Fluttering in the mild, spring wind there is a trace of something. What it is eludes its victims, no word has yet to be invented for its ambience, yet they feel its invigorating effect beckon them. It’s like a warm embrace, encasing one in the enticing promise of safety, never threatening to ease its grasp nor let go. Like moths to the light, the people of the land are drawn to it, seeking its tenderness with eager, never having to search long before being engulfed in its marvel. Like ripples in a pond, there is a resonance, bouncing with ease across the meadows, rubble landscape and the city, that of laughing children, rowdy teenagers, stable adults and reminiscing elderly. It is the horrendous wonderful sound of Earth and the creatures which inhabit it.
Such is the ample, spring day of May 20th.
Inside the comfort of her home, a middle-aged woman stirs, watching the cinders butterflies flutter in the gentle wind. It calls to her, whispers the delicious temptations of relaxation. But once more, the woman must reject its urge, embracing maturity, relinquishing her childlike desire for the neglection of responsibilities. Freedom came at a heavy price, and the weight of obligations was a very steep charge. But one she was willing to pay. Because the load could never outweigh the joy of seeing her family fall apart prosper. Their smiles and love were all the support she needed to carry on another day.
In a nest of cubicles, crouched over a tiny desk with a huge computer, the woman feels the tickling of a foreign inkling. At first, she discards it, assumes its distracting nature is simply that, a subconscious urge to live in denial procrastinate. But with each poke, it slowly unveils its true character. A remembrance, like a static photo clouded with obscurity, however, if she simply focused, she might tune it just right to see its entirety. A nightmare dream? Yes, it was the reoccurring dream, one which slipped into her unconsciousness after its passing, only reemerging as a subtle omen. What was is about again?
Chaos, terror, confusion, sadness, hatred, horror She was simply unable to recall, but as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished before its unproductiveness could take root.
Sometimes, the dull white walls of the shelter office could blind her to its importance, but once she arrived home to the alluring, succulent smell of dinner, her eyes were opened to the fruits of her labor, and with the family gathered around the table, they were all in full bloom. The daughter’s declaration of rebellion had seemingly been retracted, the full-scale war dwindling to occasional pouting. The bubble of lethargy which engulfed her son had finally popped, and without its drowsy effect, he unwillingly finally came out of the shell he had hidden away in for so long. Her husband, wait that’s not right whose support ensured she did not croak underneath the pressure, spent every minute he had in her presence. At times, when the toll became too much, and she feared she would be crushed by the burdens of adulthood, he would lend her the strength to keep going.
And so, the ample, spring day of May 20th proved to be another perfect day. Her family may not be perfect, but they were perfect to her. Her wonderful, amazing, broken family.
***
Fluttering in the mild, spring wind there is a trace of something. What it is eludes its victims, no word has yet to be invented for its ambience, yet they feel its invigorating effect beckon them. It’s like a warm embrace, encasing one in the enticing promise of safety, never threatening to ease its grasp nor let go. Like lambs to the slaughter moths to the light, the people of the land are drawn to it, seeking its tenderness with eager, never having to search long before being engulfed in its horror marvel. Like ripples in a pond, there is a resonance, bouncing with ease across the meadows, landscape, and the city, that of laughing children, rowdy teenagers, stable adults and nostalgic elderly. It is the awful wonderful sound of Earth and the creatures which inhabit it.
Such is the ample, spring day of May 20th.
Underneath the crooked safety of a thousand green leaves, a young boy traces the contrails of iron birds clouds, attempting to map their trajectory. However, the clouds kept an air of elusiveness, never revealing their voyage until the destination had been reached, much like adults. The world was enveloped in mysteries, and despite the boy’s search for answers, he only discovered more questions. It was as tantalizing as it was infuriating, yet hope was never surrendered. Every new day brought new pain opportunities, and every moment seized, increased his chances of grasping this strange reality of ours. And with every spring, with every bloom of a bud, another year is shaved off the deadline. Time was his bitter fiend, never offering to thaw freeze, only progress towards the inevitable.
School was never a remedy, only a bittersweet squander, truth was not the legacy of the masses, nor the song of the choir. Truth was the elusive bluebird. As your hands grasped it, you realized what was clamped was but the cold air, as the bluebird once more had slipped through your fingers. The boy wonders and ponders, if one day, he will invent the birdcage from which it shall never escape, satisfying his hunger for food gospel. All he knows, is that school would not satiate his growling stomach, so instead of dissipating precious resources, he would keep an eye out. One day, amongst the flock of carcasses birds, one would be blue.
But something else flutters in his mind, carrying the same elusive nature. His endeavors are thwarted at every attempt to catch it, yet like the vicious beak of a woodpecker, it teases him with continuous tapping of remembrance. What was it?
Fright, pain, tears, starvation, blasting, death He could not decipher its melody nor rhythm, and thus it fades into the obscurity of his trailing mind.
Falsehoods are not befitting to his kind mother, yet the boy feels compelled to serve them, nonetheless, cowering behind the excuse of their necessity. She swallows them whole, asking for seconds, and once satisfied and full, leave him to recreation before schizophrenia her hunger calls for him to cook another meal in the kiln of lies. His sister refuses to consume his feed, threatening to expose the lack of nutrients and substance, yet her threats are but blanks, fired with intent to protect us scare rather than to hurt. His father no he’s not supposed to be here lacks appetite, never needing his needs sated, yet always reaffirming the quality of his son. In this life, we are given one family. That is a truth he had deciphered. Who or what it consists of is for us to make, but he already knows, he would never have given them up for anything in the world.
And so, the ample, spring day of May 20th proved to be another perfect day. His family may not be perfect, but they were perfect to him. His wonderful, amazing, shattered family.
***
Fluttering in the mild, spring wind there is a trace of something. A putrid monstrosity hiding behind the shell of innocence, a monster lurking beneath the surface of a blue ocean. Its victims know its name but dare not utter it. Because then, like the mortars that robbed homes and bullets which splintered families, the delusion of normality would be shattered, a million crystal shards scattered on the ground reflecting what people reject and fear.
Reality.
But while their mouths refuse to speak its name, it lives like a parasite in their minds, feasting and festering on their dread, growing in size and influence of the feeble-minded. And once grown to overwhelming proportions, the mind crumbles like the fragile pillars of society. None can withstand it, a sheer force of power which still stands uncontested, yet the ripples of its clashes persist in the black ink tattooed on our pages. For what is the skin but a blank canvas on which we etch of past, present, and future? And if we are to read the hurdled writing of frightened victims, what do we find scribbled between droplets of fear-induced sweat?
War.
Once said, it cannot be taken back. Unleashing the beast from its prison lets it ravage and destroy, its thirst for chaos never quenched. I would lie if I said I do not fear it. I have faced the beast and lived with the parasite. I know of their devastation, yet with every reencounter, I cannot stop their ruthless march.
That is reality. And much like the gravitational pull of the earth, I cannot escape it.
But they can.
Reality is but threads, weaved into a single fabric of existence. The colors, the shapes, they may change from fabric to fabric, but the pattern for which they must follow remains the same. However, I can change the pattern, alter it, to become something entirely new. To wrap my loved ones in the soft comfort of delusions. I weave not lies, but soothing fabrications. What initially was my curse, became my gift, yet I harvest not the fruits of my labor, but the burdens.
I have seen the mountain cracked by grief; I have seen innocence murdered by truth. Soldiers fall with every passing second, but at least, they are relinquished of their mortal trepidations. The remnants destined to become prey of the beast and parasite. I feel the parasite wiggle and the hot, stinking breath of the beast against my neck. I will not let them stalk my family. I will not allow their continued feast.
When we lost the anchor of our family to the ocean’s depths, we were aimless, scouring the night sky for guidance, but the stars hid. Aimless and hopeless, we’re adrift, cursing the cosmos for their negligence. We are but slaves to its will, and once its destiny is enacted, we are abandoned to its pandemonium.
And so, I carry my burden with pride, weaving relentlessly. The only hope remaining, is that with each hem, with each seam, I sow the bond which holds my family together.
We shall and will give in, end this misery not break.
