Impasse

Stories told by other souls that tell our own stories. 

The poem below is based on the lyrics of Brooke Fraser- Who are we fooling.

So we're here
Tip toeing round the edge of the end
Wondering who will be last to admit
That we're finally over.

We seem to be at an impasse
Both knowing what seems to be wrong;
We don't agree on where we should go
But together, we want to get there.

Have we tried to loosen the knots
To think perhaps once we're untangled we'll be better off
The hesitations and stalling can only but speak
We crave to leave the knots untied.

'Cause real love is hard love
It's all that's given
It's a break-neck, train wreck
Is it what's been given?

So we're here
At the  edge of the end
Still refusing to toe the line


Better or worse, but what else can we do?
And better or worse
Am I  tethered to you?  If it's not either of us
Tell me who are we fooling?

This beautiful tangle that's bruising us blue
Is it a beautiful knot that we can't undo?
Together we're one but apart
Tell me who are we fooling?


Together we're one, but apart tell me
Who are we fooling?

The Rain.... (Part Two)

It's like trying to remove the poisonous venom of a snake after a bite. Sometimes the writer's quill is pressed forcefully lest the heart of the writer die of poisoning. So the story continues...

No, it doesn't fall down mildly this time,
No, it doesn't come with a soft breeze,
It rains, it pours;
Forget cats and dogs - minuscule metaphors in comparison...

The drops strike.

They strike, they pierce.

It started like a normal day; clear skies, birds chirping, people were starting to move. It was a warm morning.

In the city, dirty puddles. Orange water. Potholed roads. Pick your step well, lest you literally soil yourself. So I walked, picking spots till safely on the pavement.

And then the spears. And everything disappeared.

They came down with the weight of one thousand Mjolnir hammers. Hard and fast. It rained, the cold enveloped my whole body, a bit of it, my soul. Where had the shelters gone to? There was no place to hide under, no place to run to.

No voice could be heard in this downpour. No singing this time. Heavy short breaths. Wiping the wetness from my eyes, so I could see; forward. I could not go back, I had to endure, till the mist dissolved, till the downpour died down, till I could start to make out what was reality.

Sometimes the rain, it hurts you.

The Rain

The movie was over. The proverbial "film star" had saved the day with the last shot of his bullet. The credits began to rain down, not in drip drops as rain would from clouds, rather like the slide of a water drop upon the smooth face of glass.

I paused for a moment and then got up to line up with the rest of the movie watchers who now made small chatter about the funny bits of the movie, the sad ones and all you would expect of a tête-à-tête after a movie. It was eleven a.m. One needed to go home.

Down the steps, the escalator and as I approached the mall's exit, a cold chill, a soft breeze, a light drizzle. 'How wonderful!' I thought. Just the other day I was watching Singing in the Rain. Never mind I had not just been kissed, I had not just said goodnight to the woman of my dreams; no, I had just been dreaming about the night sky and if there were stars tonight, if perhaps I could use it as an excuse to send her a text.

There were no stars tonight. From where I was, all I could see were street lights, and car lights. No stars tonight. The little invisible fireflies were in my belly. That's why I had that smile on my face. And now this beautiful late night rain.

I promptly removed my umbrella and with ease and adoration entered the delightful light shower. I couldn't wipe the smirk off my face as my feet landed into the little puddles of water scattered all over the pavement. How I would have laughed if a moon had I seen! For a moment home escaped my thoughts, and I dissolved in the moment.

Yet, in the midst of the joy, childhood escape, trickled in a heaviness. Not of holding the umbrella for long, not for the distance from home, not from the closeness of the labour of the day but rather the presence of double sorrow, and half a joy. All the while I did think of she who I do not know, could not tell whether she thought of me.

I wanted to text her straight away but feared I should awake her from her endearing sleep. After all I asked myself, on this eleven a.m, few minutes from the middle hour, could she tally awake for a droplet of gilded lullaby from me?

Unsure; wishing her here, to dance with in the rain, but only moving with thoughts and un-drawn paintings of perfect night with soft falling rain, I turned to the pages once again, inking them with these very words thinking perhaps one day, tis a story she reads and will indeed reply "That very night, I wanted to dance in the rain with you".

Why am I smiling

And why do I sing?

Why does September 

Seem sunny as spring?

Why do I get up

Each morning and start?

Happy and head up 

With joy in my heart

Why is each new task

A trifle to do?

Because I am living

A life full of you.

Gene Kelly (Singin in the rain)