Tell Me No More of Enchanted Days

Choices present themselves in the shape of colours, always changing, always merging, always losing the essence of what they stood for. Wanting flowers, choosing diamonds, wanting depth, choosing air, wanting kisses, choosing touch, wanting everything, choosing nothing. Call this day to its end call this stone a heart, call this sail a wave, call this fall a disgrace Blame the footprints left before, blame the fortress built in the night, blame the solitude of time blame the dying light flickering again Whatever you do, choose your ruin, choose your blooms, without restraint and regret knowing they are your own. I have suffered for mine I have lived and loved for mine Never once looking back to see what I didn't choose instead.

Image: Angela Bradburn Doesn't it hurt, the unconquerable peak, the undefined verse, the uncaptured chord, the inescapable heaviness at the bottom of the heart? I know it does. So what if I can't feel it, or remember the tearing of skin from thorny bushes near the river so calm. No one can console or reassure you of better days to come when the scar goes under more scars, and new flesh grows making you new and cold to those with fresh scars Remember one thing, everybody feels, even when scars are created or hidden far below. The beauty and the pain, not just in the flowing of the river, but also in the parched up ground.

Image by: Henri Daumier Don't hide from me, my moon, I've watched you so many times before. And each time you've shown me things I've forgotten a long time ago. Once I was a young girl, and my love was far away. Each night, I would look at you and in your light, I saw his face. Blowing a kiss at you, I knew it would reach those lips. He would laugh when I would with sheer belief, call you a woman. "You're my moon, my woman." As I grew older and love faded, I could not bear to look at you. I had no love, and I felt you would mock my loneliness on nights when you were pale yellow and high. That is your splendour, your glittering dance in gold, the eye of all crowds, the glass of wine, the heel in the sky. When I saw you crimson and low, it brought only sadness I never saw you blue, maybe I never wanted to. But tonight, I looked at you again, still so beautiful, melting like butter in hot soup; wanted to devour you, my moon, like a man quenched with desire Y

It's funny how you can be two completely different people in a matter of years. I was opening up my past to a close friend and ended up muttering, "Memories exist because they make you remember who you were." I do remember who I was, but am shocked and surprised each time I think about it. How did I end up changing so much? When exactly did it happen? Sometimes the transition is gradual and happens without your realising it. In other cases, one fine day, you just wake up and find yourself changed. Like the man who invented his own language, and one day discovered he had forgotten how to communicate with other people. Now, that was a story I read in a school text book. Amazing how after 23 years, I actually understand what it meant. I regret some things that I have lost in myself. The ability to trust people, impulsiveness, warmth, a certain don't care attitude. I appreciate what I've gained: practicality, judgement, independence and strength. There's still som

Another face unknown, names of spouses, children, friends There's always a story behind that, I can almost guess, maybe he was a doting father, this one the shrewd mother-in-law, an ambitious banker, or the hardworking wife. What happens to them after 10 years, does anyone remember their words, or smiles? "Your light will shine upon us", "Now you're in heaven with God"... Were they just as treasured when they were really alive? Sometimes, I shed a tear for people I've never known. At times, I decide to go for their funerals, but never have the courage to mourn. Death will come to all, and one day all will be forgotten. Should we be angry for going so soon, recreating Big Bangs and yet knowing nothing? Perhaps it's only fair, perhaps it's isn't. Life is quantifiable only in hours, Both living and dying are infinite. Sometimes, your dead when you're alive, sometimes you live even when you're dead. To some, you're nothing but a photo