This is the place to call my home, and I can’t go back, back to how it was. You can’t turn back after tasting happiness, even if that place is only in my head. It is a whole different world inside there, and call me crazy if you will, because you have not and will not ever experience what I have.

I am torn between reality and the voices in my head, but I can never mix the two up, for the only times I am truly happy are when I am asleep. That’s when I am flying, and where the forest comes alive.

I’ve gone too far, too deep into the realms of my imagination. The forest, it is huge. It is vaster than any ocean, and yet it settles my stomach like the gentle crashes of the waves do, back when I’m awake. My only refuge when I am awake is the sea. I yearn for it, and my skin prickles when it feels the salty wind brush past. I remember looking from a bridge, and it was a high tide. I could feel myself touching the frothy bubbles which the waves made. I got closer, leaning down, inching forward until the pain of the metal railing against my body stopped me from getting what I wanted. That’s right. I wanted freedom, and the child in me believed so hard that if I got into the waters, it would carry me some place far away, and I could be free. I’d spend my days bathing in the warm glow of the moonlight, and just drifting along, until I get to the place where I could call my home.

Now I found it, the place which I could call my home. I am alone now, barefooted, and treading on grass so soft that it feels like I am on carpet. I know this place better than the back of my hand. Every move I make- and every turn, brought me somewhere closer to where I belong. I have not been here before, but my mind is awake and excited. It is leading the way as though I was born from an oak tree from this very place. My heart is wild, and I can’t seem to place the tinge of familiarity settling on the tip of my tongue. It tastes sweet, and I feel that I deserve to laugh because my heart is singing. Back where I was awake, they called their inability to jump high gravity, but here, I don’t feel any of it. I take a leap, and I still don’t make a sound. And I’m halfway through the air till I can almost touch the clouds. I fly. It is exhilarating, and as I soar, I feel a tickle in my tummy.

And then I see it. Suddenly I feel heavy like stone. On impulse, my body starts to pummel downwards until I caught my breath again and floated upwards. #52, I said.

I don’t know what I meant, but I fly towards the great big oak anyway. I am drawing nearer to it, and I start to see images two seconds ahead of me. I am approaching the tree, and I land on the branch just a slight shade darker than the brown below. Nobody would have noticed it, but there is a door of faded brown on the bark. It looks almost as though it was engraved on, and I squint. Light sieves in through the leaves and then I see a shimmer. #52, the door reads. The visions end and I find myself standing on the branch of a darker shade and peering at the bark of the tree. There is nothing there. The door isn’t there. But I feel an impulse to push, and I try with all my might, as though the door which isn’t here might somehow open for me. There is a flash of darkness, with silence so deafening that I try to press my palms against my ears. It doesn’t last long, though, and when I can see again, I am inside a home. The furniture looks big, and my steps are unsteady, tentative. And then I realize this light following me, everywhere. I look down, and see myself bathed in warm glow. I am tinged pink, and my hands and feet have grown smaller.

The footsteps come. They are soft at first, and they start to grow louder with a distinct rhythm. A tall lady turns the bend and smiles down at me.

Mum, I said.

I can’t go back, back to how it was.

But you must know that it is not your fault. It is never your fault. Because you mean too little to even have one. We all have a story, and it seems that I am one of the few who can let it be heard. This is how I communicate, by not allowing you to speak. Humans don’t like to be seen talking to themselves because it makes them look different, nicely put. Am I in black and white now? I heard that in the past, when television had no colour, dreams were in black and white. I remember seeing red in mine, lots of it. I suppose our lives are enriched now. But there are just some things that, when remembered, hurts even more in colour. The images will be vivid, and you can almost smell the salt in the air as I try to calm you down while you make sense of this situation. I don’t blame you, because that’s how I tell stories. It is my unique way of entering your head while you are asleep. But don’t you get it? I am the only one who lets you scream out in fear when you need to, because it’s such a private place- the land of dreams. When you awake, you will smile to yourself and wonder where in your head you hid the words which will be spoken to you. You will tell yourself that the brain is something of infinite possibilities, just like many a times where you knew the answer to something which you don’t know anything about. But since all are one, I can very well be the little tinker in your head, whispering in your ear and having you pray that I go away in case anyone sees you talking to yourself, which you absolutely despise.

We all want to be understood, and sometimes that term becomes confusing. We lower ourselves to let others understand us. We change, so that they can grasp the subtle difference of us and them. But don’t you understand? That isn’t understanding. We have become all the same. They change to suit you, and you change to suit them. You result in just understanding yourself, but that, too, is wrong. Because you have changed yourself. Let’s face it, shall we? We will never understand others unless they lend us their boots to wear, and we will never understand ourselves unless we watch our lives in third person.

To yearn for affection, and to be loved- nothing hurts as much as when we are denied these. We want our words to be appreciated, and to be admired. We want every syllable to be treated as something important, as something which will make a difference to another’s life. And we say that it is being considerate, to want to make a positive change to someone else’s life. But we are deceiving ourselves. Humans are programmed robots. We only do things which benefit ourselves. Our acts benefit others, but we gain something from them. We all want to be happy. But it is enough like that, primitive relationships between humans. I want you to be kind to the old lady who lives down the street. I want you to offer her your cookies when you bake them because she likes them like hell. And mostly, she hurts inside because they smell just like the ones she used to make for her kids. I want you knock on her door, scrutinise the delight on her face when she opens the door, and fall into her embrace. I want you to treat her like she is your mother. What’s that you say, she’s your mother? I know she is, and now I want you to treat her like one. No, actually, forget that. Don’t even bring the cookies. Just bring yourself. Why do you laugh softly in your sleep like you are embarrassed? Why do you whisper with your head down in shame that this sounds like a cliche in the old movies? The last time I heard, movies were meant to teach you something. It seems that you haven’t learnt anything yet. Please cherish her as she grows old. It doesn’t matter what she did to you when you were young. We can make choices. We cannot make choices for other people, but we can make choices for ourselves. You had this question lingering in your head all your life, and I am going to answer it for you. I hope that if you hurt, you’d go somewhere else because I am incapable of consoling anyone, much less you, whose head I am inside. I only tell you the truth which you had long known but could never admit. Yes, you were the one less loved. But you were also loved. Did you dwell too much on the first statement that you forgot the second? It is a blessing to be loved. If you both committed sins, you’d hang your head is bigger shame, for your mother loved you less but still did love you, while you left her and swore never to return. But I am glad that you hurt so much, because if you hadn’t loved her, you wouldn’t have cared. It is a blessing of the humans to love, but we must live with the consequences of hurting when we are denied the affection which we yearn.

It is a natural reaction to change to please. I understand that it hasn’t served you very well. What have you got, at the end of the day, besides losing your identity and blaming yourself for being so weak? Truth hurts, but it is true that we are the only ones who can fend for our existence. It is easy to love, but it is also easy to grow tired of loving someone other than yourself. We don’t like sacrifices. Unless you’d like to be stuck in confusion when someone changes his mind, perhaps it is better not to think too much and just open your heart. Forget your needs, and remember others’.

So now, do you see? You think that I am here to tell you my story, but this is about you. It has always been about you. It is a shame if you are forgotten by others, but it is just plain sad if you’ve forgotten yourself.

Warm, on your fingers
dew, they are silent
and you feel the moisture slide
down the arch of my hand

Curved, like the way you hold a ball
the fluffy sound
of the piano keys, delicious
and you smack your lips

Feet, gritty pavements
bloody it, but you smile
because right down the alley
you see.

And then you run.

She was forty when she was widowed; her dark hair soon greyed, and then she was sixty.

She had four children, of whom all but one was grown. They left the home, one by one, till it was only her left, in the house that suddenly seemed too big after all those years. She would sit in a corner of the house, in her rocking chair, depending on the trickles of sunlight through the grilled windows to see. While she rocked, she murmured incessantly, her eyes glazed with boredom and from the reminiscing of the past.

Maybe, it was because she simply had nothing to do, she would walk in and out of her children’s bedrooms, dusting the shelves and repacking the books they hadn’t bothered to bring with them. She even changed the bed sheets, as though holding a simple prayer under her breath that they might come back one day to stay.

They sent money every month, tons of them, a subtle reminder of why they couldn’t be back more often to visit. They were too busy, they claimed piteously over the phone, and she said that she understood. She was proud of them, smiling softly to herself as she put the receiver down, but her heart was sighing. When she was young and full of dreams, her children had been her inspiration and her window to hopes of a beautiful future. They had climbed onto her lap after she told them stories after stories, well after bedtime. They had whispered in her ear that, mummy, when I grow up, I’m going to make a lot of money for you, so that you can be happy. She had smiled, and said yes, please do. But now, it almost seemed like an excuse that they were doing all these for her.

She found out that, when she grew old and grey, the wads of notes were just meaningless pieces of paper stashed under her bed. So she sat in her rocking chair, rocking back and forth, merely to find something to do- out of embarrassment though no one was watching- and wondered if everything had been worth it.

Sometimes they came back to visit, possibly because of their nagging conscience, or to make an effort to be filial children. She busied herself in the kitchen, preparing favourite dishes of each of her children, her heart singing. But she never showed it. She brought the food out, laid them on the table, and contented herself by listening to their conversations, as though their voices could fill her soul up with life. When they left, one by one, she felt the same sour feeling at her nose-bridge, as though they were about to leave forever, and the tip of her nose grew pink as she tried not to cry.

How long was forever?

In the past, she had been amazed when her little children pointed out the airplanes out of encyclopedias, telling her that she could travel the world in less than a day. She was dumbstruck, and secretly didn’t quite believe it. It’d take me forever to travel the world, she thought.

Now she knew, travelling the world took less than a day, but for her children living a twenty minute drive away to visit, that was forever.

The walls of the house were grey with age, and slowly, she got up from her rocking chair, tracing her fingers along the bits of grey and yellow, trying to remember the memories behind each stain. She limped painfully, leaning heavily against the walls which once echoed laughter and love, and hobbled slowly to her room.

She closed the windows so that no light could enter, and then lay down on her bed. With the blankets drawn to her chin, a wave of drowsiness swept across her, and she closed her eyelids that were heavy with regret, never opening them again.

She had found the place.

There was a soft hue of orange and pink behind the gate, and the knot in her tummy only constricted even more. She yearned. She felt tiny under the glare of the huge golden gate, but large enough so she couldn’t squeeze through the cracks. The air was moist and of rainbows and sunsets. She counted to ten, successive, and caught her breath; loud. It seemed to rumble through the forest, and for a moment, the silent magic was almost lost.

It was frightening when that perfect feeling threatened to slip through the cracks of her fingers. Oh, how she had yearned.

She crept up to the magnificent gate. Tentatively, she held out a tiny palm, fingers spread open like a net; just so she could feel bliss flowing through every inch of her body like waves when she turned the knob. Her heart palpitated irregularly, melodic and slowly at first, and then quick with the rush of adrenaline. She trembled as she took her first step forward, and droves of colour came rushing, sweeping her off her feet. The magic in the air twirled the ends of her hair, leaving it tinged with the slight feel of powdery metallic blue. There were toadstools lining a seeming path up ahead, and she started to feel a little frightened, because she knew she wasn’t allowed.

Sifts of sunlight stroked her cheek, and warmed her right to her toes. It was silent, and tranquil. There was an extraordinary calm to the place, and she felt that the only fear which can be experienced is the fear of oneself. It wasn’t like anything in the past, where she had to look over her shoulders because she was afraid of monsters and things like that. Now, all she needed to do was to look ahead, because nothing behind would ever be regrets. She felt her emotions leaving her one by one, leaving her heart quite empty. She felt wobbly at first, as she walked down the lane of toadstools, but she could feel her center of gravity right at her belly button. She felt light, and beautiful.

Things were simple, really. She just had to look ahead, and forget the past.

As we emerge from amongst the rubble of our old forms, heavy things with no feelings whatsoever, I feel that I have become like a gust of wind, light and pretty, and capable of feeling things like four dimensional loves. We do understand that we are of special breed, the half-lives, who have risen from what seems completely uninhabitable to humans. That utter word, which once described me, irks me, because now I see the pure error of our ways. Even though now the land is barren and cold, I am able to see the other realm, where life has always been fuzzy and green. It had never been possible to look through a different perspective in the past, where all I could see was I and my selfish little greed. The half-lives around me are shaking their head, maybe in awe, or perhaps in larger disappointment, because many of our family have not been able to join us. The new dawn of time has just begun, and we are about to make a difference; this time, the future generations will not screw it up like they have once done.

The people of the other realm, angels as we used to call them, has explained and dissipated all our uncertainties, traits which we have certainly brought from the human realm. We had asked if it was our ignorance and greed which brought us to this new era, and they smiled slowly, their faces something I can only describe as serenity. Yes, they said, as though to themselves, this is why we have brought you here. You understand the foolishness of your past. You’ll have to be the new breed, the role models, and the noble teachers for this World Age Cycle. They stopped smiling altogether, at once, and shook their heads in such a minute way that we almost missed it. The humans were selfish, self-centered, very much ignorant, and complacent, the Aeolus said and we blushed. But the Great Cycle was going to end anyway, they said, and now you have to be the new difference.

We understand all at once that the Aeolus were going to be our teachers, and we have to give them our fullest respect. Aldara, they called us, the winged gift bestowed to Earth, and the first of the new realm. The way our voices scatter is unbecoming, now as we step into the peaceful silence of this place, our bare feet touching something like grass but feels like bubble wrap that wouldn’t pop. Even the way we walk is noisy, even though when I had been alive as a human I didn’t notice. Our teachers, they had a voice, a single voice which unites their thoughts, and it comes penetrating our minds and rummaging it, as though understanding all of us from a central point. It scares me, and I know they know. It is only now that I realize all our technology was blunt and altogether a blatant joke. The Aeolus created things; they conjured cities just by constructing that thought of it in their heads. We had big cranes which took years to build a house-which came down like a statue of cards when the world ended.

We were there, trying to make small particles travel through time, when time has been controlling us all the while. The Aeolus explained that the way we moved were in the sequence of time, just like a film. When the film is paused, we freeze. I had never known. But here, the Aeolus laughed, you are standing outside that realm, like the audience of the show. You can travel to any part you like, and it’ll keep replaying and replaying. You cannot force the actors to do act according to your wants, but you can teach them, slowly and patiently like the director, until they understand. It takes me a while, but now I finally realize that in this realm, life is a stage, and we’re playing God.

Yes, yes, the voice of the Aeolus chimes in my head. You finally understand, they say. The Aldaras smile at one another, not quite sheepishly, because we have gained deeper understanding. Name some people which have influenced you when you were a human in that realm, they say rather excitedly. We shrug, and some said “Well… Mother Theresa? Jesus Christ? Buddha? Dalai Lama?” The Aeolus nod their heads and the grass feels cold under my feet. I don’t know if it is just me, or whether the Aeolus didn’t seem to take a feature. They move like silhouettes, but so unexplainably because I can see their faces. All the idols on Earth walk forward, and I can feel a shiver amongst the Aldaras.

In this realm, there is no such thing as guilt. Even though the humans did not do quite a good job of keeping themselves in check, the Aeolus do not blame themselves. All at once, the Aeolus seem to take the shape of Aslan, though afterwards other Aldaras told me otherwise. We have tried our best, he said, but they have not done well.

I can sense enlightenment in the Aldaras, and suddenly we realize that they are really our teachers after all; the Aeolus. I try to ask how they are able to enter the ‘film’ and fit into our concept of time, but tears choke me up that they have tried so hard and we hadn’t listened.

The voice in my head answers the question: The bodies on Earth are just puppets, heavy and meaningless. Our spirits go down and take up a form, and we try to spread teachings about things that are far more important than you. Carlos Barrios had said, “This [was] a crucially important moment for humanity and Earth. Each person is important. If you have incarnated into this era, you have spiritual work to do balancing the planet… The greatest wisdom is in simplicity. Love, respect, tolerance, sharing, gratitude, forgiveness. It’s not complex or elaborate. The real knowledge is free. It’s encoded in your DNA. All you need is within you. Great teachers have said that from the beginning. Find your heart, and you will find your way.”

As my eyes starts to adjust to seeing all the different realms at once, it suddenly occurs to me that all the expensive cars and buildings in the human realm are nothing but impure metal and grainy cement. The world which had ended was the one that was dominated by materialism and ego consciousness, therefore the world that follows must be founded on different values that honour the spirit of independence of all life.

I do not understand how I could have survived the linear time paradigm in the past, because even though we were heavy with flesh and arrogance, we were so paper-thin. Everything we followed was in a straight line, and the best thing we had was 3-D. Now, I panic sometimes, because I suddenly stop breathing and forget that I don’t have to do so anymore. I should like to express our soul now as part of the universe, as minute as a grain of sand, but so important as a gift of life.

I am starting to have some abilities like the Aeolus have. We Aldaras can now- like what they call it in the human realm- teleport. I realize that we have been standing at one point throughout the teaching, but the surroundings change constantly. My mind is still and calm, although the wind is harsh and cold. I suppose this is what they call shallow bliss, because I still find satisfaction in this. When we rebuild life, and mankind starts to pick themselves up again, we’ll all have a chance to start afresh. The Aldaras will start to store the past in the back of our minds, and put forth our best to help mankind learn the ropes to living proper life. The Aldaras will make sure that they never ever forget the teachings of life, and that they won’t lose their means of appreciating the other realms.

When the Earth is green again, and the oceans as blue as the start of time, our lessons are complete, and everything starts anew. As the people begin to awake, we settle down to watch over and love them with all our hearts.

Full credits to: http://www.13moon.com/prophecy%20page.htm#2

Silken Hankie and the Angry Gods

Amongst rows of women huddling under thick floral printed blankets, Nao looks minute and young. One has arms around her, speaking slowly and quietly, as though energy might spin her out of her incomprehensible grief. Nao looks up at the sky and wonders if her parents are up there, and prays that they don’t send snow down to express their grief. She rubs at the silken handkerchief in her hand and holds it against her cheek. It smells of fresh laundry and her mother.

When the earth began to growl and tremble, the milk in her cup had started to swirl in pretty patterns. Her mother ran out the kitchen in alarm, her pretty eyes wide and anxious.
“Get under the table! Get under there now,” she shouted, wrapping her arms around Nao and dropping her on the floor.
Nao crawled under the table and worried about the milk and her favourite cup. She watched as her mother ran into the room, shouting for her father and sometimes about nothing at all. There was a flurry of voices, wild with panic and suddenly she couldn’t hear them at all. Her father’s prized teacup collection fell off the mantelpiece and brown bits flew everywhere. She hugged her knees and huddled into a ball, trying her very best to pretend that the loud noises weren’t there. She rubbed her fingers against the silken hankie in her pocket and rocked, and rocked and rocked. It wasn’t until the whole house began collapsing and she heard her mother shouting for the last time that she started to cry.

After the last plate fell out of the cupboard, and everything fell silent, she fell gently asleep.

After people came to rescue her, Nao closes her eyes and leans on the lady beside her, as though after opening her eyes again, she’d transform into someone Nao knew. As she gradually feels time coming to a halt and everything around her slows down, she heard the lady mutter, “Poor girl, poor, poor girl. Her parents never got out alive.”

On the night when they said that you weren’t ever coming back, I remember that my pillow was wet with broken promises and memories of your laughter.

I wonder if the tears you cried ever felt as bitter as this. I remember that when we had quarreled, and you had shouted at me, I shouted back things that made you cry. I’d feel a tight knot at the pit of my tummy whenever you pretend that everything is okay, and you muffle your sobs into your pillow at night, acting normal with puffy eyes over breakfast the next morning. And what’s worse is that I tried so hard to play the game with you.

When the silence of your cries grew too deafening, I’d cup my hands over my ears and lean deeper out of the window, and into the night sky, as though it could swallow me whole and leave me dangling like a shining star. The planes that flew by were always minute, dancing across the moon, kissing the stars. I’d stretch my hands out far and casted like an open net, wondering if I tried hard enough, the planes would fall nicely within my grasp, with the hopes and dreams of people sliding down the intricate carvings of my palm. I’d shut my eyes tight and shove my hand into my mouth, swallowing air and pretending that I had total control of my destiny, and that you weren’t crying in your room right then.

When I was seven, I took my first airplane ride. It was thrilling when the airplane took flight, and I could see the red lights dotting the runway, smiling at the thought that they could jolly well be the stars in the night sky. As we got further up enough to feel like I could touch the sky, I looked out of the window and stared hard at the cars as tiny as ants trailing the roads, wondering if there was anyone else staring back into the sky and capturing me into the base of her palm, whispering a tiny prayer of hope in one breath. The airplane ride wasn’t like I had expected. From down below, the seeming shooting star seemed like it could take you places, and once you were on board, you’d be so sure of where you wanted to go, and it’d make sure that you’d get to where you desired. But on board the shooting star, it seemed too big and full of people with worries and broken dreams. From that night on, the airplanes tinkling in the night sky lost their impact, and I stopped crying for a long while- because nobody can ever be sure of where they’re heading to.

You liked to collect spoons, and I never knew why. I didn’t ask either, and now I regret that. I used to sneer to myself that the shiny edges of the spoon really reflected the person you were. Of all the spoons in different shapes and sizes, you’d look warped staring into the spoon, with your nose too big or your chin too wide, just like how I’ve known you to be: imperfect.

I used to think that you were like water works, which I loved so much; but you always managed to stay out of reach when I needed a hug. I remember that we camped outside in the cold one night, huddling and watching the sprouts of water rise up, and down. They were purple and full of themselves, dazzling near, and then retreating far, laughing spitefully at us as we tried to grab hold of the perfect image we all wanted, and all we got was a handful of wet mist. You were like that mist, so confident, but all I could do was watch from afar. When you were near me, you crumpled into colourless liquid, all the beauty and arrogance fading as fast as the sunset. So you screamed at me, never thus becoming who you were around the rest, but only dragging the rest down in your sorrow, or so I thought. Turns out, people who you once admired never turn out as perfect as you think, up close, and you were one example, but I had never known. I think I took it out on you when the frustration rushed into my head as heavy as a ton of bricks, and I grew red in the face trying to overcome my disappointment.

But when I first heard that you had left us, the tears I felt trickling down my face tasted bitter, like the look of sadness on your face every time I shouted at you. The room smells of roasted almonds, bitter but full of colour and memories. The recollections I have of you are as early as this morning’s, when you bade me goodbye and I ignored you with that sullen look on my face. But most of the memories I have are black and white, because I feel like I do not have the right to own anything as happy as colours. The impulse I have to find you is like what I feel every day of my life, to rush out of the grilled metal gate and give you a hug of surprise from behind, hoping that you’d smile one last time, and this time, just for me. The gate of regret can never be unlocked now, and I will never know how it feels like to have cherished each moment down to the last bit, from the measurement of your waist, to the tinge of brown of your hair.

I know that we had our differences. While you loved spoons and grace, I loved semi darkness and puzzles. When you came in every night to dim the lights and whisper good night, I’d squeeze my eyes shut and pretend to be asleep. As you left on tip-toes, I’d have forgotten our quarrels and only remember the tinge of shampoo smell which you leave hanging in the air like an infectious disease that made my heart ache. I’d open my eyes again and find everything dark, but as my pupils dilated and I’d make out the silhouettes of everything in the room, I’d feel shivery and lonely, but glad that I could see everything and not one soul would ever be able to see the look on my face.

On my twelfth birthday, you gave me a piece of cardboard. I asked you what it was and you said that it was the base of a puzzle piece. You told me that you had removed all the puzzle pieces and drawn your expectations of me on each of the puzzle pieces. When I had accomplished something, she’d give me that relevant piece. Up till now, I’m sixteen, and that puzzle will never be completed.

Everything is sitting on my desk now, your puzzle pieces and the photos of you. But I’m too afraid to open that box with laces as complicated as you, because I am afraid of realizing the disappointment I was to you. But now, even as I am intoxicated with regret and hunger for your love, I can see you smiling, with the dimples on your cheek dancing in and out, and you are stroking my hair. The airplane flies past my window and you drift towards the stars hung like portraits against a navy-blue wall, waving your goodbye. As you board the plane made of purple shooting stars and shiny metal, I finally understand that you have found your way at last, unlike all of us, and I’d be selfish to catch you and slide the star down my palm.

So I let go, and blow the fairy dust away.
Death has solved the puzzle mystery of our lives intertwined, and now the memories are of orange and green like the viridity of grass.