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White Dress

Tick. Tock.

Fingers, hands. A face, a smile, a frown, eyes closed. Fingers, hands, strings. Strumming, picking. Squeals and squeaks on the fretboard. Voices, conversation, muffled. Neighbours. Fingers, hands, wild. Moans, grunts, sighs. A bed creaks, springs rhythmically compressed. Clawing, sweat, smiles and hate. Fingers, hands, intense. Violent, aggressive, angry. Gestures, yells, spittle. Creaks. A swing rocks like a pendulum, feet drag on the sand. Tears, sobs, sniffles. Bark. Bark bark bark, growl. Fist slams on the table, the tea cup jumps out of its saucer. Porcelain flies, shattered. Silence.

You're standing on the edge of a precipice. In the moonlight, your eyes stare into the impenetrable darkness below you, and your mind conjures up vivid creatures, phantasms, and soon you believe you see them. Swirls and tendrils of shade-like ink seem to creep up, reaching and clawing at you. You shiver, and desperately want to run away, but the darkness. The darkness. Your thoughts circle and spin in your mind, as you gaspingly search for that answer, that solution, the action. You're waiting, you're running. You don't know what you're waiting for, and a single thought crosses your mind, like a drop. Drip. The answer may be at the end, you think. The bottom, through the darkness. Your eyes gaze deeper into the gaping maw, trying to gleam into that end. You take a half step forward, sliding the sole of your foot through the hard and dried dirt, pebbles rolling under your skin. A soft billow of dust floats up, shone through by a silvery ray. A few other pebbles roll down the wall of the crevice, and you hear their echoing trickle. Your turmoiling mind comes to a halt, the creeping, whispering darkness that pulled you in recedes. You look up at the moon, then down at the darkness. You close your eyes. You inhale.  

Slumps

"Don't take it for granted," they say.

It's a line often heard, and seldom heeded. In true caricatural embodiment of a tired cliché, the story starts as most do: with the initial encounter. A moment of uncertainty, tinged with apprehension. The daunting prospect of initiating something meaningful, of creating a connection. Questions abound: What if it doesn't work? What if we aren't compatible? What if I lose interest? What if?

In time, if compatiblity takes hold, one learns much about the other. A comfortable partnership emerges, where interest is the mainstay of the union. Constant curiosity drives this mutually enlightening stretch, where every day new aspects of the partner's are garnered, small quirks are discovered. Appreciation is at its apogee, and thoughts constantly circle around this newfound pursuit, and the potential of this relationship seems infinite.

Eventually, that most fiery of sparks dims, and the glow fades. Less time is spent with each other, and thoughts no longer center around that alliance which has lost its shine and novelty. Things have come to a standstill, where anything could tip the scales to either direction. One grows accustomed to the presence, though not always immediate, of the other. The knowledge that they are there and easily within reach is enough. The relationship becomes one of convenience, of ease.

Suddenly, one is ripped away from the other. Tragedy strikes, accidents befall or irremediable differences surface. And it is gone.

Goodbye, my dSLR.

Arctic Blaster (2)

Arctic Blaster

Some belated snowstorm pictures from December.

Tiles