The Mannequin and the PuppetRoof tiles the colour of an autumn sunset. Awnings remarking every shade of the rainbow obscure wide, stone-paved streets that could lead to anywhere. A river of people flow dangerously fast, spilling over into alleyways and buildings where shady deals are struck and the sins of men are manufactured beyond number in a feeble attempt to satiate the appetites of a hungry horde of buyers, sellers and those cunning enough to own them both.
The lower level contains the uncountable desires of a dying race at prices that are either too dear, or too poor - but never fair. Fairness is the moth-eaten cloak of Death: where all may reach the same finish line, regardless of what race they ran. The upper level is the habitation of creatures that haunt the day, as they await the enchantment of the night.
A wooden crate sits against a wall, out of the way of the world, yet within it. No one sees the boy who sits atop it, nor does he see them. His rags are still slightly damp from last nights rain and
A dancerThe dance floor remains a bare canvas yet it has been painted over many times before with different colours of toe taps and pirouettes. With different shades of twirls and leaps, and different strokes of glides and plies'. The tone of a chosen melody helps her paint and soon becomes a significant fragment of the art. The colours blend and the shades become more defined. Parts are erased and new shades are quickly mixed. New scenes are drawn, bigger and better stretching from every corner of the canvas. It's re-painted over and over until she finds it perfected. When time is ready she will paint her work once more on a canvas viewed by many.
A dancer is an artist. A very peculiar one. Her work is structured by strength and then masked with beauty.
A Letter to a StrangerDear You,
I may have forgotten You, or maybe I have just met You. You were Me, once, and I think maybe I were You, too, but that is a thing only past tenses understand. But I have something to say to You, so You better listen.
I am a stranger to You. I had not been a stranger for long, but You and I have drifted apart. You cannot understand MeI prevent You from understanding Me. It is a way to protect Myself from You, away from the prying eyes where even I am starting to understand Me a little less.
But less about Me, and more about You.
You and I must've been the same person, once. There was some point in time where You and I were We. Us. Me. Something like that. There was a time, not too long ago, where We laughed in synchronization and said the same things, agreed in unison and were two halves of a wholenot even. We were the whole, You and I.
do you rememberthe days:thumb201060841:
of grilled cheese and muddy shoes,
of simple joy tracked in through the back door
when your mother's call to dinner
was the most pressing obligation of the day
even halting the unrelenting advance
of those scurvy pirates
(a temporary parley)
when sticks and stones
were a garden's gold and rubies,
into dragons and damsels,
only as dangerous as the flames of your imagination
what has happened
to the sticks and stones,
those simple symbols of creativity?
now you wield them along with words,
those double-edged swords
more dangerous than any dragon
(though of course they will never hurt
what has happened
to the flavor of grilled cheese?
it only tastes now like
greasy toast and
no longer a reminder of your mother's buttery love
what has happened
to the irresistible appeal of mud?
left unsplashed in the yard and
shaken, oh so carefully,
off your shoes
no place for the messy sort of joy
in your white, white house
what has happened,