Skydark

The clouds painted with hints of heaven cast deep, sinister shadows on the beating surf below, slapping at the rocks with the aquatic wrath of a god. The soft arms of nirvana, where glinting gates of gold peep out, allow the Sky god to offer himself as a host, and to dramatize the celestial love from above. The ridges of the nebulae turn from blue to pink as the Sun closes her weary eyes and drifts along to the edge of darkness, shepherding oranges and reds into her sacred field of sleep.

 As my dark pools are torn from the fantastic realm above, I see fields of rusted fronds fluttering in the wind. Strands of cobwebbed hair determined to distract my vision cannot mar this delight: the silver spray from the waves; the pink bonfire of beaming divinity; the teasing light from across the bay. The latter entices my interests with its bitter brightness – a sparkling jewel amongst the lurid colours of sunset. My heart urges me to edge nearer to this furtive radiance and so my legs amble over rocks encrusted with crackling salt crystals, and spiked grasses bleached blue by the Earth’s malice, until the night engulfs my clouded mind and the swirls hanging above.

Chills lace my body as dribbles of icy water seep into my sink; the light draws me closer still. I find myself at the end of the shore.

Before me – nothing but the dark perils of a wintry sea, behind me – the echoes of rusted tufts of deathly shrubs, melting and fragmenting into the curling wind. Below, the hungry waves kiss my feet, waiting for the final plunge; above, the light screams for me, bellowing my name.

The yellow glare penetrates my shivering bones, extracting my soul, my will. So brilliant, so intense – I must join you at the core. My essence, slipped from my hollow shell skips from the shore onto each swirling wave, like the gold flecks from the fountain above, dancing in the bubbling sea.

*

Closer and closer our hearts collide. I release a howl, you discharge a sigh. The rain ceases; the wind croaks; our spirit surges; we are one.

Copyright © JRFB 2012 

Soup: A thought on categorising Life...

Labels are supposed to create a sense of order and a sense of categorisation in order to avoid any chance of chaos arising. Yet, think about how traumatic it can be for someone who identifies themselves as a Tomato Soup, but really they have doubts about their 'soupability' and perhaps would prefer to be a Minestrone.

We all share similar ingredients, but each is an individual because of the secret substance within; we are all cans of different flavours.

Finding yourself consuming Asian Prawn Soup without knowing it is Asian Prawn Soup because the label has fallen off is far more exciting, daring and intriguing than having specific knowledge of the ingredients, as it leaves more scope for one to interpret it in different ways, therefore appealing to a wider range of customers. 

I, for example could be less vague with this topic and pinpoint that I am of course referring to teenage fashion and how it is arguably less individual and more of an social stigma for one to say
 'I'm Indie, I don't follow rules and that's why I bought this red snapback...'
 - the fact that one needs to brand oneself is a labeling statement in itself. But this is not purely about trends and fashion (although it may be interpreted in this way by all means), this soup metaphor is about YOU, about individuality, about not having to complicate things by ironically trying to categorise them. 

As soon as you say 'I am this' or 'I am that', the walls around the statement cement together, encasing you in a make-shift prison, disallowing any departure of something which does not befit the label. 

To summarise, my advice is this: be free, be fluid and for God's sake, be something that you feel comfortable being... Be simply yourself, and leave the labeling to cans.





Copyright © JRFB 2012