Paradox

Note: Open to your interpretation. My mind is rather twisted, obviously. Still, I mean this in the most positive of ways. It may not seem like it, but honestly. Always hope for the water.

I feel my feet sink lower into the sand, as the storm blows in circles all around me. Clocks turn, people fly by- their faces blurred, scarves pulled upto their eyes.  Days turn into nights turn into days.  All around me, the sands swirl in the gusty wind, as I stand there, with my vision impaired and my senses dulled. Thick, dark hair billowing around the contours of my face. Feet sinking lower and lower into these deceptive swathes of gold. Animated and suspended, rushed and stilled, all at the same time.

If I could, I’d bottle up all these grains and fill  an hourglass with hours and minutes. If  only I could. Maybe then I’d be in control of time.
Slow things down. Observe and act. But for now, I’ll sigh as the sand slips through my fingers, and  I’ll play with the cards I’ve been dealt.

What a whirl this is. Even so, never moving, never changing. Perhaps I should keep up, I think.  Perhaps, I should move with the sand, with time, with the sands of time. Maybe I should just grip the fingers of both my hands around one thigh and pull it out of the thickness, place it a tiny step forward and then do the same with the other leg.  Repeat, repeat, repeat. Move. Just move, dammit. Move forward.

Activity is all around me. Inactivity is in (the) body. Time for a quick fix? I hope, and don’t hope at the same time. Shrink and swell with the wind, and the sand. Embrace this. (Or not.) Move forward, (or stand in comfort), waiting for the sand to blanket itself around me. Burial. Obfuscation. Soil will layer itself above your rotting flesh. Nature is so…  efficient.

Sometimes, it’s difficult to weep over death for more than eternity. Especially when you know that carbon dioxide you breath out can, and will sustain another living thing.

This too shall pass. Life always does… pass. Again, step out and move forward. Or stay. Choices, changes. Comfort (?).

Choices, changes, comfort. Step out. Now.

All around me the sands move and my coat tails dance in the wind. It’s too hot for a coat, but it serves its purpose, cloaking everything on the inside.  People move forward and backward, rushing with their scarves still clinging to their faces.

Do something, hisses my mind.
And so, I do.  Digits around left flank. And then right.
Left, right, left. Like militia, but with emotion.
Faster, till this storm is behind me.

Maybe there is, beyond all of this, a blue stream, brimming with sweet, frigid water. Gurgling and bubbling. Meandering through rocks.
No more sand and storms and heat and winds after this.
I don’t know.
But I can, and will move because that stream just might be there.

Or perhaps there’s a cliff.
Maybe I’ll fall off the edge.
Maybe I’ll grow wings.
Maybe there isn’t a cliff at all.

Uncertainty is the flavour of the month.
I hear they’re handing it out on street corners, and it’s selling out like hot cakes.

And in the meantime, Life laughs sadistically in the background. The air is tinged with irony- best served with(out) hope.

Move forward, or stand in comfort. Step out. Or stay. Choices, changes. Comfort (?).
The irony is that change is the only constant of life.

Always hope for the stream though, and if it’s the cliff, jump. Never stagnate. Maybe the fall will be light, and you’ll find yourself swimming in waist-deep azure water.

You never know what all of this leads to in the end.