Smoke and Mirrors

The auditorium begins to fill. Like a glacier, the throng of nameless people descend down the aisles to their seats. Deep breath. Showtime.

Curtain opens, music erupts, sparks fly. Take my hand and follow me. Dancers dance, singers sing, actors act. Let me tell you a story, let me sing you a song. Lights, colors, motion. Magic, illusion, awe. I'll make you feel, I'll make you care. Stakes are raised, emotion rises. Climax, plot twist, fireworks, finale.

Curtains close, show's over. Crowd erupts, standing ovation. Leave the theater, you can't stay here. Clean up, wind down, prepare to do it all again tomorrow.

Small child approaches, eyes full of magic. "I saw you behind the curtain," he says. "I saw you pushing the buttons and pulling the levers. Why didn't you come out on stage?"

Kneel to his level, eye to eye. "I was onstage the whole time," I said. "Sometimes it's really hard to see me through all the smoke and fireworks."

"How come you use the smoke?"

"The crowd isn't here to see me. They just want to see a show."

The child thought for a second. 

"Do you ever wish the people could see you?"

My turn to think.

"They will. Someday."

All The King's Men

Glass bottles on the windowsill, standing proud and still for all to see. The grunge of sweat and tears no longer stains; only transparent glass remains, polished and clear. Once prized and cherished, now cold and useless. Open mouths reaching upwards in protest, longing to be filled. The tops were never found. Emptiness abounds.

The windowsill is full of emptiness, growing everyday like a bad addiction, new and clean replacing old and dusty, overflowing, lingering precariously on the edge. Spinning, tumbling, crashing against harsh reality like raindrops falling on barren trees. Over and over. 

Sharp chunks of failure and disappointment scattered across the floor, the bottles are nothing more. 

All the king's horses and all the king's men can't put Humpty together again.

Sometimes Silence

They say the first thing you forget about a person is their voice. I haven't forgotten yours. Not yet. 

It's been so long that I fear you've changed. I'm afraid the memories deceive me. I'm scared that the one I left and the person I meet won't be the same person. I'm afraid that this won't be a rekindling of two souls, but an awkward exchange between two equally wounded individuals who barely know each other anymore.

But I haven't changed, I can promise you that. I'm still the same way you found me - broken and alone.

My mind is full of everything I've ever wanted to say to you; I wrote it all down so I could remember. I have it all planned out. I replay the moment over and over in my mind, as if it's already happened: you walking through the door, a smile on your lips, your eyes electric and piercing, and your voice. It's sweeter, smoother than I remember. Your very presence is soothing to my aching heart. And then I would spill the beans, I would tell you everything I was too timid to say before. I would come clean about me. About you.

I sit where I can see the door clearly without being too obvious. The butterflies in my stomach nearly fly from my mouth in a nervous stream of excitement, my heart thunders inside my chest, threatening to explode. My eyes stray back to the door incessantly; I can't help it. I rehearse in my mind again and again, waiting, feeling, hoping, dying.

Time came and went. It was time to go home. I stand there, lost in the throng, alone in disbelief. Surrounded by people, none of them you.

Frozen beside the door. I can't leave. I can't leave you. 

I hit the door, I hear my name. I turn and you are there. No angels singing, no rainbows in the sky, no beating of my heart. Only you.

I find myself falling, falling into your embrace, a jumble of smiles and tears, exhausted and trembling, broken but no longer alone.

The words die in my throat.

Sometimes silence is the only way to tell you how I feel.

Damaged

It doesn't look broken. Sometimes it doesn't even feel broken. But I know better than that. It's broken. 

I've managed to hide my limp for some time now. But it's taking its toll. My muscles ache and my leg is getting worse. At night, when I finally reach the safety and solitude of my bedroom, the pain is overwhelming and the blood flows. The pain has defeated my fatigue for three nights in a row. I can't do this much longer.

I know what I need to do but I can't afford for you to see me like this. A cast would reveal my secret. I could fake it during the day and nurse my wounds in the dark.

I don't want medical assistance, I just need a crutch. I can lean on the crutch until the pain subsides and is manageable again. Maybe I'll abandon the crutch when the pain is gone. And if someone questions my health, I can pass it off as a sprain or the like; a sprain or a twisted ankle is always better than being broken.

Too bad nobody likes being a crutch.

Discretion

Close the books, blot out the names. Some feelings are better left unfelt, some skeletons better left in the closet, some things better left unsaid.

The goal is to put grey matter onto the page, not blood and guts all over the walls.

Know your demons, but do not reveal them.

The Ocean Between Us

I want to show you something, I want to take you somewhere. But be warned, oxygen and reality don't exist where we're going.

Gear covers the floor: masks, fins, snorkels, wetsuits, weight belts. Better suit up. We're going wreck diving. 

Sunken ships and buried treasure, exploring the beauty of a once beautiful piece of machinery that perished beneath the waves and made it's final resting place at the bottom of the sea.

Something like that.

From the boat the waves look calm enough, rippling and rolling gently with the wind. Sunlight dances and shimmers on the surface, blinding the eyes and concealing what lies below. The boat is comfortable enough, familiar at least. Landlubber. Time to dive in, headfirst. Can't explore the ocean from the safety of the boat. I'll show you the way. The rules are different down there. Take my hand and hold your breath.

Beneath the waves, the world above is no more. No blue skies, no clouds. The space beneath the waves is cruel, cold, dense, wet. Immersion. Yet there is life. Mountains of coral reefs and hills of underwater vegetation, amazing each in their own way, teeming with life and color. Towering stalks of kelp, speckled sunlight filtering through it's foliage, swaying gracefully in unseen currents, thriving, growing. Unknown creatures, beautiful and dangerous; swimming by, minding their own business, asking you to do the same. Nature is best left untouched. 

The deeper you go, the more things change, the weirder the creatures get, the more the pressure hurts. Less color down here too, away from the sunlight. The pretty blues and greens and yellows slowly descend into grey. The going gets slow, movement is sluggish.

But you're doing well. Most people don't get this deep without their lungs screaming for air and their eyes burning for clarity. Your average Joe doesn't have the intestinal fortitude to push this far, to see what he's never seen before, to step out of his comfort zone. Instead, he panics and paws at the water, scrambling to return to the surface where the air is clear and everything makes sense. But wreckage tends to sink to the bottom.

Further into the depths we go, where birds don't sing and suns don't shine. Light can't penetrate this darkness. Even the glowing, weird-looking fish don't venture this far.

The seabed looms. Empty.

You look confused. Where is it? No sunken ship or doomed vessel? No buried treasure? You came all the way down here to show me an underwater wasteland? There is nothing as far as the eye can see. No life, no movement. Dead.

Where's the wreck?

You're looking at him.

Fate or Fantasy

Just give me the truth.
Is this meant to be?
Or am I simply holding on to an elusive fantasy?