Saturday, October 17, 2009

10.17.09 | Anywhere Is

It was a wonderfully breathtaking experience, literally, with the sea wind blowing in my face, sifting through my hair, catching on my shirt as it would catch on a ship's mast. With my eyes shut and my arms extended, I stood there, on the edge of the cliff, listening to the wind whistle its melancholic tune and the violent waves crashing, crashing, crashing into the limestone beneath my feet.
A gull cried out somewhere overhead, reminding me of the reason I was there—to fly.
I inhaled deeply and opened my eyes. The gulls, the sailboats, the horizon, the sky. All was to be within my grasp momentarily. The sun glowed warmly, passionately, brighter than the shimmering waters that tried to imitate Apollo and tempt me to join them. I'd swam before, but I knew that it isn't as thrilling of an experience as flying would be. It never would be so.
I fixated my posture, readied myself for flight. With the strong ocean wind blowing, I nearly lost my balance, but I quickly regained it. Good thing I was still standing with both feet firm. If I had fallen without preparation, the aftermath would have been messy, but the oceans would have washed away the gore.
So Zeus was on my side that day. He wouldn't let me fall. Why would he? My soul was more confident than ever. There was nothing but triumph I could think of.
I closed my eyes again and took yet another deep breath. What was stalling me?
I imagined wings—invisible wings—sprouting from my back. I imagined them lifting me into the air, taking me to places I'd never seen nor heard of, places where there was nothing to worry about, unlike the cruel reality I had just escaped. Anywhere is better than home, I thought to myself. Anywhere is.
I fixated my posture, readied myself for flight. Wait—hadn't I already done so? But I had to make sure I was ready. Yes.
The gulls cried, Go, go, and I took a last deep breath.

And I jumped.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

10.03.09 | Clocks

There were faces on the walls. Numerous faces. They stared down at me, blind, deaf, and dumb, but their hands were ever busy, always moving, never resting. Each face sang its own solemn hymn, regardless of what other melodies were audible, but the amalgamation was not cacophonous.