The steaming yellow-ish soup in front of me and all I could think about is the next day. The last day. The meal looked acceptable. I wonder how long it took them to make. How fresh it was. If they knew who it was for. The soup tasted awful. After a couple of spoonfuls my brain started to play tricks on me. The soup's consistency changed from watery to thick, the taste from stale to metallic, and for a second I could have sworn the color changed too. My mind was still haunting me. After all this time in confinement one would assume to have gone insane. Thing is, I wasn’t. I was the only one clear enough to realize what had really happened back then.
It wasn’t me, wasn’t me, I kept saying. No one believed me. Even the dog was scared of me after she was murdered. I wasn’t even home when it happened. And to think I could have ever done such a thing to anyone, let alone my own wife. I couldn’t blame them, the evidence was stacked against me. Fingerprints and multiple eyewitnesses identifying the killer as none other than myself surely made for a damn clear case. I never liked the neighbours that spoke out against me anyways. Those motherfuckers can rot in hell.
All I knew was that I was away that day, as I had been the week before the murder took place. I never forgot her crying face, yelling at me and suddenly breaking out in tears as I left. A break is what we needed. I hadn’t planned on coming back for a few weeks, but I couldn’t help it, I loved her so much. When I arrived at home the cops were already prepared to sack me. What a horrible day that was. What a nightmare.
As I went to sleep that night, I wished for it to be over. This horrible nightmare. Hopefully I would wake up the next day, see her beautiful smile, and enjoy a nice plate of her homemade pumpkin soup.
House Of Art
here lies pain and passion
open to those who ask
closed to those who answer
white noise fills the air
darkness fills the void
one open space to some
a labyrinth to others
a bittersweet taste
albeit lackluster in tradition
imbued with a sense of belonging
and an aftertaste of antipathy
it is quiet
colour is lacking
but brought on by individual dreams and hopes
inner beauty is gained
She made it home. Just another day. Her new job did not feel new by the time she was familiar with the business processes, and that has been a few months now. But that didn’t bother her; in fact, she enjoyed working. What got her feeling strangely disconnected with reality today was an accident. Two cars crashing into each other, their fronts folding like origami paper in a loud thunder-like clap with thousands of tiny glass pieces spreading like a firework and falling down like heavy rain. She did not see what happened but heard people screaming and yelling. After having a shower, she turned on the stove to heat up leftovers from the day before. The sizzling pan was accompanied by the news anchor on TV, reporting on daily news and current local incidents. Another School shooting, the rape and murder of a young lady and the car crash all contrasted starkly with the economical and political development of the nation and the globe by extension. Just another month. But there was something about the brutal reality of the crash that did not let her mind rest. Too instant, too close. Unfortunate but mostly, unnecessary; and yet it seemed like a minor thing on the grand scale. After dinner she picked up her Journal and began to write.
I still hear the screams. The sudden earthshaking bang followed by a shower of glass. I can’t remember if I truly saw it or if I only started to look after it had already happened. 3 People died in this accident, only 1 survivor. And yet, why doesn’t it bother me like it should? And more importantly, why am I not surprised? I witnessed sudden terror and it leaves me without emotion. We are back to normal; or back to our old ways. Last year we had a lot of turmoil. We sometimes seem to forget that there are other countries on this planet, other people, other struggle and turmoil. Covid connected us. But to think that it would be different now, is a sad fiction born of hope. Hope is what we needed. Maybe we are forward, and not back. But we haven’t really changed. The world (or at least what we view as our world) seems stable again. Only for how long? We went through a lot, only to come out on top caring as much as we have before. Time doesn’t stop, it goes forward.
rain and lightning command the space around me
and while the storm rages
my inner turmoil quiets down
a reflection of my true self
the image of growth overdue
letting go of bonds tied to others
to free myself from this prison of care
opening the heart and mind to those who are eager to give
and hesitant to take
finding a balance that sustains myself
for I cannot afford to live the life of others
as they rage in self-loathing and despair
hiding from their own fates
my inner turmoil quiets down
familiar vibrations pulling me closer, for they are all I know
a more authentically beautiful soul, weaker in pull but stronger in growth,
attempting to pull me right out of this zone, the comfort I feel, not letting me go
embracing what's known with hope and elation, to leave behind different vibrations
I watched things unfold endlessly. As I stood there by the window overlooking part of the city, thoughts started to drift off. Far away to a distant time. I remembered it vaguely, like a dream of sorts, just more realistic. I had seen this city before, at a time where nature wasn’t preserved in enclosed parks and cities did not have to be encased with a dome-like structure. I wasn’t me back then, or was I? In the grand scheme of things, who can say for sure. I lived, loved and suffered many lifetimes. I witnessed progress, decline, war. The only thing that remained was me. Unable to remember my first kiss, the first time I rode a horse, the first time I got a job, the first time I married and had kids, the first time I had to watch them die before me and bury them. I wished I could have died instead. I stepped back from the window and looked at my empty apartment. That’s when I remembered. No more materialistic mementos. Nothing to cling any emotion or memory onto. That way I kept myself safe from feeling something. Because if I did, what would it have been for? Everything means nothing if one lives forever. So I walked over to the window and watched as I always did.