Holes In The Sky

Everyone dies someday.

“But not you!”

No. Even I will die, one day.

“But I don’t want you to die one day. Mommy and Baba might die one day, but you’re gonna live forever.”

Stars are just holes poked into the sky so the people who are behind it can look through and see who they left behind. [Click To Tweet!]

Do you really want that? Do you want me to live forever?

“Yeah. You can’t die, you’re gonna live forever.”

And what about you? Are you going to live forever, too?

“I don’t know. Yeah.”

You don’t sound too sure.

“I didn’t think about it ’til now.”

Okay, well think of it this way. Everyone dies one day, and they can go to heaven. We can all live in heaven together and be happy. Do you still want me to live forever, and not come to heaven, too? Do you want your sister to be lonely?

“Why do we have to go to heaven? Why can’t we just stay here?”

Do you know what heaven is?

“Where people go when they die.”

Well, yes. Do you know what heaven looks like?

“No. Do you? Have you been there before?”

I don’t know, maybe I have. Heaven looks different for everyone. To me, heaven is a garden where we can all play and be together.

“Really? We play soccer and lie next to each other at night when we wanna go to sleep?”

Yeah, totally. Actually, Mamani is there already, waiting for us to come join her one day.

“Mamani is in heaven?”

Oh, yeah. For sure. And guess what – she’s happy there.

“How do you know?”

She told me! I had a dream where Mamani and I were sitting together, and she was making tea like she always did. That’s how people in heaven talk to us sometimes, through dreams. When I asked her if she was happy, she said yes.

“Really? She said that?”

Yes, she said that. She says that heaven is on the other side of the sky. People who are gone like to keep an eye on us, and tell us which way to go when we’re lost.

“Where is she? Can I say hi to her?”

Of course you can. Just look up at your favourite star and wave. Stars are just holes poked into the sky so the people who are behind it can look through and see who they left behind.

“Behind the sky? Like space? So Mamani is an astronaut!”

You’re totally right, Mamani is an astronaut. She’s floating above earth in heaven and looks through the stars to say hi.

“Hi! I’m waving, Mamani! Can you see me?”

I’m sure she can.

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Artwork by heartsnmagic on Tumblr
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Paradise

When I left, I was given the task of deciding what my heaven should look like.

I would walk into heaven and decide it was green. Heaven would be lush with the creations that had fallen from His fingers. Paradise would be blooming, juices dripping from petals that sparkled when they caught the white sunlight. Heaven would be buzzing, whizzing through time and space. Golden hour brings silver showers, so that I am immersed in the natural artistry that He has created for His children.

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Artwork by Maria Uve

I would immerse myself in heaven and decide it was blue. The dance of the water would write messages in the shadows of the ripply sand, so that I can capture it, place it in a bottle, and set it adrift to the shores of the space I used to occupy when I was mortal. Schools of fish would scurry past, tokens of color amongst the coral reef that sways to the strong current enrapturing my heart. The weight of the ocean would feel like nothing on my shoulders, renewed through judgement, guided to the next world. A gigantic green turtle lets me rest my palm on her shell, a tiger shark pokes his head around the corner and swims through the schools of fish so that they part to reveal infinity, and I am pulled in as if I were flying.

I set my pencil down onto the pages of time, wishing to turn space into something beautiful. Now was the time to decide, once and for all, what my heaven would look like. [Click to Tweet!]

maria ive 2
Artwork by Maria Uve

I would fly into heaven and decide it was black. Shards of light would pierce through my eyelids, so that I open them with the strength to see. I would twirl dust and gas into a ball of light, and watch it explode into a million different pieces. My star would glow white hot, and I would let it swallow me whole. I would be resurrected, my body spread thin across the universe across a plane of existence I can only taste and feel. My star would be a beacon, a fire burning away at my edges until I am clean. My skin hisses, steam begins to rise, and I am placed like a puzzle piece back where I came from. From dust and ash, rocks and bones.

I ascended to heaven and decided it was mine. I took it and twisted it into my weapon of choice – a pencil. I held it poised, infused with the very dust, ash, rocks, and bones that made up my once physical body. I set my pencil down onto the pages of time, wishing to turn space into something beautiful. Now was the time to decide, once and for all, what my heaven would look like.

Without a single doubt I etched your name amongst the stars. Heaven was you all along.

‘Sunset On A Soft, Peach, Honeyed Sky Against Yellow Pine Needles’ (Or ‘Teeth’)

Obviously, nothing was really significant then. Back then, when the earth was flat and romance was just a pop queen diva flair of the skirt away. Of course things have changed.

I don’t watch sunsets anymore, marveling in its apparent beauty. All I can think about now is how many sunsets I’ll see before I wither away like all those yellow pine needles – once immortal but realistically vulnerable to the tides of change. Sharp, ferocious in protecting a home base that will ultimately die without purpose. What is the difference between one pine needle and another?

But then, there are plenty of things to enjoy before I reach my anticlimax of a pathetic ending. Forearms, for example. The angle of his teeth to the curve of his cushioned lips. The salty taste that lingers on. It lingers, clinging to my skin like biological perfume, lingering, lingering…

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via turcafinweart

He has a girlish tilt to his voice. And he talks from the base of his throat so it crackles like a changing record. Sometimes I can detect traces of a hidden story, kept locked away behind those teeth of his. His teeth, round and straight. Hair like I’m running my hand through an ornate Persian rug aged to the tee, not too light or dark. just right for me, Goldilocks bitch.

It won’t last. It’ll end quick. But then again, what doesn’t? Everything ends. Even the purest kind of love, much less an end of summer fling with the Lord of the Flies. He’s just… one sunset.

That doesn’t take away from the beauty of it, though. Isn’t that right?

Honey?

Trumpets and Blood Red Ribbons

I love music from the forties for the sole reason that it is heartbreakingly happy. Joyful. Reckless. Their words speak of tragedy, loss, and meaningless death. And parties! Trumpets, drums, high skirts, shaven legs, cigars, crisp white shirts – unstained by war, like it never happened. It never had to happen.

One can easily be fooled if they don’t listen carefully. It’s like a fight behind closed doors;- you can ignore it as long as you turn up the volume of your fizzy television high enough. It’s almost numbing, like the vodka shots they took to raise eyebrows at their enemies, like a bullet straight between the eyes, dazed and smiling. Pretending everything is hanky-dory as some girls with rouged cheeks and devil red lips scream about the injustice of it all.

You’d think it was indifference at first, but it’s really not, not most of the time. Everything is so sinister, that screaming and marching becomes redundant. Choir angels convey the same depression through their sugar sweet voices, after all. Everything is falling apart, they say as they sway through the goddamned day, but then at least, let it all fall with grace. Sing, party, do a jig. Who cares? We’re all gonna die someday, so make it a good one. Go out with one more explosive, whistling bang!

 

[UNTITLED]

If your soul could be a sound, what sound would it be?

“Leonard E. Night, age 27, lives alone in a basement, works in a corporate office downtown… been missing for, what, two weeks? No one had a clue. Odd, isn’t it?”

They reach the door of a small bungalow, hidden deep in slightly malnourished suburbia. Broken tricycles and cigarette stubs litter the street like a wasteland of forgotten dreams: families made of mistakes and last minute weddings. My muse.

They knock on the door three times. There is a patter of footsteps echoed by shrill pleas, and chants of my name. Silence.

The door finally bursts open to a reveal a wiry, ill-tempered mother with a rather unpleasant baby in her arms.

“Can I help you?” she asks with a false, toothy smile. A little girl appears behind the woman’s legs, her eyes brimming.

“I’m Officer Peach with the North York Regional Police; this is my partner, Officer Payne. You called about a missing person?”

Continue reading “[UNTITLED]”

A Speech on Fear

Everyone, every single person in this room, has felt fear. It is a debilitating state of being, which can grab you from the back at any given time. We have evolved into a machines, which spit out products obviously born of terror. Why else do we put bright attention signs on wet floors, carry pepper spray for the late night route, or hang fire extinguishers in every room, in every building? Why would we, as a species of masterminds, be influenced so heavily by something as trivial as fear? Continue reading “A Speech on Fear”

Germs

The peculiar sensation of being sick.

Now, I realize that the topic of malady has been suggested and turned and simmered and digested enough by everyone, especially for anyone currently in the northern hemisphere. But I do believe that if I don’t effectively purge my system of the somber and miscellaneous reaction to feeling ill, I’m pretty sure I just might explode into a horrible, comical, quite heated rant that will never end.

Continue reading “Germs”