Wednesday, May 06, 2009

The sky is falling

(painting by Jaz Harold)

I sit under a tree, the wind against my face. The breeze is warm but my arm hairs stand on end. The leaves rustle and mummer disturbingly above. An acorn tumbles from it's seemingly secure branch and my head stings from where it bounced before falling to it's resting place next to my feet. My hand searches for the bruised location and rubs away the pain. My eyes close shut and I let my mind wander but it isn't allowed to go far. There are strict boundaries to where it must adhere. I know where it always try to go but I must keep it from trespassing because if it finds the forbidden area it seeks all it will find is pain. But sometimes there is no controlling a mind. It can behave like a two year old, defiant beyond reason.

The first piece lands on my nose it . It is light and soft like a snowflake but warm rather than icy. I cross my eyes trying to get a better look before it takes to the wind. The second floats to my left knee which is pulled into my chest. I hold my legs tight and study this foreign blue object sullying my white jeans. The blue is vibrant but has varying shades depending on how I turn my head. The leaves murmur furiously. Their whispers urgent and frightened. My eyes are drawn towards their fearful words and another blue brushes my face like a kiss followed by yet another. I feel no surprise by the blue bits sprinkling the world. Rather I feel almost as if I have been expecting it, even waiting for this moment. I step out from under the tree. The grass has turned from green to an ocean of blue. The color is radiant yet blinding. I feel that I should avert my eyes, but I can't keep staring. Small lighter sky blue bits are stick to my bare feet as I walk through the blue shower. They don't fall straight as rain does, rather their floating is magical like a modern art ballet performance. They swirl, sashay, spin in formation and curtsy before they make their final landing in a parade down to the Earth.

Black chunks burn in the day sky where the blue once lay. The menacing black is darker than the night sky and it's growing presence is harrowing and disquieting. The air is so thick with blue now it is hard to see ahead and I struggle to breath. I am seated in what was once grass but now shows no remembrance of it's former green life. My hands finds a fistful of blue and I lift it to my face. When I was young, I loved cotton balls. I loved that the soft vibration they made when I rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger. I loved how fluffy and soft they were against my face. They were the equivalent to other children's blankies. Cotton balls were my comforter; what I held onto when I needed soothing. I would often take them and rub them on my face as I sucked lightly on the inside of my lip.

As I hold the blue to my face, I feel the familiar longing as I did with my cotton balls. Unconsciously my lip reverts to it's position of comfort as it had when I was a child. The blue feels like rose petals, rubbery and soft. It is warm and feels almost alive, pulsing with life but it's vibrancy is dulling as the seconds pass. It's aroma is poignant and sentimental. It is somehow one smell and yet millions of micro smells of everything I have ever smelled in my life; rain on a hot summer's day, Grandma's pecan pie, my mother's face creams, a rotting carcass , burning plastic. Even my emotions are aromatic; fear, hope, sadness and love are all present and piquant. The smells interweave together, but do not blend rather remaining separate like marbled bread.

My head lands heavily onto it's blue aromatic pillow, my eyes towards the ever extinguishing darker than black sky. Running from the darkness is futile so I will embrace it. Warm droplets dapple my hands and neck. The sky is falling but it's not raining. The water droplets are my doing, not because I willed them, but because they have been dammed inside their protected walls, but will remain no longer. And I don't attempt to block their promenade. It feels good to cry. It feels good to let them out away from the torment of emotions inside. They are streaming out of me as quickly as the blue is falling and I relish it. The warmth is comforting and makes me feel human, bringing me back to reality. I will wait, maybe when I wake the sky will have returned and then again maybe it wont have. I will wait.
painting by james roper

The artwork was found on artist a day. I felt that both peices seemed to demonstrate the mood and feeling I was trying for in this prose.
p.s. Please don't read too into this. I am feeling down but by no means should anyone worry about my emotional health.

3 comments:

Stephanie said...

Your writing is beautiful! I havent stopped by in a while, though you are down, I hope all is well, I will have to send you an email soon :)

Rachael said...

Ancient Korean proverb say 6800 mile hug good for woman feeling down. {{{HUGS}}}

Daisy said...

Very beautiful prose.

I chuckled at the p.s. - I feel I have to throw out those disclaimers all of the time!