Surfaces

At 5 a.m., having brilliantly failed at achieving a state of slumber, a picture came to my mind, of the surface of seas, hiding various life histories and dramas below, represented by various striking images. I wish I could paint so I could draw this series, I don't think my words are doing it justice, but I can't, so I wrote it as best I could.

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The surface is clear, beautiful even. Calm and peaceful. Serene, reflecting the brilliant blue sky, the sea gulls soaring above. Perfect.
But look from a particular angle, and you will see through the surface. Down below, things aren't clear or calm, not peaceful, not serene. Anything but perfect. Down below you will not see the blue of the free sky, but the grey of a man's raised hand, the black of a woman's bowed head. You will see scared eyes peeking from behind a curtain, staring longingly at the open door. Freedom, a few footsteps away, a few lifetimes away.

Another sea, another surface. Dark, this time, reflecting innumerable shining stars. Breathtaking.
How many of those stars are dead, in the time the light has taken to reach this surface? How many blinked out, unable to take their own weight?
Under the surface, the punctures will not be the bright of stars in a black sky. No, the punctures will show other colours. The dark of grime, the crimson of despair. What colour is hopelessness? Red blood, slicing across a wrist, an ankle, a thigh, a throat.

Another day, another sea, roiling in the storm. Waves so high you cannot look through. Daunting, brave, indomitable. Stunning.
Perhaps not so below. It is calm below, calm and quiet. An undisturbed room, a made bed, a neat closet. A house not a home, pervaded only by silence. The silence of searching eyes, searching, searching, for a way out. Not all exits are blaring signs, looking to be found. Not all doors can just be walked out of. A silence of suppression, borne of years of quiet fortitude and hardening soul. A silence stunning like a slap across a bruised face.

Another dark sea, but lit bright underneath. Shining auditorium lights, brightening jeering faces, echoing harsh laughter.

A pale blue ocean, glinting with beautiful coral. Coral, which is mere decoration on armour, built of years of smiling at the face you want to punch, standing when you want to cower, of unsought battles fought with trembling, hardening fear.

A sea glinting, dancing, silver as a mermaid's tail; a surface only thinly covering the screams renting the air, the hand forcing legs apart. The tears squeezed from shut eyes, the nails tearing the thick skin on scarred palms, the memories relived.

Dull grey water, but what brilliance below. The shingled sea-fish swimming astray, the weeds waving in glee. A stingray, bemused smile permanent on its face; a jolly dolphin passing through.

Green, frolicking, choppy waves, pushing against a cliff; a dancer's soul beneath, legs poised, body prepared, arms high for a battle of ballet.

What is below your surface?

~Sam

What is it about the rain that makes you remember?

Our first guest post! This is by a friend of mine (Sam's), the aforementioned Vowel-less. Enjoy yourself with this wonderful piece on the most wonderful things of all-rain and memories.

Also available on her own blog: http://doubt-thou-the-stars-are-fire.blogspot.in/2014/06/what-is-it-about-rain-that-makes-you.html
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I am sitting by the window. It is raining and I can feel the drops of water on my face. As a drop trickles down my face and falls on my hand, memories of a time long forgotten, a childhood, not that far back yet so unreachable, flood my mind. A sudden flashback of running through the front garden and getting drenched in the rain in one of the many old British-style houses that I lived in fills my mind vividly. Then another image, of my mother shouting at me asking me to come back.
What is it about rain that always makes you sift through all those past memories that in the humdrum of daily life become repressed in your subconscious?
Hailstones! The initial excitement of listening to the exaggerated pitter-patter on the roof as tiny lumps of ice fall on the ground. Running to the front verandah to collect the ice faster than my brother. Image after image of those days, long past. Of innocence, long gone. Of hope, long forgotten. Memories.
A song comes to my mind. The song that was playing in the background when I shared an umbrella with my first crush. I can almost feel my heart thundering, the way it had thundered for those few precious stolen moments. Anticipation tugs at my heart. And a certain melancholy. A sudden yearning to go back into those days of sweet innocence, of glorious horizons and endless possibilities, of happy dreams. Falling asleep near my mother. Playing with my brother. Not knowing the feeling of apprehension. Where future is a bright happy place.
What is it about rain that makes you remember?

~Vowel-less

The Difficulty of Explaining Something to Someone on the Outside

Well the title sort of says it all. I just finished reading The Devil Wears Prada (not a good idea, should've finished Lolita instead) and the main character, Andrea, talks about how her work life is so completely insulated from the outside world, and how no one on the outside can understand her, not even her best friend.
And that is so, so true. I highly doubt I'm the only person who relates with that. People keep asking me how life is, how things are going, how I like this and that, how I like my new place, and how do you explain? How do you possibly put all the feelings into words and explain them to someone who isn't there and will not be able to understand (and usually, who isn't even listening, which is just pissing off)? When you put something into words, it becomes so real, so understated, so..incomplete. Because you can't speak someone a blogpost giving them a complete picture of your life. Can't answer a "How are you?" with a thousand word reply of how, exactly, you are. You just say "Fine" and move on with life. Because even if you gave them the thousand words, they still wouldnt understand, wouldnt be there, in your place, feeling and seeing and being.
Much as I value words, they aren't the same as feelings, as participation, as presence.

~Sam