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mood |
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bridge to nowhere -- are you thinking what i'm thinking? |
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TITLE: An Author's Escape
RATING: (K, K+,T,M) I'm not sure what this means, but its for everyone! Nothing sketchy here!
GENRE: drama, imagination
ORIGINAL, FF, POETRY: original
COMPLETE OR NOT: complete
WHERE ELSE IT IS POSTED: my own page, but besides that, nowhere
BRIEF SUMMARY: She never had a chance to accept her father's death, never had a chance to understand just exactly what the accident had meant, the finality of it all. She can't live in this world, so she lives in her own, a world in her head and a world away from this one of reality and death, a world where she can be happy, and just leave her memories behind.
An Author's Escape
It doesn’t matter what she writes, as long as she does. The pen in hand, ink flowing onto the lined paper, one spiral notebook after the other filled with thoughts, ideas, dreams of a perfect world. How many sleepless nights have been punctured by the thrill of imagination? How many endless hours are moored in a swampland of thought, negativity clinging to her ankles, regrets and fears sluggishly pooling around her feet? What broken words are spoken to the darkness; what fallen dreams drag her down? What despair as she drowns in a haunting emptiness, suffocated in the plastic, stale air?
And yet…and yet… Tomorrow, the itch to dare to dream and passion to fight flares again. Endless blue skies and winding stairs climbing higher and higher until none may see whither it may lead. The sun continues to rise on the horizon.
Crisp red balloon strings tightly knot around her wrists, veins pulsing with warm blood and whispers of life and that inexplicable feeling of being ALIVE. Forget regrets. Erase fear. Drown darkness, and fly out once more. A pen as her sword and her mind as a guide, imagination fills the balloons and lifts her higher and higher into the sky.
Here, dreams dance on the clouds and aspirations are never hidden in a dusty desk drawer. Here is a playground of the minds. Neverland, Paradise, the Land Before Time; all great artists have known it, imagination painting each scene a different colour.
She flies and flies, over pages and pages, adventuring pirates, princesses, castles and jests. Her pen flies her through luscious green valleys and murderous caves, through mountains of snowcaps and islands of palm trees. The balloons fly her higher, further and faster, escaping that dark world from whence she came. Yes, the darkness will fall again. Yes, the strong red balloons eventually will pop, helium straining at the rubber boundaries and finally breaching them, leaving her to drop and the helium to hiss into the sky. She will fall back to earth, then, tossing and turning, a luminous clock blaring unearthly music, screaming “Time to get up!” Perhaps a tired-faced woman will call her, gently shaking the small shoulders, blind to the dried truth on the cool cotton pillow, and the dream will be gone, wisps of smoke in a high wind. She’ll sludge through the day, perhaps a bit tired, perhaps a bit sad, remembering why she wants to fly so high and so far. Perhaps she will catch the hint of red turning a corner, a late student’s shirt as they fly to class. Perhaps she’ll smile softly to herself, feeling comforted without knowing why, as if somehow a red balloon could make the world shrink away. Perhaps she’ll come home and forget how to rise above, sink to the ground and be bogged down with mud, so slick and so dirty. She’ll remember the pain, but not the converse after, dreaming of days before this nightmare was made true.
She’ll close her eyes and unlock the door, lift her pen and unleash the torrent, filling the balloon with fear, regret, sadness and doubt, hate and suffering, anger and envy. She’ll tie the end and let it go, witnessing the red speck float higher and higher. She’ll stand and watch it then; standing tall on a pinnacle above, ignoring the treacherous ground it will take to return to the ground far below. A speck of red against blue for a second or two, then pop! it bursts, and the emotions race to the sky, hurtling through the crisp empty air.
And then she never looks down, not once while she’s descending, each sure step leading her to the fatherless everyday world below.
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