The walk


I could peel the world away. Every step is not mine, every breath is borrowed time. Every blink – a shift. The wind howling behind my eyes, as the trees stand still in front; watching me pass by: branches twisted with tension resolved yet contained, dressed in new leaves and smells. The Oleander is staring: reaching down: it caresses my cheeks and walks away with my face. Everything is as still as the emptiness of a drum, echoing my breath, my blinking eyes, my tingling mind. My feet carry me onward, the trees come and go, thick and thin, fragrant, rooted in the Earth and the Sky. Not me. I glide through. Soon to be blown into pieces, scattered forever in the mosaic of this imagined fluke.
To my right is the neighborhood I live in, but a new street, a new feel, a place that is no longer. To my left is my mind, the landscape of my galloping thoughts, basking in the forbidden as wild horses ravage a virgin plane. I watch them flash by and away, the saddle by my feet, and my feet tripping. I look up into the smell of the clouds and wonder when I will awake, only to feel the stubborn reality of wakefulness. I look on and then down. The houses are passing me by as my soul roams in them. Families come and gone, fights started and won, love sparkling and long. I walk on and my soul roams around me, outside me: uncatchable, untamable, unimaginably strong, unquestionably real. Bigger then my body, bigger then my mind, bigger then I can contain. So I let her go and wonder what will become of me now, and when will she come back.

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Top-hat-man and the 2 brown suitcases


I’m In the ruins of a mid 18th century building, alongside friends and strangers, all as close as the blood in my veins.

A man in a dusty, faded, black suit enters through the main hall carrying two small, light brown, leather suitcases. Under his left arm is a top hat. The settled dust on his shoulders makes him almost ghostly.

He silently positions the suitcases beside me, angling them as though he’s giving me wings and moves weightlessly through the echoing ancient living room.  I look down toward the suitcases with joy. No one else appears to notice him, the suitcases or my curiosity… I wonder why… My eyes are drawn back to Top-hat-man now sitting in a puff of dust on the once orange, once comfortable living room furniture… Or what’s left of it, which is no more then That: the worn out chair. … odd… 

I look back to the now open suitcases: Tiles…

My hands are running over them as my attention is drawn to a glow above me. A palette of images and scenes, disconnected, dismantled…I’m bewildered..but I can’t stop running my hands over these tiles. I place my eyes over my hands and see: the suitcase to my right carries black tiles of an unfathomable variety of shapes and glosses. All the same shade of black, yet completely different in their square/rectangular makeup….Hmm.. No odd shapes however…but these seem just enough! The suitcase to my left is filled with blue, yellow and red tiles. The suitcases resemble each other in the astonishing variety of perfect shapes, which seemingly binds them together… I’m as excited as I was when I was 5 years old and playing with my grandfather’s tools under the dining room table. The beauty that the top-hat-man has brought is as immense as I could ever imagine… The tiles are like piano keys under my fingers. The littlest twinkle of my littlest finger on the littlest tile creates an imposing impact on the scenes that take place in the glow above me. I don’t know where to look…at my hands as I am constantly creating even if my fingers just exist over the tiles, or at the glow of ever changing scenes…?! My awe has just been found… I try to show everyone else in the room what I have just discovered…but to do so I will have to stop playing with the tiles… and I can’t make myself do that! I look over towards the Top-hat-man, and he is as peaceful as a well fed baby; legs crossed on his chair, in his comfortable puff of dust, just watching me play… There is no describable expression on his face, but a comfort that bathes out of his being and spills through the room. I don’t mind that no one else is paying attention. Top-hat-man’s presence is reassuring enough and this everlasting moment of play is all I need.

The black tile stallions are galloping into an abstract array of color spills… And my fingers dance effortlessly into the ever changing possibilities!