Miscellaneous


x  Time
x  Not there
x  My Dear Sister,
x  His Eyes

 

Time
I know I'll see roads. Stretching in different directions
Reaching different horizons
They will change my life
Sometimes all we need is time
Time to erase memories
Time to wipe away our tears
Time to un-break our hearts, put the billion pieces together
Time to make our love last forever
Time. It's all about time
Time is the only thing we can't outrun
The only thing we can't change
It will always be there as our lives move forward

And time
                          is the only thing we can never have

Not there

Writers have threads of personalities, plots, details, in their hands waiting to be weaved into stories and it’s the embroidery of these ideas that either plunges me into the surreal world or leaves me brushing the surface, content with the imagery I create in my mind. It's all words, of course but they feel real. Disregarding the subtle rustling of pages, oblivious to the screeching tires of passing cars, I see the tale unfold before me. I don't escape the world I'm in. It simply takes a different shape, a different form, leading me submerged in a place only I can see. Yet, I'm not alone; taking no fear in falling off the edge- a page lifts and carries me across. Symbols arranged in secrecy, only revealed once you know the secret. To be able to read is a skill but it's not always simply lines on paper. It's beyond that. So much more. I could read him like a book. His hair speaks words, his eyes tell a story, and his fingers fill the cup of illusions with vivid images and details until it overflows with feeling, meaning. Younger, I wasn’t exposed to distractions from the outside and influences from everyday life that alter scenes I imagine. Now, I pick up a book and see characters, each carrying a hint of a person I know or have met before, some stronger than others. In his case. I saw him in the boy that lived beside a creek, the kite carried by the wind, the man who prepared to leave… I saw him so often, it should have become natural, like breathing, long ago. It should have been dismissed in my mind, like the unintentional ignorance of the words that merge with our lives, instead of penetrating my soul and amplifying before me. Now what I experience, what I know, and how I perceive things merge with what I see. Front cover to last page. When he is not there, he is. 

My Dear Sister,

As I write this, my life is flashing before my eyes like a silent movie. Memories of us playing when we were young. My hand is shaking and I am afraid. Afraid that these may be the last words I will ever write, and afraid that you may be reading them, since that could only mean one thing: I didn’t have a chance to destroy this letter.
Remember, when we were little, the way I used to dream of the day I could be old enough to watch a theater play? My dream came true and I finally got to watch a musical at Nord-Ost. Yet, as I watched the play unfold, I could have never imagined that this day would turn into a nightmare. At the sound of soldiers dancing, the theater was seized. I watched the gunmen jump on stage and felt the rows of nine hundred audience members tremble in fear. I couldn’t believe it. This cannot be happening to us. Not here. Not now. This cannot be real.
These people are from Chechnya. Men and women, their faces concealed. If the Russian authorities didn’t order to withdraw their troops from the Republic of Chechnya, they threatened to blow up this theater. I need to keep writing to stop myself from shaking. I feel helpless. Tied down to this satin chair; I am a victim of a civil war conflict and I feel powerless. We are sitting in piercing silence and knowing that I cannot do anything leaves me paralyzed.
I feel the seat beneath me and I see the faces around me. The audience with their arms helplessly resting on the sides of their chairs. I watch the people line up against the wall. One by one they enter the orchestra pit, which is now a replacement for the closed down washrooms. The smell is suffocating but I cannot feel.
One of the Chechen women is sitting beside me. Her cheeks are covered in tears and so are mine. She tells us her family was killed, her children shot in front of her eyes, leaving her no choice but to come here. Now I wonder: who is more afraid? Us or them? I see a bomb strapped to her waist. One move and all of us could be gone. I must be dreaming. This is too surreal.  
To our shock, the silence breaks as a young woman enters the auditorium. Where did she come from? How did she get into the building? We do not know. We can hear her argue with the Chechen leader as she yells to us, “What are you all scared of? He’s just a clown, and this is all a big farce.” I feel adrenaline rush through my veins. Why are we just sitting here? There are more of us. Why aren’t we doing anything? This brave young woman filled with bravery and hope was then pushed aside into a room by one of the gunmen and we hear three gun shots. We know she is gone, and with her, I can feel the hope she passed on to us slowly fade away.
I hear a child whisper to his mother, “Mom, no one’s going to save us. I need to know, how will I recognize you in heaven?” She whispers back, “You won’t need to, son. I’ve got your hand and I’m not letting go. We’ll be there together.” I don’t want to hear any of this. I cannot stand it. This cannot be happening. I wish I could reach out and hold your hand, yet all I have now is this paper and the last bit of hope.
This will be over. We have to be rescued. I want to see you again. I cannot stand the thought that this is it. I saw death and I am so close to it. What if that was me? I realize people never think about death until it crawls and sneaks up behind you. Until it is so close, you can feel it’s breath on the back of your neck. That brave woman could have been me.
A group of Chechen men stand beside me and, suddenly, I feel their mood change. The Russian government promised to meet them for negotiation and this caused the sudden change of atmosphere. Some gunmen take off their masks and juice is passed around the auditorium. This is a sign that it may soon be over. Why am I filled with doubt?
Hours passed and no one came. I watch the clock ticking on the wall and, still, there is no sign of change. The gunmen begin to realize they might have been tricked and we sense danger. I am filled with terror. What now? I see the foreshadowing of death in their eyes. They were too naïve to think the government would give in that easily. I can tell they are afraid as much as we are. We’re waiting and no one is coming.
I have to keep writing or else I am afraid I may lose it. A strange smell is filling my lungs. Do others notice it? The smell is stronger now. I feel too tired to write. It is strange but slowly, one by one, the people around me begin to fall asleep. The snoring is getting louder and louder. The little boy and his mother are now fast asleep as well. I have to keep writing to stay awake. What’s happening? I see a grey mist coming down but I’m too tired to wonder where it’s coming from. The clock is still ticking on the wall. For now, I will go to sleep and maybe when I wake up, this nightmare will be ov…

His Eyes
I felt the crimson seat of the subway under me and smelled a blend of alcohol and strong perfume, combined in a strange mix that made me want to choke. I watched a baby wave to me from the parallel row. I tasted the bitterness of gum in my mouth as the mint soared through my throat. The drum beat filling my ears, I listened to the striking melody. Suddenly, I looked up to see an old man. He sat down beside me, not noticing that the seat was occupied by my handbag. I imagined the screen of my cell phone crack under him. His companion, probably his wife, whispered angrily, “Not on the girl’s bag!” I mumbled, “It’s alright” as he slowly moved his trembling hand and placed my handbag into my lap. I was surprised his fragile fingers withstood its weight. He managed to place it on my lap and looked at my face. As he did so, I stared back. His eyes were wide and full of wisdom. They were not focused and I wondered whether he saw a blurred form instead of me. I could see all his flaws. Every wrinkle, every freckle, every strand of gray hair. Yet, I felt exposed. I looked down at my hands, smooth and soft. Slender. The worst they've been through was washing the dishes. His were full of dents, creases and scars. They were harsh and rough. I wondered where he received each mark. Each line is an owner of its own story. Although I could see everything in great detail, I knew he could see clearer, sharper, farther in a way I couldn't understand.
"Arriving at St. Patrick. St. Patrick station."
He turned and looked ahead while I stumbled out of my seat and glanced at him for the last time. As I looked up at the end of the escalator, I knew his eyes would be etched into my memory for the rest of my life.