Looking Back, I Never Saw The Emptying
~ like dreams
a w a y
Dances were always painful for me despite, or perhaps because of, my love of dancing. I had always been self-conscious or afraid of asking or not being asked. Afraid that the one with whom I wanted to dance, would not want to dance with me or wouldn’t wait if he looked for me while I danced with someone else. So I wouldn’t dance. I would wait. All my life, those fears haunted me every time I went to a party or a dance. Until thatnight. Something inside me said, carpe diem, my dear. Seize the day. Don’t wait for someone, anyone, to ask; if you want to dance, dance. Ask who you want. If you keep waiting, you may die still waiting.
And so, that night, although I did want to dance with a certain someone, I wasn’t going to wait for him to ask. When I entered the room, I looked around to see who I could ask, and asked the first person who smiled and said hello. I danced nearly every dance. I’d been building up my courage to just have fun for me, with me and whoever would join me. A snapshot in time to keep me happy, to remember in less happy times, or times when such fun is hard to come by. One does not have to be in the throes of death to see one’s life flash before one’s eyes. I saw my life flash before my eyes almost daily, and I had no intention of regretting dances not danced...anymore.
When hearrived, I scurried over like a mouse desperate for cheese and he said, hello, not right now. I smiled, sick inside, but went to find someone else. Don’t wait, don’t wait, just dance, feel the music, feel the happiness that soars through your body and makes you light and warm and happy. I danced. I ached for him, but I didn’t wait. Don’t wait, don’t wait, don’t get sad, dance, smile, have fun, wait dancing, not sitting, not moping, not hoping. Don’t wait, dance. Live. We spend so much time waiting for life to happen instead of living in the moment. I was finally awake to life and its finiteness, and I wanted to squeeze every bit of joy I could from the moments granted me.
Finally, we danced. My hips were saying things I could not possibly say with words. His hands caressed me gently as we danced and he looked into my eyes and we smiled, and we didn’t smile, and our eyes spoke as loudly as my hips, my legs, my arms, my hands. We danced a slow dance and it was dizzyingly painful to keep a relatively acceptable distance. By the third slow dance and the pending end of the evening, there were couples fulfilling the vague promises thrown out during their dances, or perhaps during a week, a month a year of suggestion. Who knows? We danced and watched lips meet, not daring to mar imagination with reality. Only dancing, touching discretely, suggesting but not actually fulfilling that query. Can I? Can we?
For the first time in my life, I understood clearly why some religions forbid dancing. And I finally understood dancing as the vertical substitute for the horizontal dance implied by all the gyrating and thrusting one sees on a dance floor. I had never felt so strongly that I was doing a dance because I couldn’t, wouldn’t do what my eyes, my hips, the smile on my lips invited, longed for, shouted, implored.
We moved in sync, our bodies knowing each other instinctively. I was so close if I moved half an inch, our lips would meet. I could taste his breath as I leaned closer to his face, his ear, his neck. I could feel the want in my toes. I could feel his pulse race with mine, vibrating in the miniscule space that separated our bodies. One inch and I would taste heaven, or hell. The music stopped. We stopped. We didn’t move. I closed my eyes in anticipation of complete and utter fulfillment and an alarm sounded. I opened my eyes. Fire drill. I could see my colleagues already evacuating the building through my window. Still trembling from my lovely escape, I opened the door to follow.
I crest the next hill
Overlooking a valley full of flowers;
Vibrant, vivid spectrums of light
Dancing in the gentle breeze.
On the breeze is a hint of fresh strawberry,
A sweet memory of long ago.
Why have I wakened here once more?
The shouts are muffled behind locked doors.
I pick a flower, twisting its stem gently between my fingers--
A phantom moment that seldom lingers.
Through the valley I walk,
Endless rows of nameless beauties
Stretching to infinity in every direction--
An asymptote ever so close, yet ever so far.
The moment shatters.
The glass cracks.
The valley melts like dripping wax.
Like warm flesh peeling off bare bone,
Like slipping sanity far from home.
Reverberate. Upside down.
Breathing eternity, tilted sideways
Unknown earth, shattered reality.
Tilted eternity, unknown reality
Breathing earth, shattered sideways.
Unknown eternity, breathing sideways
Tilted reality, shattered earth.
In my valley are mysterious wonders;
In my valley are beautiful creations.
But all of the flowers are fading, crumbling
Into pale phantasms, ghosts of what is
Or what could have been.
The doors unlock.
The sky spins.
The ground wavers.
Time and space break their sacred bonds
As reality crumbles with the flowers in the fields.
I reach for the last flower, a lily,
Small and alone and white in all of its fragile elegance.
In the world that I created
A figment, an illusion
Nothing is real.
But what is real is what should not exist.
Lily petals fall,
Gently sinking into the sands of eternity:
Endless, empty halls of forever.
The light grows dim
As truth falls short
And I fall.
I respect this book!!!
I read this book in my student years. Like everyone in my teens, I had an interest in mafia romance. Before we left with my roommate, we watched movies about the mafia. One day, he brought Mario Puso’s book “The GodFather”. We were so engrossed in this subject that we felt the lack of information we received from the movies and the hunger for more content on the subject. That is why we have already started to find and read his books. After reading this book, I realized that no matter how great a movie is, it can never be a book.
The book was so intriguing that the book was the one that was dropped first. Even when I arrived, if he had grabbed the book heroically, I’d have to run to the street to say, “Give me a minute and let me compare what he says here.” I would go into the park, take a bottle of water, and travel to America in the 40s of New York with my favorite book ...
The God Father” is a work by the famous American writer Mario Puzo. The book was published in 1969. The modern occupational criminal syndicate in the USA - Don Corleone is about the truth about the mafia. An equally credible and skillfully recorded experience is the ability to get into the most dangerous mafias’ rooms and make new money without having any life experience. The UK Association of Criminal Records is in demand, and the world’s largest criminal records will be included in the 100 rankings. Based on the work, in 1972, director Francis Ford Coppola starred Marlon Brando and Al Pachino. This movie is also a well-researched award, and now depends on the movie in the history of world cinema. These IMDB performances fall to 2nd place.
While walking back to work from enjoying a flavorful lunch, as I weave through the shoppers on the avenue, I look up at the steeple of a quaint old church. The building itself looked frozen in time. Well kept, it seems as though it will last at least a hundred years more.
Behind the steeple was the clear blue sky. A beautiful contrast against the brick red of the temple. Behind me, the sun shone brightly, bathing the neighborhood in gold. Were it not for the cold of Winter, anyone looking at a photo of the scene would have thought it to be Spring. The wind shifts. With it the stench of dead fish abruptly slams into my lungs.
I’m drowning. Trying to gasp for air, but my face is buried in my aunt’s menstrual discharge. I’m on my knees, naked. My arms are held behind me as one of my cousins grabs me by the hair and pushes my face into her.
A rumbling truck beeps its horn, bringing me back to today. I had staggered left and almost walked into traffic. In the distance, a homeless old man has found a fillet-o-fish sandwich in the garbage. Another day he gets to eat.
I keep getting flashbacks of you.
Sometimes it's as simple as picturing your face or thinking your name.
Sometimes I remember moments we had together.
And sometimes I'm left living through everything that went wrong and imagining all the ways it could have gone differently.
I was speeding down the alleyway on my bicycle, but so was the truck at the intersection. It's weird, I felt the pain like a wave just about to crash, surging up my nerves, but it never came. I was gone before then. It's still a blurry memory, but the only thing I remember is your blue jeans and brown eyes
The summer of junior year, on that picnic day. Remember, it was windy and you wanted it to rain? I started singing. You always said I sounded ten times better when I sang with the stars out, so I kept singing until the sun slipped past the horizon. We looked up at the stars, and I hummed melodies about you. Maybe you knew then.
You danced as I laughed and sang some more. The grass swayed with you, white flowers and moss reaching out. The light and joy in your soul radiated out in sensational ripples. I made lullabies for the beauty and magnificence that is you.
The moon peeked out. He rejoiced your ethereal radiance with me. You watched the stars and I watched you.
The truck had nothing on that.