the idea of you

.   .   .

When I awake, you appear casually. Almost, as if you were waiting for me. You smile, tilt your head to one side, and part your lips;

you are about to say something. 

Then,

you don't. Nothing. 

Because like most things, I have only grazed fragments of you. 

I went to my first concert, expecting to find a break in rhythm. Instead, I remained 

in an elusive trance, brainwashed by melody and illusion. 

I found myself neglect in crowds, so I searched for you, in the presence of 

yesterdays and tomorrows. A blur. So slight, so astray. 

I walked through the place you called home, trying to steal the softness of 

sounds, the sweet scents, and savour them as stimuli. 

I starved myself of separation. A servitude to the looking glass, robbed me of 

sensibility, and substituted a frame of pristine symphony. 

You are sabotage; no need for arsenal, as I will always surrender. A reflection diluted, all thoughts besieged, a self invaded: you manifest me.

You are simply an idea, a theory, a judgement, that I have altered, refined, evolved. An idea thought so often, it could induce resurrection. 

Yet, I cannot sense any of you: touch, smell, taste, hear, or see you. 

You are vague: a wisp, an essence, a gist.

And you toy with the idea of me.

I am your echo. Call, and I will follow.

A mere greyness; not enough to overcast.

I sift through you, far from being grasped.

.   .   .

the waiting

As I'm writing this, I wait for the sounds to stop:
       
           the sounds of suppressed sighs, unsure beginnings, faltered hymns, murmurs of adolescents, exhausted childlike pleas, swinging of tired rusty metal chains,

           a flock of scavenging pigeons overcrowding a foreign pond, muffled voices, brief conversation, dull grey gravel that grind against each other as

           strangers stumble through, repetitive bouncing of a ball with no direction, exchanged pleasantries, nature's language of rustling leaves ready to fall,

           strands of hair dancing across paper, a maternal call, abrupt endings, a car reversing out of a compact space, clinking of keys against the door, night passing,

           retired approaches, guilt as a by-product of delayed answers, an overpowering laptop fan, brassy unnerving echoes, flashing screens, heavy breaths.

(I wait for time to pass.)

As I'm writing this, I wait for the strength in stillness.



~



A bit of a different post. 


I was thinking about a book I read a while ago titled, 'if nobody speaks of remarkable things' by Jon McGregor, and was incredibly inspired by the writing style. Often people think that there are rules to writing, but there really aren't any. I love how McGregor challenges that idea, and so I played around with the layout a lot.

When writing this piece, because it focuses mostly on the senses and especially sound, I just decided to go out and walk around familiar places, then stop in one place. As I tried to concentrate on the sounds I heard, I wrote them down in my journal that I brought with me. It's the first time I've done something like that, and it really challenged me to just stop and listen to what's going on around me.

So I deeply recommend you to try it, with any sense, because we often overlook the small things that make life remarkable.

"I say too much of what, he says too much of everything, too much stuff, too many places, too much information, too many people, too much of things for there to be too much of, there is too much to know and I don't know where to begin but I want to try."

- Jon McGregor, if nobody speaks of remarkable things