Echoes of Hand Claps

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I tried to learn a story from you, something that could make sense of the smiles you have been sharing with the world. So we talked merrily in serious times until you opened up to me, opened a window into a room filled with laughter and music, you showed me your answers to my questions. Now it is clear, you are missing the fire of it all, the stage was once your home.

Your warm words are the lasting embers of what was vibrant and colourful to you once. Echoes of the brilliant you have made themselves known in your moments of revery. Time has a way of pretense that has fooled too many, too often. Its colorless folds, have a adopted a shadow to hide that moment in time from you, it has failed to deceive me, I hope it fails to hold those memories behind you. There is plenty theatre inside that beating heart.

In confidence you grew bolder in owning up to your brilliance. You let me listen to your tales of magic, when you would disappear from the constraints of the audience and find your true colour on the stages that made you wholesome in your talents. I can only drag you so far back into that moment before you lose me, before you find your wings and take to patches of that memory you have succeeded in keeping secret. I’m dancing to the echoes of a symphony of passion, a melody of a memory so potent it kills my bearings. To the watching eyes I’m too silly to be made of sense, to the moment, I’m a victim of truth.

The years haven’t been able to stifle the reverberation of that most precious time. Don’t lose the magic, because you have been led to believe that the mischief of the theatre is for people less serious than you ought to be now. Behind the closed doors of my own home I harmonize with those echoes you let me hear, hoping to find the child at play in this very serious place. I hope you can let me see that child at play again, I hope you can find that magic again, take to the stage once more.

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Writing 101 – Day Five: Loose leaf of a Lament

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A letter!
But here?!

“…From the Depth of my heart.

With Loves Fieriest Passion

Karis.”

Moving sentiments from the strangest face. Pompous paper, with seductive mysteries had broken my stride, penetrated my world on a canvas of concrete, pebbles and dashings of earth. Curiosity won in straight sets. My hast for the convenience stores concessionary corner was calmed, but life gifted justly, after all, “Life is like a box of chocolate you never know what you’re gonna…”

“Get it through you’re head, Its you, only you, its always been you! This is hard and …”

Painful, the curiosity grips intensely. Oh mystery, you burn me. The letters were loud, Jittery loops of fire, quivering curves of angst, ink drenched regret on the paper that caught fire when a broken heart burst.

Operation skittles and M&M’s, was belittled by them and them. The hearts and minds of him and her. There was her, there was him. There was Karis, there was Dave. But Karis and her fire ignited this parchment with this ember that rattled incessantly in ink, and in turn, my mind.

The cold concrete and morning dew had stolen these words and suffocated there messenger. Only the faintest breathe of an address, the residues of a final hope, lingered on the tattered sleeve of Manila.

“Seymour Road”

I was thrust in a storm of hearts, this slither of lightning teased me with a flash, a glimpse of passion ,lust and maybe distrust.

Seymour road is 5 Minutes away. Seymour road is 10 minutes and 20 houses long.

For Love, for the Lust for Mystery. I marched on destiny’s unpredictable tempest.