~frail, pale, fragmented illusions~

Wrapped inside these chime bells, intertwining the wanted and the unwanted, everything else afloat among the havoc.

Preaching tales of the frail, pale fragmented memories;

About the ticking clock, which often ticks in haste or so I think. But such is life, prompting all good things to come to an end.

And we mere passengers of these illusions; watch like fools, like puppets, like dreary eyed men; only to fade amongst the thin air.

Unable to witness our own denouement.

©Sandra Maria Rison – @perfectinmyimperfecttales0714.wordpress.com

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The cold, cold Winter of March, 2018.

I stared and stared.

The snow falling, like a few frail and fragmented flashbacks. Forgotten to be remembered. And so here I am. Reminiscing over the little staccato outbursts of laughter, tears and everything inbetween from times past.

The Moses basket, that my husband and I had once placed at the corner of this room, wrapped in blue woven with magenta was now empty. But nonetheless, it still stood at the corner of this room. Waiting, observing, anticipating as the reds, yellows and oranges of Autumn flooded these ancient alleyways.

Seasons alternated between the two that were predominantly felt here, in the southeast of this petite bear shaped island. The ticking of time became a little more, than just the passing of aurora and the arrival of twilight. What we once craved for, had now spiralled, spiralled out of control; into an irreversible admiration of this silhouette of our baby boy.

Lost in the shadows of this downtrodden universe. The cradle held his embryonic soul. A deafening silence, that I had never before heard quite so blatantly. Frozen, rooted in time like the cold, cold, frosty Winter of March, 2018.

The Moses basket, placed at the corner of our room still stood as it was;

You held me in a tight embrace and we stared and stared, into the insignificance surrounding us.

#stories#people
©Sandra Maria Rison – @perfectinmyimperfecttales0714.wordpress.com

And darling, don’t be sorry.

“And darling, don’t be sorry.” You were always one to worry. Remember that one summer’s evening? The scorching sun sharing the serendipity of that beautiful tale. We sat hand in hand, on Silverstrand beach, near The Wilton Hotel. Watching, staring, as if in a daze at the orange, pink, yellow, red and magenta all folding into each other. The sun was almost asleep, above the clear and calm of the ocean.

Yet you were tensed. Held the baby in your arms, pin drop silence. Light brown spheres gazing right back into your path. Or so you thought. The pieces of you which you had teared apart, recklessly thrown somewhere in a backstreet alleyway, an odd three and a half decades ago. The memories you had obliterated from your being, the people you had forced yourself to forget; And the ghostly acquaintances that now accompany you ubiquitously. The destinations you continuosly reminded yourself of, but most of which you had never set foot upon, most of which are not present in this universe, as we know it.

Schizophrenia had been a bastard. Like your first lover dressed all in black, head to toe; With his unforgettable charm and that villainous, impish laugh. Much older, oh but how is that of any value at all? Dominant but loving. I wonder how that felt, or did you feel at all? I guess that remains a secrecy.

“And darling, don’t be sorry.” You were always one to worry. With big brown hair, like women from the 60’s and one hell of a mouth that you never kept shut. You wore tight dresses and travelled with your tresses. Pecked that man, lay with the stranger. Drank like the men, wrote like the poets, walked like a lady;

Not once, not even for a second had she thought, “What if?”. Not once, not even for a second had she allowed the influence of insanity affect her euphoria. And not once, not even for a second, did she qualm about her acts, from the past 80 years.

Lived her life as a Goddess, never taking a lone breath for granted. Affirmed in that man up in the clouds. Feared oblivion, as we all should. She left a mark on this deceptive world, for generations to come and left this mortal world with a sigh of relief.

I wish this could be me. Don’t you?

©Sandra Maria Rison – @perfectinmyimperfecttales0714.wordpress.com

This game ends “here”.

And on a cold, harsh Winter’s night, when I turn to face the other side; With filled eyes, in the realisation, that I will never really love you; In the realisation that this was an agreement between my Father and you; In the realisation that I am simply a frail, pale doll; Will you hold me in that moment? Will you caress me without questioning? Will you love me without the terms and conditions?

It may have been the most bizarre, dangerous and impulsive act; Yet he would have been there amongst the havoc, without a care in the world. As a man of courage and integrity. But you are not him and neither will you be. To me, you are merely a stranger who tied a knot, intertwining the wanted and unwanted miserably together. Not your transgression of course. It was ordinarily the affairs of society. So hush, it’s best if things are not undone. I know nothing about you and frankly speaking, I have no intent to search for the unknown either. But what I do know, is that you shall never be him; for you are you and only you.

You may lay your hands upon my cold and frightened body, yet you will never intimately feel my naked soul. You may speak with me, but you shan’t ever hear me. You may call me your “wife”, yet I am like any other woman you lay eyes upon on the streets of this forgotten, filthy city, somewhere in the west of India. A “Lady of the evening” for you. A stranger. A doll, terribly human like; With a face and a body, yet I don’t have life. Let us play this game of “pretend” for infinity, or until the hunger within you perishes.

You will not hold me. You will not caress me. You will not have affection for me. Not because you don’t want to. Not because I don’t allow you to. But because “here” remains the broken bridge between us that cannot be altered. The frail, pale doll that I am frightens you, but we must make it to the finish line simultaneously.

You are neither bitter nor barbarous and truly speaking I am most likely far from what you expected, wanted, deserved. And I too have equal emotions on this matter. Feeling, yet not wanting, numb to the core of who I am. Unequivocally it must be a curse. And when this game of “pretend” ends, I will be like a ragged doll, you the master of all trades. I don’t blame you for what will happen, whether that is for better, or for worse and as we depart, this game ends “here”.

And we don’t have to play ‘pretend’ no more.

©Sandra Maria Rison – @perfectinmyimperfecttales0714.wordpress.com

Ancient Doll

And you beautiful, beautiful girl; Promise me that you will still dance and twirl. Through these toxic people and their stares. Between the alleyways of your childhood and the ghost that glares.

Never look back, don’t stumble, don’t fall! They all look at you in awe, for you are an ancient doll.

Skies faded; Black, blue, greys and more. The fate of her fragile life rested upon the shore.

Never, not once did she fade nor fall. All the heavens looked at you in awe, for you were an ancient, precious doll.

©Sandra Maria Rison – @perfectinmyimperfecttales0714.wordpress.com

“And so here it is. This is my letter to God.”

He questioned me with a tone of dominance, asking “Do you believe in God?”

It was a known, yet somehow vaguely strange question to be asking. That too, as we sat waiting for the Arklow bound intercity, at Tara Street Station in Central Dublin.

An abrupt answer t’was indeed. “I believe in something.” And so here it is. This is my letter to “God”.

To the same “God”, that left a young mother mourning, at the passing of her newborn. A beautiful baby boy. Day by day, week by week, a baby blossoms. A first grasp, the calling out for a touch of safety, the warmth of his mother’s bosom.

Perhaps later than we think, but most certainly sooner than we desire. That is death. Knocking restlessly at the door of life. The umbilical cord; Knock. Knock. Knock. And then all at once, like the lion that devours the lamb; Traced its’ way along the baby’s innocent collar bones. Strangling softly into the darkness. Smothering, extinguishing every last hope of light. Cough. Splutter. Choke. And so here it is. This is my letter to “God”.

To the “God” who made us, the land and the seas. You see us at our most vulnerable, scared and tortured moments. They why, if I may ask; Why do you not end this charade of his ugly sins? A rattling, heartwrenching, true tale of a damsel in distress. Her body was like a temple, her words spoke prophecies. The daughter, the sister, the soul that he tore apart. And why, just why, do you not end this charade my Lord?

A tale of not just one, but of many, of many. Young and old. They are your daughters too. It is indeed quite sad that I have to remind you. And so here it is. This is my letter to “God”.

To the same Almighty that humanity fights for. To the same “God” that died for all our sins; To the same “God” that wrecked my faith through his own hypocrisy and unjust actions;

And one day when I breathe my last, I am not sure who to thank in this precious, yet heartbreaking journey of life; Nor am I aware of my next destination. But in this afflictive moment, I promise myself that I will not turn to any “God”. I will simply breathe my last. And so here it is. Plain and true from one of the most innocent, honest and broken corner of my heart. This is my letter to “God”.

©Sandra Maria Rison – @perfectinmyimperfecttales0714.wordpress.com

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