Enough

Most people would say it in regard to anything that they find grating. That would be anything, from entering the kitchen way too many times while the other party is watching or by leaving the door wide open white flushing the toilet. You like to eat when someone is reminding you where that food is going to end up in? Soon enough you learn and then you see that it barely matters, but it could be too late enough already. Thenyou say enough when you reach the end of your tether, which is when you know you cannot move anymore, speak no more, or simply make any change or any difference in your or somebody’s budding life that has not started to shed any leaves. Or when you have no more blood to share to afford, or the flesh to spare, or the stamina when the truth is revealed in its totality.

When Enough is not Enough

That is not enough when you think you have reached the wall or any obstacles, there is more waiting for you to endure, but the question is whether you are daring to learn. Say life would be easier, more fair, just brighter, when you just dare to wait another day, another minute. How come they always tell you to be patient and move through life as if nothing happened, as if no one made any errors, how many errors declare your life to be oficially over? How many days are you willing to sacrifice to find out? Perhaps that Enough is not yet that end of any tether you might proclaim but you could push further and find out?

Possibly and maybe. Joking about children in Africa has become a kind of cruel joke despite the suffering that hunger brings with it. But indeed the more you have the more hunger grows inside of you as if it was cancerous stain that is taking over your mind which you aim to set you free. You suffer and yet you push through. Where is the devil in those details then? How come you can suffer through life and not discard it while so many valuable people endured beyond belief, in spite of their talents, minds, health and more. Imagine yourself growing in another family, being fed different food, becoming the victim, getting on the rollercoaster of changes that catapult you way up into the dream you might be living right now. Or not. So then you want more and that grows inside you. The truth is there is no end to Enough. That drove our species and it keeps pushing you until the barrier of time is broken and you are broken with all that you have gathered while living. You can feed on those enoughs from before and yet you moved with life, you pushed and thrived despite the pains. Isn’t it a miracle?!

Lonesome Birds

Nothing like that can truly speak to your heart. Why would I speak to anyone’s heart? Would I confirm what I felt back then when I was tormented mightily by the night? The night brought the storms into my life. You can actually feel so much better in the cage when no one is looking but if your birdy perspective is skewed, you cannot help but wonder the life in its representations. You go from a corner to a corner, you would go further but the futility is killing. Why move at all? A cage is always a promise that one day the door would open to let you out, but you already forgot how to survive outside and on your own. You are one of those children who hated horror stories or even any elements of horror within the stories and whose hearts bled when any suffering of yet another creature was mentioned even if that was in the passing. You simply bled.

Night Terrors

Those separated you from the outer world. In that room you prayed to the god they had chosen, or he had chosen them to be prayed to, not in a group setting, only in individual expression of your remorse and melody of the rosary. You could have died for the sound of the rosary beads moving and murmuring voices that prayed together. They would gather in a separate room, going there to spend time, children in tow, except you. That was always a mystery why a caged child would be left alone, strapped, silent beneath the overwhelming canopy of chatty stars. You could lick them, you could even grope them if you wished, as they hung low enough to be caught. As a weird eyed child I was entitled to plait a ruddy plait out of the lonelier stars and miniscule galacticas on my own, without expecting anything in return. Not even the door being slightly left ajar to let in some more hope. Not even a dim hope. But then again I hardly knew the meaning of the worlds that hid behind the words, or the pauses or the stares that I was being given. That was beyond any comprehension, while the stars were so much closer, shedding their cold light on me, dumping the light on me when I was already shaking because I had already received too much. The plentiful gifts of daily lonesome birds’ treatment, the beads of water delivered straight to my mouth, then and again. And being fed the soupy remnants from the dinner, mixed with the histerically bulbous seeds, which I hit at with speed, splashing the caky mixture right across the roomy kitchen, which was a major offence in case of a bird like me. I was therefore curbed and prohibited from food for months until I got the meaning of the punishment in the end. Choking on them was the way to escape but I lacked the guts. Yes, we birds do have them.

The End

It ended this way. It had to. Anyone who was telling you the truth could not believe their ears but it was true. The language of generic cliches was out in the open, on the tongues of many people, rolling down to reach the drain where they belonged. The funeral was coming but most people were just idling their time away leaning against the wicker chairs. Some looked bored, their eyes looking devoid of any expression, except boredom. Or perhaps that was me misreading them, instead of focusing on paying tribute. I was always more interested in the living.

In the Beginning

It is nothing unusual, no typical solemnity, no horror like stories, just a fistful full of sand that you hear land on the coffin with a delicate thud. You grab the moisted piece of land with your manicured nails which leave the dirt you carry home. Dirt is also in the top of the shoes that you carry home also. It sticks to you and that memory never leaves. You recall only the wet stench of the freshly ground earth and the moribund resin in your heart.

Still heard as it goes between the beats, that silence is not worrying to any extent, it just spreads in the air, and suffocates him. As he breathes more silence occurs, fewer intervals occur, while the air hangs low over him, he breathes out the storm, inhales the peace that spreads together with silence but the two are soon gone and what remains is the shadow of a former human being that lies motionlessly. The clouds disperse and the light chill enters the room. People leave. Come and go. Open the window. Hear the chatting. ”…suffered no more”, ”…is the widow upstairs?” Under the table there is enough room to accomodate the children, two of them are hugging each other. Are you going to hold me, Tommy? The elder brother looks down at the sister’s uncertainty that always brings out a smile.

I Carried You

Yes, brother, hold me or carry me piggyback to the closest stream where I would love to play along, the old game we both love so much. Unsure he is going to smile? He certainly is. Right, you see that spark coming to life instantly and the whole face beam with a boisterous undertone. The little devil, he! Loved swimming in those muddy waters like a little embodiment of defiance, holding his breath under the water up to the last minisecond that separated him from losing consciousness. The dim shape that moved across the riverbanks, only to land safely on his both feet. The brother Tom.

The beginning

That was rather a difficult birth, granny recalls, but he fully accepted his new environment. Those like him quickly adapt, quickly make friends within their outer zone. He was eagerly awaiting the new and exciting.

In the memoriam of Tom