Posted by: theboyfromsmallville | May 4, 2007

At random

My thoughts are as jumbled as a basket-full of dirty laundry tossed into an ageing washing machine.

I cannot straighten them out.

There are images and images and images and words and words and phrases and sentences and thoughts and memories.

And every now and then, there are fairies.

And I don’t believe in fairies anymore.

And I was watching Spider-Man for the second time, and again came to the scene where J. Jonah Jameson negotiates with a young girl for her camera and for the second time, I go Melagirl, is that you?

I would have called it déjà vu but hey, too much obvious, it is, Yoda would have said. If he were in Smallville instead of in Star Wars.

Déjà vu is this:

I don’t know why. It feels like seeing a burning used car tire rolling in front of you after seeing a burning used car tire rolling in front of you and seeing a burning used car tire rolling in front of you.

Black Hawk Down! A voice is screaming in my head. I don’t know why. I was playing word association on my own when my ears picked up a campaign commercial whose jingle was being performed by one of those young artists whose throats you’d want to run through an office shredder and the first three words that crossed my mind were:

Black Hawk Down! Yes, the exclamation point was in my head too.

Don’t ask. I do not know either.

And then the knucklecracker needed help to build doña dreams. Such a delicious reprieve from the buzz in my head—the retreat to a dream world where everything turns out right. Where quarter-mile jogs along shorelines trump questions of why tides ebb.

For a moment, talking about window-walls facing the sunset and catching the sea breeze with your face derailed thoughts of this:

And then there is an open box beside me. In it is an uneaten pizza slice and crispy-outside-puffy-inside mojo chips. I do not know, why but the sight is pretty depressing. It reminds you of a dream of tangled strings and scissors scattered all around you and you do not know why on earth you wake up with a melancholic feeling deep in your gut.

What’s with strings and scissors anyways?

Should we have untangled them in our dreams? Or used the scissors to cut them? Like we no longer can because we’re already awake and sleeping to catch up with the faded dream is just like surfing through cable channels trying to catch an episode of a show you missed?

Or is it because somewhere along this post you realize that sense has been knocked out of you and work is like the washing machine cycle. Always spinning, always cleaning, but really, when you look at it it only goes around in circles.

Not just the machine.

I mean, the clothes. It’s an endless circle of you pick them, wear them, soil, them, have them washed, ironed, folded and stuffed into your closet so you can pick them, wear them and… well, you know the drill.

Where am I going?

Somewhere, someone finds himself—or herself to avoid being labeled a chauvinist—pinched in between weariness and surrender and drops the effort to push the walls away.

I still don’t know where I’m going.

Where there are fairies, perhaps?

And if you find that they are dying, would you put them all in a shoe box and book your tickets to a live talk show where there is applause and laughter in generous doses to bring them back to life?

Or do you burn the shoebox and die with them? Do you pull the outer edges of yourself into a curl so tight, you end up drowning in your insides? And just before the last puffs of oxygen disappear into the burps that your stomach produces, you catch a glimpse of—and admire—the ribs that fence-in your lungs, the skull that guards your brain and an unprotected heart torched beyond recognition.

Flap your wings! Flap your wings! You think that’s what you tell yourself before you pass out. You think that’s what you hear.

But the words that echo are these and these alone:

Images compliments of this site. As pointed to by this site. And if you try really hard, a voice in my head says, you can stitch these thoughts into one coherent picture. But I cannot. Because coherence is next to godliness.

Comments are like clapping hands. They keep fairies alive.

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Responses

  1. *sprinkles fairy dust and tangerine dreams all over cois*

  2. hi francis,

    off topic. can you send me your contact details (phone and email) to my email address? something for pjr reports.

    thanks.


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