You were an icy rain falling...falling from the dark winter sky...quiet...beautiful...and with a presence that could only be admired...stared at as you hit the ground with such grace. Oh, and I was barefoot that night and felt you with such intensity.  You were so cold...so crisp that my toes were slowly reddening while walking upon and standing under...you...taking over the atmosphere with your temperature...with your sharpness...with your echoing silence.

Purity.  I couldn't go inside, because you were so incredible that I didn't wanna miss you.  Falling and laying there...even though not orginially contained.  A billion little pieces, all different, yet constructing the most beautiful of rains...the most delicate of showers.  I stood outside to be drenched by you...to have my hair soaked with...you...my clothes saturated with...you.  

I was so immersed in you...in you...that I didn't see the headlights to my left coming closer, nor did I see that my cold, reddened feet were standing on two pieces of identically, dilapidated wood, connected with a thick piece of rusting steel.  In you...I lost all vision...and in seconds that were not forewarned or forthought, I died with basking in you...your icy showers...your silent presence,

I saw you smiling...like you do when you really wanna cry...but you're too strong for that.  And something deep within me started panting, yearning, to be close to you...to feel your heartbeat against my cheek...to have your smell linger on me, even though I can't tell where exactly it's coming from.  I wanted to stare so closely at your face, memorizing each detail...hoping that I would never forget...wishing that the moment would never end. 

But I was only looking at a photograph of you smiling...like you do when you really wanna cry...but you're too strong for that.  A photograph of you glowing, without even knowing that you were making me yearn.

There is no way to recapture what once was, what was once written...what was once felt and scribed in such detail that only the sounds of the guitar could belt it out.

There is no way to recapture the tears that fell, the ink that dripped...the breath that left.  But she tries to, because it was once such a large part of her...exposed...for the world to see...on the screen...with predictions of what those words meant...of how she portrayed her writ.

And who would have ever seen eight months go by without a word...without a scribe...on that screen that showcased her hurting insides for genuine beings to view and feel.  And is it over?  Has the time gone?  Has it all died?

Should the trumpets play like they did?  Should the piano laugh?  Should the strings cry?  All to bring her back to when her hand moved vigorously to reveal it all...to when her face looked so intense...as though it ached in pain, hoping that she would find the words to describe how her core quivered.  And, back then, her eyes blinked uncontrollably, and she was perpetually cold, yearning for the warmth of another.  Back when she was 'Mrs. Dalloway' taking a hot shower that was so frozen that she had no choice but to wrap her arms around herself to feel the essence of what could be another.  The days when she floated on the colorful tube in the black liquid and twittled her fingers from not knowing her direction.  Back when she stood in the yard through all four seasons...black, wavy hair drenched with what fell from the sky...each drop of water falling to the ground and transporting her to the top of that mountain where those tears almost froze as she released them.  And she blinked for the first time...and in that moment, she realized that she was real.

If only she could feel now and recapture that life of openess...the feelings that accompanied those words.  Back there.

I want you to see tall buildings with flashy glass...in the city that glows at night as men in suits work late in those stately buildings...and I want you to see trains and business...and tourists amazed at the heights...amazed at the place...the city...the city that never sleeps...the city that has a perpetual power ballad playing.

I want you to see fast taxis and jaywalkers.  I want you to see streetlights changing colors...buses full of people...and the man playing his sax while loose change is thrown into his rag hat. 

Oh, I want you to see lightening flash and the stars smiling over the artificially lit town.  I want you to see the whole world in a single take.  I want you to long for the sounds of the synthesizer...the electric guitar..and the sweet voices of male singers that exude emotion through their cords. 

Oh, I want you to jam and be caught up.  I want you to remember commercials and old logos to brand names that still stick around. 

I want you to walk with power....imagining that you are playing the drumb beat to that perpetual ballad.  I want you to blow the horns as though you were in Chicago.  I want you to groove down the street without a care in the world.  I want you to be mesmerized...seeing flashes...seeing shows...seeing electricity...intensity...the electric guitar...

And then, I want you to exhale from the excitement of it all...the jamming with your feet...seeing colors flash in the sky...and your jaw moving involuntarily.  Gyration.

And finally, I want you to watch the sunset and dream of home...of food cooked with love...of 40 watt lamps that light your entire house...and of old tv shows that had meaning. 

Don't forget the city, though.  Never forget the city.

I walk down that forbidden hallway, drapped with overdo red carpet, vintage painted walls, and memories so sweet and tangible that I'd be content to dwell there for hours.  And it's just like back then when you sang, "...and I waited for you."  Except, this time, you say, "Too bad for the running man."  Oh, serenade me in that hallway anyday.

And now, I remember how I begged her for the key to the room that was not meant for me.  And she, smiling like love, handed me the key...attached to a long, wooden stick.  Ooo me.  So lucky.  I loved it.  The perks, I would say.  But not then.  No, now I'd say that, but then again, thinking back over it, it was more of the prequel to it all.  And it all happened...in that hallway...the same hallway where you said, "Just a picture and a feeling and a face." 

But there is no picture.  The picture is the scene that is forever plastered on my mind.  That hallway.  And oh, the illegal things I did in that red abyss.  From taking off my shoes and running silently to access its secret passageways, I did it all.  I took it all.  I gave it all back, but then, I gained it all back.  Oh, yeah, I ran, just like you said twice...once then, and now again. 

If I could, I would lean against the off white, pinkish walls, and slowly slide down until I was sitting on the carpet...in the midst...of the hallways...the hallway of memories...the hallway where I waited.  Yes, I would just sit there and take it all in.  I would play it all back again like I would a tape...oh, the tapes.  You know what I mean.

But then again, you're right.  Too bad for the running gal.  I was the running gal...runaway running from it all--runaway running to it all--runaway running in the middle of it all.  So yes, let me now run in my mind to that safe, red velvet place...that place where she handed me the wooden key.

She should be happy she's in prison.  It's like a legal, 45 day autumn without Christopher Cross serenading her with Arthur's theme. 

But she wouldn't see the leaves changing colors in a window, even though she could make them happen in her mind, and unlike really seeing them, she can make them stay longer than usual.  And she could write everything down like she is doing research on herself.  And no one would be telling her how to live her life.  The metal bed won't talk and neither will the little sheets.  But sadly, the smoothe sounds of  Rick and Teena won't be there either. 

She could wrap herself up in a phantasma...and she could make things happen.  And she could be the queen of her own world, and who could stop her?  For once, she'd probably hear complete silence.  Silence can be so refreshing.  Everything would shut up.  She needs the silence before the release.

Though it's sick, she's living a dream.  To some, those three hot meals are luxury.  To some, those clean, orange jumpers are stylish.  To some, those to little sheets are warmer than having to deal with frozen toes and runny noses.  To some, the 8 by 12 foot cell is better than the cardboard box of the woman who prays that she will make it through the night. 

Prison comes in many forms that are overlooked by society.  It's easy to say, "Get a job" or "Do something with yourself", but really, to say those things is to throw meatless bones at the hungry. 

And she sits in her cell as it darkens for the night--and the silence is her only company.  And silent tears stream down her beautiful face, dampening the plastic mattress below her.  Silence.

The Broken Flower is broken, and I feel as though I want to carress her petals so that she will feel better.  But what is better?  Walking into the field with her head held high?  Leaving the outdoors all together?  And I knew...I knew that this would happen--even though I was convinced the sun would scorch her.  Who knew that it would be a bee...meant to help her grow...but robbing her of her floralcy?

And so, I sit watching the sad Broken Flower ready to console her, though she pushes me away which is to be expected.  I can only apologize for her withering petals.  I can only apologize, for I am related to the bee.

Whistle...it's just a sweet, sweet whistle, like a slow, steady wind that makes your hair blow in the breeze.  And there's sun tea on the front porch...and you wear your summer dress that has flowers all over it.  And the thing is, you know the names to every flower, because you grow them in your garden...your lovely, lovely garden.

And you were invited to the school dance by that boy...and you loved him.  So, when the slow dance came, he gently grabbed your hand and lead you to the center of the floor.  In your short heals, you felt so grown up.  With his hand around your waist, you believed you were a woman.  And slowly...like the breeze, you both danced.  You could feel your heart beating out of your chest...but you suddenly became calm.  Then, you rested your head on his shoulder.  Life was being lived.

What do we do, play guitars?  Acoustic guitars, and we think we're so hip.  And the boys play the drums, and we sing.  Oh my goodness, we're singing!  We sound so lovely, don't we?  And we have long, wavy hair...and we are barefoot...and the cute one keeps looking at us out of the corner of his eye and it takes everything in us not to giggle.  And we're so thin.  And we are so pleased with our thrift store dresses.  And we clasp our hands together as we continue to sing.  And both of our mouths touch the mic...even though we know we're only doing that to get attention.  But suddenly, we really get into the lyrics.  We really, really begin to sing from deep within.  And suddenly, we aren't who we thought we were.  We are growing up.  We are growing up, even though we don't weigh much...

But now, we play Third Eye Blind as we drive down the open road in our mustang.  And we couldn't do this without our shades, because we have to be so cool.  And you just have to stand up in your seat, because the top is down...and your hair flys around everywhere, and I can't stop laughing. 

We grew flowers when we were younger...and we experienced our first kisses at that dance...and we were both in love with Ricky in highschool, but Mike was worth the chase.  And when we were in that band, we just knew we had made it into the big times.  We grew up.  We grew tall...and we grew breasts...and we grew husbands that never knew Mike and Ricky...and now, we're growing babies and passing the torch as we watch them grow.  We lived.

The sticks are in my hands...and I begin the beat.  But how could I not begin the beat?  Everything is beating.  Everything is worked up.  Everything has risen. 

There used to be a time when I would breathe...you.  My heart would be elated.  My mind fogged.  My eyes welling.  My skin warm.  And I breathed you.  I relaxed in you.  Yes, you.  And there was nothing more that I wanted to do...than to rest my head...in you...deep inside of you.  And yet again, what do I say?  I just play the beat.  The beat says it all.

My finger and thumb fuse together and tap on the desk.  They tap to the beat.  And simple words--words so simple that a kid could write them--explain everything in such unique and full detail.  It was all detail.  I'd watch you do everything.  Your breathing even amazed me--just the mere fact that you did it and didn't realize it.  And everything should be repeated--it should all be repeated! 

The symphony plays...the beat.  The beat never stops, because the beat is the song...the beat is it all.  Simple words...simple words!  And they are whispered.   They are whispered to you in small bathroom corners where the tile makes the room ten degrees cooler...where barefeet walk and leave momentary foggy trails showing where they have stepped.  The words are all whispered in a corner--whispered from a child's innocent lips.

Her core...her core is jumping.  It jumps...and her hands continue to play the beat...and others join in...to the beat.  They all play, making a sweet, sweet symphony.  It's all a symphony.  But the words, the simple words...they say it all.  They outline everything that could have happened but didn't.  All those things...would have never happened.  Those words speak of things that were never ordained.  Creation.  Creation is what it is.  The words speak of things not created.

Look at the autumn leaves flying around in the whirlwind...and they dance to the music...all those colors free and floating.  And suddenly, as the beat becomes the only sound, they fall to the ground with grace.  The yard is cold.  What more do I say?

My hand brushed against yours, and that embrace felt strangely familiar while being simutaneously different.  I missed you, and you missed me, but what is it that we were missing?  You embraced me...lovingly...and opened your lips to say what you felt during the moment, and you caught me off guard.  What was I supposed to do?  Pick you up and swing you around?  Would that have been PC anyways?

So, Beloved, I don't know what to do with this...this semblance of a relationship.  I love you, yes, but what is this?

Mrs. Dalloway sits at her desk, water cup dripping from frigidity, music blasting to drown out all the sounds, pants rolled over her knees for added comfort, and she types.  She throws parties, but the silence becomes louder--oxymoron, I know, but nonetheless, a very intuitive comparison.  And she feels so empty.  She is like a house that sits alone on a road.  One streetlight gives subtle emphasis to her features, and she feels as though she should be demonlished. 

Mrs. Dalloway cooks in her kitchen, cracks eggs one by one, and mixes everything with her hands.  It's all in her hands.  She gently...lightly...carelessly allows the yokes to slip into their eternal abyss.  And she continues with her work--the work for her party.  Mrs. Dalloway waits by the phone, hoping against all hope that her Beloved will call...but she doesn't want to be too consumed...consumed with the impending conversation.  So, to ease herself, she opens her phone--state of the art with buttons and flashy things--and she turns the scroller to vibrate.  She feels as though this move will alleviate her anxiousness, yet alertness resounds.

Mrs. Dalloway walks down busy city streets...heals clacking, bag clutched, scarf flowing in the speed of her pace, and she enters a florists' paradise.  She buys roses, daisies--flowers of all kinds...happy flowers that cover the ugliness.  And, as she stares at those flowers, she tries to find her escape in their beauty.  The smells intoxicate her--the colors carress her, and she closes her eyes to take it all in--the essence of those flowers.  They are her hope--the hope that it isn't all in vain.

And she takes a shower to prepare for the party--the party intended to silence the silence.  As the water rolls like rain down her back, she holds herself.  She imagines being hugged and held by someone who is it--who is there--who has escaped the silence.  And though her arms are as useful as anyone else's, she realizes that they are cold to her...as cold as a broken love--as cold as a winter storm in the mountains--as cold as the rest of her.  So finishing up without trying to go into any deep introspection, she turns the nozzle off, stands, and breathes.

Mrs. Dalloway lays on her bed staring at the ceiling.  She wonders what the next day will bring or rather, if she will be available for the next day when it arrives.  She turned on her side, holds her pillow close to her face as though it's her lover, and cries herself to sleep.  Mrs. Dalloway...sleeps.

It pounds and it pounds...and it pounds almost out of my chest!  Is there a whirlwind here?  Is a blue breeze flowing around me with various flowers in its' grasp? 

Lungs expand and release the air through my nostrils...and I am filled with security.  The sun rises and then it sets, just as I receive a realization of that peaceful moment.  The world revolves, but not around me...not around me...not around me.  The world revolves but not around me and I finally accept that. 

Just breathe, she whispers through harmonious breaths that come to her as though balanced on the wings of angels and nestled in the arms of infants.  And yes, I can breathe!  My breath is back again, and during this...this pause...this time of release, I will breathe as though I have just begun life. 

I see buildings lit by dimming streetlights--buildings, with stairwells clearly seen, worn, welcome...buildings, wet with rain that accents the path for those about to enter...and yes, I love seeing these things, but now, all I want to see is life.  I just want...life.  Like lightening bugs hovering around in a Mason Jar topped with poked foil... Like bees drifting to sleep during twilight...like water welcoming it's distant cousins at a hidden delta, I want to rest in living.  I want to rest in the arms of pillows, in the comfort of quilts, in the indentation that so perfectly fits my body.  I want to rest in songs of worship...in words of passion...in the essence of being known. 

And on that couch, I want to just...be.  Time is but a clock that ticks when recognized.  Time must yield to it's Creator.  And now, as tears well up in my eyes from the sheer joy of this breath, within me mounts a power that can fly about ice-tipped mountains, and swim in clear blue seas.  Just breathe...

Like anyone who leaves a place, I pack my bags.   And while I pack, I seem to be throwing out things...things of no real significance, because, well, if they were things of value, they'd be treasured, wouldn't they?  And what do I say?  I feel as though I am a white sheet of paper--clean and new.  I want to be new.  I want to begin again.  So many barnacles have been latching on...leeches to my legs, and now is the time to shake them off to their fate.  It is time to start over. 

By why speak with symbolism? 

I am a grape.  There's so little juice to create, that the ounce of liquid squeezed from me instantly firments and is sold for a buck, and... 

I am a willow.  I swing and sway and am eclectic...electric in my mood.  I hang low and refuse to look at my reflection in the pond that reveals my face, and...

I am a teardrop.  I am intricate and detailed, present in celebration and defeat.  I am collected into bottles and sit as a witness to the event in which I was created, but...

This is not enough.  This could never be enough.  Where is the style and substance?  Where are the rhetoricals and the directs?  Do I digress or merely end?  Do I continue or drop my pen?  In this moment a choice must be made--do they grow, shrink, or stay?  Does that one click seal their fate?

And you.  You!  What do I say?  I've mentioned you a million times before, and thus, I have received no greater understanding of your story or view.  You.  We are locked behind thick glass, staring at each other, but unable to touch.  Your eyes yearn for blindness.  You see.  You look at me with hallow eyes...glass eyes that only dwell in the land of Denial.  I look at you in desperation...bleeding for understanding, and you fail to give.   Pit for Pat...Swig and Swat...what is this?  We are two stepping it all, and I am falling.  You could do this forever, I believe.  One more chance for your reaction, before I make my final decision.  One more chance for your decision, because I must make an executive turn. 

And so it ends...

I am a word, spoken into being.  New letters are added as each year is welcomed, and soon, I will become a book.

Like a man who builds train tracks, I work tirelessly...tirelessly to reach my goal.  I run and run and run, because I need to run.  Running is the passion that I am inflicting on myself.  Running is another escape for me...for Rheeb...for us.  And we run together, away from it all...all of it...it all and all and all and oh...we breathe.  And this goal is simply a diversion, I admit.  By why not divert?  The main road has too much traffic, so why not drive on the shoulder for a while?  And this...this diversion can actually benefit me in the future.  But really--to speak as plainly as possible--my goal is to stare in that mirror...praising myself for my accomplishment and trying to find some semblance of worth in that self-said encouragement. 

Rheeb is tired of crying, so she wants to keep moving.  Rheeb is tired of searching, and now she's trying to find.

Swigs of ink...

On papyas leaf...

Brushes of paint...

On an Italian plate...

Printed words...

On sheets of white...

Grafted fingerprints...

Under twilight...

And as they sing...

They sing aloud...

Only those with vision...

Can hear the sound...

Dot Dot Dot...

Dot Dot Dot...

They play and giggle...

And sing so free...

They twinkle and dance...

Those that once were trees...

They weep and scream...

Those tiny voices resound...

They create color for the world...

Their hearts quietly found...

They swivle and sway...

They lean and flow...

Words they are...

Words that glow...

"You see, the song is the life, the life I can't live"

And yes, as her words echo from the brown, worn pages I understand her voice...her meaning...her thought in that time of explaination. The song is the life, but I cannot sing. The song is the feeling...the feeling of the quivering core being soothed...the feeling mending the hole in the mirror...the feeling of being seen, found out, embraced, and again, I say, loved. But the song cannot be sung on a constant basis. The song cannot be sung by one who is voiceless. The song is only imaginative...the song is a figment of Fantasma.

And what is the use when the song can do more harm than good?  As my fine glassware shatters under the high pitched notes--as my feet tremble from the depths of it's low pitch seduction...as my eyes squint to half-state when the pitch becomes unbarable...when tears stream down my face from the song's near end. And thus, as stated, the song cannot be sung, though the song is the life...the life that I can't live. The song is a visionary wind only felt by the one who has the vision. The song is a memory that can only be remembered in first person. The song, though written and read, is fiction...a dream...a figment of Fantasma...of fantasy...of nothingness...

"The song is the life, the life I can't live."

And I see you all standing in a horizontal line...and as the clock continues its rotation, I see more of you appear--silouhette like...blue and forming. You have proven your truth to me, and I stare at you with eyes glazed from tears of joy. How blessed am I to have you in my life? What did I do to deserve you--to deserve your love--to have you care so wonderfully for me? And I have had doubts--doubts without any solid basis--but you have struck them down.

You make me weep out of thankfulness to Him. You make me smile out of sincere contentment...and I thank you. I thank you for accepting me as I am, for embracing my quirks, for dealing with my anxieties and failures. He loved me enough to put you all into my life, and I sit speechless as I see it all unfold.

I find myself in a place of speechlessness...and only the supernatural tears that stream down my face can explain the depth of the atmosphere...  And I try to sing, but the words cannot come out...they are shut up by the streams...but as they sing...and as they lift their voices to the heights of heaven, they are singing for me.  Their words are my words...and they capture every crannie of my inner being...every feeling of my soul.  And we are all one.  I am them and they are me...and we all want to adore Him...and I love Him so...so much that I can't explain...to a point that I cannot speak, but struck with awe...hearing those words that glorify Him...those musical hues and tones that are played as high as skillfully can be...and what can I do? 
What can I possibly do?! 

I lay on my face...I am struck still...and I see...I see the greater purpose of my life...of life, of love, of peace, of Greatness, and I dwell there.  Oh, how I never want to leave...Oh, how everything else in this world is so miniscule...monumentally trvial...worthless in comparison...nothing of nothingness...a snap, it is...and here, there is timelessness...and I sit in that ceased rotation and simply dwell with Him...my Love, my Life.  I pour out my heart with much more than what words could possibly express, and I am immobIle...caught up in His majesty...unable to do the simplest of tasks...feeling air so crisp and pure that I breathe slowly and peacefully...while my spirit jumps within me...so much that I can barely contain, and they sing from their core...their voices aligning with my love...us all in harmony that lifts higher than we can possibly imagine...and we sign the card...but can't we do more?! 

And I lay face down...as low as I can go...as high as I can be...at His feet, thanking Him for my life...thanking Him for just being who He is...my Lord, my Love.  I long for my heart to feel the breeze that is so evident...so clearly visible...so loving and real.  I rip open and take it all in...my nostrils expand...the coolness consuming us all.  I dwell.

With smooth, lotioned hands relaxed...
Nails painted fiercely...
Neck strong and powerful...
And eyes that beam the light of dignity & class...
She left.

And her leaving has made the bulb come on. 
And they all stand in the spotlight
With warts fully exposed for all the world to see.

And they claim that the warts are an illusion,
But the naked eye sees them ever-so clearly...
And we all see
Clearly
The PC...the betrayal...the false illusion
That they try to feed us through a screen
After our breakfast...

But we don't buy it
And we never will 
All their scheming is on top but soon,
It will fall down a very steep hill
Only to crash into a revine of sewage
Rotting for all to see...

And she will be sipping on her drink,
Resting her legs on the leather couch,
Carressing her lover,
And watching as it all falls down...