave this room mother, temporary defined,
And as you do, turn off these wicked lights.


I cannot chase their shadows anymore.

If the times are changing, then why are you still standing still?

Failure shows no empathy for cause of its own existence.

I am one,

I am far,

I am none.