Monday, September 22

Rest in Peace, Sylvia

Like a million daggers, piercing each and every cell, the visions of a million stars burning bright, collapsing atoms and dreams. I imagined starving children in the desserts of Sudan while digging into my gourmet meals, imagined blown up pseudo martyrs in the streets of uncultured lands and rotting corpses while enjoying my evening drink. In quantum seconds, vivid imagery of stories danced merrily in the columns of sun on the forest floors, trampling on memories of yesterdays.

I woke up today, dressed up and walked out of the apartment. I stood under the sun, praying in silence to the sun God, so that everyone will have a good day. I turned back, and in the minutes to come the sadistic part of my brains and memories wished something else. I cursed to the driver who drove close to me, I wished the idiots who throw rubbish out of the window that they die. My memories are rigged with diabolic sadomasochistic inventions on how to torture the souls of devils. The living devils of this world who don’t dream enough to be human.

Foreign winds circulating the globe bring shorts of joyous plantation songs where planters celebrated a bountiful year. The company bought the produce and sold it a hundred times more in the markets of growing Asia major. Asia minor by the way is populated by middle class and lower class rubbish who dreamed too much to be sane. Europe is a relic filled with dominant minds who had their ideas cocooned in layers of pearl, too expensive to buy, easy to be lost. Far Europe is beautiful and full of socialism and crap that scares the ghost of Marx. The American ghetto is full of monsters that you thought only lived under the bed. They have so much, and they whine so much. The American ivory lives an average life fighting politics to save the rest of the world. The dumps of America have the natural riches that can rival any other planet yet to be discovered, but they sold they trees to make chopsticks and toothpicks. A family of lemurs moved to the Singapore zoo only to be woken up during the Night safari. China is no mystery but the rest of us are just stupid.

Sylvia asked me, what is there in dreams. What causes this puny soul to sprout sensual vines rooting firmly on a yellow brick road that doesn’t exist? So I answered while holding her hand that dreams tells us that we are real and the rest is not. The Creation silently observes, probably amused of the whole event. We had sex that night. And that was in my dreams actually, because Sylvia left to defend the world against evil. Yet again, as I stood alone that day under the perpetual tree that occurs in my world, I asked myself why do we have this escapist dreams.

The ghost of my past came haunting my veins, slowly sucking every ounce of my blood because of the sins I have done. And I wish I had really done something to deserve all this. Istanbul hosted the last carnival of the 20th century because some historian who wrote a best-selling book managed to convince a hundred million people that Buddha was alive and living there. So they managed to get there, all hundred million of them, the biggest possible number of people that can be transported by land, sea and air transport in one week. Every nook and crook of the city was covered with humans chanting, dancing and being merry. And asteroid struck them at 3.45 am, destroying all of Europe. Yet again humans were blind of incoming threat. The next day, another 10,000 children died in Darfur. Just like the day before, but there were 168 more children this time. So that makes 10,168 children who died on a Thursday in the month of January on the first day of the new millennium.

Sylvia came back that Saturday, while I was at the sea collecting shells for my aquarium. She came towards the beach and we hugged. I told her of the tragedies that happened. She laughed and pushed me away. I returned to the shore to fill another bucket with sea water and more shell. I turned back to see her gathering some driftwood into a pile. That evening we lit up the wood and around the bonfire, Sylvia summoned the shamans of old Pangea. I brought out the aquarium and placed them under the stars. I asked the shaman leader if he could make the galaxies dance. In seconds the trillion stars converged into a giant galaxy that stretched all of eternity. It was the most peaceful image I have ever seen. All over the land, the bits of reflecting sand, water and glass, mirrored the starlight.

The Elysium fields just outside the city of ancient Roma housed a billion souls who came for salvation. At the gates of Elysium, beyond the sea of truth stood might gods summoning giants to build shelters in the forests of enlightenment. I could never figure out how my sister could make up these stories. I remembered every grand space the stories occupied in time. She made more of her 2-second ideas than me. And every evening we would walk the fields behind our house and she would tell another story of this universe. I silently thought she was an alien. Sylvia appeared for the first time when I was in my thirties and wandering the Siberian plains in search of a life. She answered my every question except of the future. The future she tells when I am asleep in my dreams. When I wake up and find her to illuminate some truth, well she says, dreams cannot be true after all.

My jagged days are in tandem with my memories of the days I stood in the trenches during rainy nights scanning for enemy spies. In the morning the war smoldered everything, while I asleep in the damp underground bunker. Every night I will come to find that Frank and Terry died the day before. Nothing of a mystery that at the end of the century, fate decided to kill all of Europe where incidentally all the war criminals, all one billion of them hid, may they rot in hell. Fate in the form of asteroid Alpha Beta Gamma 1999 slammed its belly into Istanbul, melting the land as far as anyone can see.

I woke up on a Saturday two weeks back after a horrid night. At 3 am, I saw kids on the street wooing gays and cross dressers. These fags, they live in every town, fake their emotions to say they want to be someone else. Something of a mystery, I see outside 7-11’s girls with Marlboro's and Buds flirting with biker gangs. Turning the heavy Saturday paper holding a glass of OJ on the other hand, I saw seven images of children and young girls. All raped and mangled by some beasts in the streets of the Metro in broad daylight. A parent just stood by to watch her daughter’s body conspiring against her will to some madmen with blue eyes under the yellow sun drenched in grey smog. She jumped into the traffic killing herself. I took a big chunk of turkey sandwich and washed it down with the OJ. Savouring the creamy delight, I turned to the back pages to read the world news. Again those images of rapes, murder and terrorist. Finally I flipped to the comic section and jumped into the world of Calvin. We made some snow men and bashed up Hobbes.

Sylvia passed on a chilly Thursday morning in the garden of good and evil at the suburbs of Moscow in the year 2035. Draped in mortal black, a group of children undertakers took her body into the mobile crematorium and returned a few minutes later with a gold urn. I took it to the beach at night under the starry skies and gathered some wood for a bonfire. My synapses wrote more stories of her grand life trying to show me a way out of this cycle of dreams and reality. Until today I can answer her question, I myself don’t know what dreams are. I died twenty years after her. Someone from my creative writing class found my bones a few weeks after that and buried me on the beech. Every night I come back to sit near the bonfire starring at the night sky hoping for some shaman to bring me to the ends of the universe. I still do everyday.

[#] This was first posted more than 2 years back. One of those 'did I really write that' feelings...tell me if its still relevant :) thx.


4 comments:

Miladysa said...

It is well written and there is some fantastic imagery. It is also hard hitting and somewhat feral - I like it!

There were one or two places where I took it a little personal but the fact that I should do that is more down to me the reader rather than you the writer. You should always write for yourself never what others would like to read.

Ghost Particle said...

[milady] thank you.

I understand about the parts, even I feel amazed, and angry and stupid for have written those, bt like you said I have to stick to my style. its a sweeping imagery, bt i think i have turned it into stereotypical of all.

Readers are important to sustain the flow of ideas :)

thx hugs :)

Miladysa said...

Feedback is also important to me Ghosty so I understand how you feel.

I know people do not leave 'honest' comments sometimes, they like to flatter the writer and I do not think they mean any harm.

I want people to leave honest comments on my blogs, I am not offended if they do not like what I write. If I write something and it is rubbish I want them to say so - how can we learn otherwise?

Hugs back at you :-D

Ghost Particle said...

[milady] perfect point. we can seek them to judge us by favoritism.

Its good to get negative feedbacks, always spurs the mind to find a solution, or even write more controversial stuff. its equally good isnt it.

and yes, its all about learning, learning never stops.

Hugs :)

when

it rains around the world sleep welcomes the dream, and  enigmatic souls awaken along the eternal shores of destiny