I feel inspired today,
Why, you ask? I don’t know.
But, I feel inspired.
To do what, you ask? Well, anything, and everything.
I want to run really fast, throwing my hands in the air, blood coloring my face, adrenalin rushing through me, and all the while still hear the wind-chimes making soft sweet music, hanging in the balcony of the busy banker, who makes so much money and yet has not had time in three days to kiss his little girl good morning, or good night, to tuck her into bed.
I want to burst into a billion tiny pieces, into the tiniest form of my existence and fall like rain from the sky, light rain.. supple and tender on the forehead of the mother cradling her baby in her ever so careful arms, singing a lullaby, so loving, so tender, the baby falls asleep. Her mind wanders, over the soft breaths sighs of her precious baby as he sleeps, she is now thinking about the five other gifts of life. She thinks about the dreams unfulfilled, the aspirations left undone, the life left unlived.
I want to disappear into the dark shadows, and follow that mysterious man next-door, follow his shadow to that dark place he goes to, in his head, out of his head, in the night, when he shot the man, dragged him away, chopped him and disposed him away, it’s his job. He dreams of riches, and considers himself a good man. He feeds his wife and children, he runs a business. He looks at me, his neighbour, and feels irritated. He is a good man, he is just doing his job, why less respect for him?
I want the hair on my body to shoot out leaves and my legs to shoot up like tree trunks, they take me high up, among the stars… no tree grows that high, you say… but I’ll explain the science of it another day. With my head up in the clouds, I hear my mother’s yelling pleas to come eat my dinner but there’s birds on my branches, playing with the stars that sit like dew on my leaves. How do I stop that, I ask? How do I stop dreaming? But mother’s worried about my growling tummy, she’s still there on the ground, while my head’s in the clouds.
I want to dissolve into my bath water, blue and wet, like the ink in that fountain pen. I want to flow on her paper, like paint, become a tree, a bird, the ocean, the sky, a dog… her dog, she loves him… but he reminds her of the man that stole best years of her life. Somtimes she must look away, she can’t bear it. She remembers, she hears him coming, only to hear him go away again. She wishes it turned out differently, that the brush had painted out different shapes, faces, situations, colors, so she paints her dreams, her life, different lives she lives in her dreams every night.
I want to be me, as I wait, wonder, ponder, worry and wish. I want to blend into sidelines and give way to the Tornado when it comes, disperse into something tiny to let the wind blow things into their own place. I want to watch, in the background, as water, wind, earth, life or fire, how the whirlpool does it’s job. I want to live another life, while the divine fixes mine, and then come meet myself like an old friend, when life allows me.