This has been a tough month. It has had its moments when ecstasy and bliss have rippled through the wind. But there have been long periods of a lot of anguish and mountains of questions. Most pertain to relationships. Some pertain to the job. Some others pertain to direction in life. However, all of them seem to be tightly wound with a prickly bandage of 'Why me?'
I really am curious. Why do I go through what I go through. It's not a plaintive wail or a complaint or any of that. Yes, there were times when that question was all of that, but then no-one seemed to be listening. So, I suppose a change of tactic was in order.
I really would like to go somewhere...maybe the 567th floor of some glinty, imposing building. The walls of the buildings will be opaque and made of those really thick and strong fibre-glasses. These glasses will be filled with giant sting rays swimming around. If I stood outside the building, looking up, I'd see the building coated with an aquatic film of poisonous power.
Then I'd go up to the 567th floor and be ushered into a huge room filled with glass lilies. They'd be of various sizes, and each one of them will have something engraved on it. Maybe my observations on the rain, sea, moon, or child that I've made in my lifetime. There will be a large sofa swathed in thick, plush silk in white and pink. Behind that will be a painting.
It will look like an optical illusion at first, with little squares and circles that seem to shift as you stare at them. There will be bold strokes and strong arcs. I imagine that the colour scheme will have a lot of cobalt, white, yellow, pink, teal, and red. I will look closely and long.
Outside, the sun would set and the sting rays would turn an angry orange in the light of an evening under seige. They'd swim peacefully, quietly, while I try to figure out what I'm looking at. And when I spot traces of skylines, ships, and tumultous waves, I'll know. I'm looking at the painting of my life.
I really want that to happen. I want to get lifted over and above where I am now and just understand what's going on. I never liked non-fiction. Why did I suddenly get interested in them and now go through days and nights feeling disturbed with what I read?
I never liked men with clean shaven heads, but now...why does it bother me when they don't quite like me as much as I like them? It disturbs me when people don't quite get the glory that is me. (I have to say that a lot of people don't get that. Hair and gender notwithstanding.)
I used to have restraint and excellent judgment. Now, there is only the tough, fibrous resilience that comes to those who fall hard all the time.
I basically want to understand why I needed to get so calloused.
The night would pass. By the time it's morning and the first light of the day spreads across the folds of white and pink silk, I'd have got my answer here. In this space that is choked with significance as my afterlife nemesis.
On my way out, I'll take a final look around the room. And I will not be surprised to find that all the glass lilies have wilted.