Lost in Thoughts

I turned 40 today. My glass is empty for the fourth time and the bottle rests precariously on the edge of the table. It’s been about three weeks since I came here. To this house. And I am afraid I am losing my mind. But in a good way.  They have voices you know, certain houses. They whisper into your head. Sometimes they talk. And sometimes they stay quiet. Dead quiet. But in the end, insanity is inevitable.  I am not worried about insanity. In fact, insanity is of essence. Especially when you are an artist,  pockets empty and your head even more so. I find inspiration in these voices that I hear here. Turning them into strokes of paint on my canvas gives me strength. I have been painting endlessly since I came. One newfangled idea a day. It is almost like I am famous again. I can still feel the gallery lights warm on my skin as if it was yesterday and not 20 years ago. And I am willing to endure anything in the world to have it again. Even insanity. There is...

Don’t let it go ‘Cause that dream is your show.  Go out there, Bask in the spotlights. If no stage, then Sing under the starlight Gleaming in the moonshine Your boundaries got no line. Drink in a thousand sights At dinner tables under chandelier lights Gleaming forks upon napkins, snow-white. If not, honey, then it’s alright. Set your own table Bold tablecloths trailing the dusk-lit ground  With truest of friends to dine around Wooden chairs and plastic cups The chatter, the music of divine As we sit and age like fine wine.  Be wild, Be free Be all that you want to be. Run to places off the map Chart new roads, one time, a lap As willing as the white winds Scared as you might be. You make your choices Shut out those miserable voices That tell you to sit and sip tea Step on your ship and sail the sea If not for treasure, Then for the breeze. Don’t let it go. ‘Cause your dream is your show.

Dearest Mortal, Can I ask you for something? Don’t refuse me. Please. Sometimes I can feel. Sometimes. It is but for a moment. An unanchored shard of memory from somewhere inside. A sharp prick of emotion that punctures in and radiates. A shock of nostalgia sweeps through. An old window, wooden and worn. A shaft of sunshine. Flecks of dust dancing and drowning. The sprawling outdoors with its languid lanes a squint away. I reach for it- an arm through the shaft, the slap of the summer wind and a familiar throb as a surprised skull meets the sturdy panel. I can feel it. Almost. Pebbles, staunch and shiny. Crunching beneath bare toes. Long, lined fingers. Ten in number. Square nails scrubby with dirt. One scab here, one scar there. Sinking and slipping with every step. Hollow clutters as a few slip down, tumbling into anonymity. A slight creak of spine as it stoops to pick one. Supple finger-pads  against queer lines that goes round and round the pebble. A slight frown as...