Closing Pandora's Box

I told my dear friend Rosaline I was having trouble writing and she recommended that I should grab my pen, and just free write. “The words will flow by themselves.” The only catch being, there’s a time limit. “Try 3 minutes.” I did. Except I gave myself 5 minutes. This is what became of it. Below is an un-edited extract from a letter I am writing to B, written in 5 minutes. It’s not been changed in anyway so excuse all the mistakes. I hope she doesn’t read this before I give her the letter next week!

*****

It’s been a long time since I last wrote to you. A week I think. What’s the date today anyway? I can’t check either, well I can but I can’t be bothered as I always write it at the end of the day’s scribbles. Where did I end the scribbles last time? I don’t really like endings if I’m perfectly honest with you. I wonder why they say goodbye. Where is the good in bye? Do you know? I have spent hours pondering that question but to no avail.

But what is a beginning? No more than another beginning’s end. And just like the last paragraph, starting on this virgin page, first line, came to an end, so do many other things. For sometimes an ending marks something new. It’s a delicate moment, like the starting of a new diary. You open the first page, your pen hovering in your hand, the molecules of ink waiting to burst out and bring life to the page. And yet you hesitate. You wait as your mind thinks of the that first stroke, that first dot, that first line, that first word, that will flood the page. But you make sure, perfectly sure that that first contact is perfect. For how many pages do we rip out of the diary because they were “not right”? A collection of first-page-less diaries. The real delicacy comes after you’ve written that first letter, or the first word, or the first line, or the first page. The real delicate moment is when you lift up your pen and look at what you have done. The real delicate moment is then when you ask yourself if that page stays or whether it ends up in the bin. B, if and when you ever find yourself at such a delicate stage of a beginning just remember the seed in the soil. The farmer throws them haphazardly, orientated in all sorts of ways. No two seeds land the same. Probably. And yet only those that persist and persist and persist rise to the surface and feel the wind in their shoots and the rain on their roots. It doesn’t matter how bad your first word looks, just keep going. And keep that first page, so it reminds you of that delicate beginning. So it reminds you, that the beginning doesn’t have to be the end.

_________________________________

Photograph of the letter to a friend, taken from personal photography.

A few months back, while sweating away over my dissertation I asked Snowy if she would be kind enough to write a blog post for me. Being the genuinely kind person she is, she heartily agreed. I hope you enjoy what she wrote as much as I did. Thank you very much Snowy.

*****

Dawn was breaking, the whole world was fast asleep but she was wide awake. Her mind and eyes tired, but full of questions. Sleep ran away from her, and today she was tired of chasing. As she stared at the heavens, a smile emerged on her lips. How could one not stare at the beauty above with awe? The stars twinkled mischievously as though they were hiding a secret from her. A secret she would so often ponder on those rare but peaceful moments. It was breath taking. Her arm’s itched to reach up and pocket herself a little diamond. One that would warm her with it’s resonating light and could be worn as a talisman around her neck when time’s were hard. Sighing with longing, reality hit her like a whip hits bare flesh. Sharp and painful. She gazed down and in front of her saw the path she took everyday to make her dreams come true. How ironic it was, that it was paved with nothing but broken dreams. Filled with paddies of flowers and thorns, it meandered like a river twists and turns - maybe it represents the unforeseen turns her life took? Instantly, she shook her head. She diverted her attention back to the velvet canopy above. No, she wouldn’t think about that. Not today. Why waste a beautiful night contemplating on bitter thoughts? She had tasted the flavour of bitterness before; it had almost engulfed her. Infected her even! She would seek refuge in the stars tonight.

Then she begin to think. What if the sky was just a canopy? An intricate architectural overlay which could only be looked at - never touched. Or a mirror? Reflecting a reverse image of all that took place down below. Maybe, behind it lay the secret of the heavens? That no human can ever bear to know. What if the luminous stars were a reflection of the bittersweet symphony playing below? And what of those stars that shone quietly and just as luminously as the moon? Heavily underestimated, overlooked and forgotten. But then again, it was all quite simple. They represented the people on earth who shone quietly and as luminously as the moon. Who silently emitted rays of light into even the darkest corners of the earth. The Saints. The one’s who flourished out of the media spotlight - who never made a dictionary definition of themselves or insisted their name be uttered by many. They were happy to be remembered by a few. A supernatural phenomenon which scientists and physicians were oblivious too, but which philosophers ached to know. When alive, they lit the earth and when dead, they lit the sky. So so beautifully - one’s eyes have to blink a thousand times to capture the serene miracle. Guiding all the lost souls below in the dark but so iridescently. These stars - are more than just pretty, glowing specks of light. They were symbol’s of hope. Why?
Because
they
never
stopped
shining.

Snowyy ★
@Snowyy_
http://snowyy22.tumblr.com/

_________________________________

Unfortunately I do not have a source for the picture used in this post, for which I apologise.

It was one of those mornings; falling out of bed the wrong way, narky moods and that heaviness in the heart which dragged you down into the murky waters where visibility was markedly reduced. And when drowned in the darkness, if you even tried to open your eyes, the particles in the water would cause a burning pain making you shut them again. No matter how much you yearned to see, the pain of doing so would stop you. That same heaviness in the depths of your heart, as it sank, pulled with it a string that tightened the noose around your insides; suffocating and leaving you gasping for happiness. Somewhere in the darkness is a light they say, one that you cannot find and you wonder whether it's too far away or whether you are blind. Yeah it was that kind of morning.

She hadn’t called like she promised she would. Promises, made with such vigour and feeling, yet broken so easily like the snapping of a stalk on a windy day. What are words if you don’t mean them when you say them?¹ Lies portrayed as honest truth. Do not make promises when engorged on the elixir of happiness and neither take decisions when hate has its hooks lodged firmly in your heart. She always apologised when this happened. Maybe not straight after, maybe the next morning, or after a few days, or when she remembered. So he didn’t mind too much. He knew he would hear from her. He didn’t know when, but he knew.

A bench, empty and desolate. Seats covered with moss and insects crawling all over, on seeing it however, he smiled. And the rush began. There were those memories he had always wanted to forget. But he realised that by spending so much time and effort keeping those unwanted memories at bay, he may come to resemble that statue of the grieving parents; transfixed and petrified by the past, looking over the garden that never grew.² Mourning till eternity.

The beauteous yesterday is fading away
like a blushed twilight;
Though nothing can bring back
the hours of sweet treasured past,
I will grieve not but rather find
splendour in the memories.³

The bench looked old and forgotten, but it reminded him of a memory. Many years ago, they had promised one day they would sit on a park bench and read the story of their lives together. And smile. And laugh. And poke. And have fly inviting moments. He remembered the walks at midnight in Hyde Park, hand in hand as they talked, discussing the mysteries of life and all its treasures. He remembered the late night calls and the choking on red bull to stay awake. He remembered the nicknames, sounding so irrelevant to others, but full of meaning. He remembered standing in the rain after lectures and listening to her as she mourned her losses. He remembered the coffee dates and burning his tongue on his first ever mocha while sitting on the train. He remembered craving pizza and it was carried all the way from the other side of the city for him. He remembered the anniversary they celebrated every year and how she always left him speechless. He remembered her last words the day before she died.

Though there were lines in his diary he wished he had never written, there were pages upon pages that he wished to never forget. For every memory that brought about the shackling heaviness in the heart, there were countless more, priceless and pure, that set him free.

He never forgot people. He remembered every memory and smiled. There is always a reason to smile.

*****

These two posts (part 1, and 2) were written in response to a tweet I saw a few weeks ago in which the person had said how the “suckish people” made it so hard to appreciate the loved ones in our lives. I couldn’t disagree more. For every “suckish” person I come across it makes me realise just how blessed I am with the family and close few close friends that I have. And it makes me love them even more.

_________________________________

Photograph of a book of memories I made for a friend from personal photography, available here.
¹ “What are words if you don’t mean them when you say them.” In reference to a previous post, available here.
² Reference to the statue of the Grieving Parents, by Käthe Kollwitz, in the memory of her youngest son who died on the battlefield during World War I, and was buried in the Vladslo German war cemetery.
³ This was a quote from a very small diary I once gave to someone. Some one from the past, who used to be a friend.

The web of life. Sprawling. Interconnected. Laced together with fine strings of silk. Each thread, a different moment, a different relationship, a different entity, held together with the glue of emotion. Each fine fibre holds firm another, supporting and being supported. And yet at times it feels so flimsy and weak. All it takes is the blink of an eye, a moment, an incident, the breath of a single word to tear it all apart. And then you are left with the pieces of your life scattered across the floor. Battered, broken and longing for a reason to believe.

The silk of a spider is stronger than steel, they say. It acts as a place to sleep, a place to catch food and much more. Who taught the spider how to spin its web? We humans regularly demolish these beautiful structures. What do spiders do? They move on, and rebuild their lives, from scratch.

Bad things happen, but life goes on.
It is not long before we go are gone.¹

God gave everyone the ability to make a life for themselves. Yet, “we do not rise to the level of our abilities, but fall to the lies (sic) of our excuses”.² When it feels like it is all disintegrating, remember the spider. Every thread you lay, make sure it is stronger than steel. And try again. Remember, when it all seems to be falling apart, it may just be falling into place.³ Remember, and keep the faith.

*****

Thank you to B for giving me the idea for this post. I dedicate this to Tutti Fruitti and all others who are going through testing times.

_________________________________

Photograph of an exposed web just after sunrise from personal photography, available here.
¹ A couplet from a poem I once wrote.
² This was a quote I posted on Twitter in the last couple of weeks, but I can no longer remember where / who it’s from.
³ This is another quote I posted onto Twitter a month or so ago. Unfortunately I cannot remember its source.

She said she would call at midnight. The beginning of a new day. But not the beginning of a new story. They had not spoken for a long time and he had waited and worried. It wasn’t the first time either.

As the second hand moved to mark quarter to, he slid into bed, propped himself against a pillow with a book in hand and the phone resting on his legs. And he waited. With sombre excitement. The words on the page became like raindrops, merging into each other, their beginning and end undistinguishable from those around them. He checked his phone again. 23:48. What would they talk about when she called? He had many things to ask her; the lack of replies to his texts, her quietness and where she kept disappearing to. He also had many things to tell her too, but he never got the chance as she would go on and on and on about herself. There were many words unspoken. But that was okay, he didn’t mind. As long as she was okay and said what she wanted, that’s all that mattered.

The alert on his phone vibrated telling him it was time. Midnight had come. He was always punctual unlike many of his friends. People came into his life like seasons. Unexpected and bringing with them a range of emotions, ideas and promises. But when their storms passed and the rains had cleansed away the dirt and the virgin sun put a spring step into their steps, they too would leave. He never forgot the people. The blessings and the curse of keeping diaries. Images of what he had seen and felt remained in his mind, many of them too painful to be allowed into full awareness. Our memories, which lend us a pattern to our lives, also condemn us to relive our past. His eyes bore witness to the struggles and other episodes of trial he had seen through his life. No matter how many times he tried to bury them; the burning of the pages, the avoidance of places, they would shift in their shape like a constantly mutating virus causing infection. A constant struggle to banish those stubborn memories, would only result in them coming back, again and again.

00:27. What if she didn’t call? The last time they had spoken she had been brief and left half way through. He never even had a chance to say goodbye. But she told him why and he understood. He always understood. But sometimes he wished there was some magic to reverse those memories, but no matter what he tried, it didn’t work.

Sleep stole him while he waited. The time was 01.03. She didn’t call that night.

_________________________________

Photograph of burning letters from personal photography, available here.

The URL for this blog will be changing on the 18^th of December 2012 to:

closingpandorasboxx.blogspot.co.uk

Note the double x at the end of the word box, for there is already a blog URL by the name of closingpandorasbox. Please remember to update your various readers / feeds. I’ll also be unveiling a few other links at that time.

Thank you,

Nas

[This is a scheduled post]

Mirror mirror on the wall
Who is the fairest of them all?
You, my Queen, are fairest of all.¹

The mirror and the timepiece tell the story of your beauty. Mirror mirror on the wall, the glass hides not neither does it stall. Who is the fairest of them all, would my beauty silence the hall, a question many would lie in response to. Not the mirror, nay, for it speaks that which it sees. It flatters not and neither does it deceive.

Your glass, be it hanging on the bedroom wall or hidden away among the contents of your bag, shows just how  your beauty goes. When decades pass; the soft needles of the winter snow, dig deep trenches upon your brow. Your beauty, a radiating field once the envy of many, will be covered in weeds, no longer gazed upon in want or in need. What worth will it hold then?

Mirror mirror on the wall
Who is the fairest of them all?
Queen, you are full fair, it is true, but Snow White is fairer than you.¹

Then when they ask, where is your beauty now, what will you have left to show? Hidden in the lines on your forehead or behind the sunken eyes, which saw your lustful days? And your timepiece will show you the precious moments that went to waste as you tried to outwit time’s thievish ways.

Why ask others, do I look beautiful, when men lie to please for in that is ease. Question the one that never lies, not intimidated by royalty or repelled by a ragamuffin. If your eyes tell you, you are beautiful when you look in the mirror then be it so and be you grateful.

But what is beauty? For that which is skin deep only lasts as long as the skin holds its keep. Be like that flower which catches the eye in its prime but still gives off its sweet scent even as it is about to die.

[This is a scheduled post]

_________________________________

Catachresis – (noun) 1. The misuse of a word; application of a meaning to a word not its own, as asset used in the sense of advantage; also a mixed or strained metaphor, as a paradox for example. 2. The use of a wrong form of the word, through a misunderstanding of its etymology. – Taken from Webster’s Comprehensive dictionary.
¹ Mirror mirror on the wall – from the fairy tale, Snow White and the seven dwarfs.
Image of mirror taken from here.