before it happens

The explosion took place first within his mind, and then upon the screen before him.  Time slowed to reveal the pattern in the darkness despite the trace amounts of light he’d been given.  These dates and details that once seemed rote memorization, now began to unfold in an entirely new way.  When did this become the basis for reality that so greatly affected him?  Is he a she?  only the reader truly knows.  Smoke and dust clear to reveal the debris scattered across the floor.  The ornate fixtures and delicate patterns covering the entire expanse of the ceiling have been reduced to a massive sweeping project that dares to look back up at the gaping sky.  The big sky winks back at the onlooker who can’t quite assess the damage yet.  Eyes close and re-open.  He is becoming a new man one day at a time, however, this day may be his last, and the transformation is not yet complete.  These words run through his head as well as a barrage of still images from recent times.  This happily ever after may need to be placed on hold until further notice.  Gains made on previous expeditions seem to be filed away in a vault that may or may not be accessible by its owner.  Ever changing.  Ever seeking.  Ever evolving are the ways of this journey and the one who is on it.  Developments within programs are intriguing but not necessarily cost effective.  Sitting in the waiting room may lead to fidgeting, anxiety, stress, deprivation of spirit, and an alacrity in demeanor that makes absolutely no sense and puts others on edge.  Round pegs fit into round holes.  Square pegs and such.  When I see the smoke billowing from the explosion, I wonder if I am him secretly or if she is me.  When did we forget to open doors, and draw back the curtains from our windows?  Did the panic set in before the engagement?  How wholesome can one gentleman be?  How saintly can a poetess seem?  We are each dreamers, and we are not the only ones.  Unlike predecessors who lacked the same power of retrospect upon the same number of years, we can choose to be naive to the past mistakes, repeat them, and curse the wind for blowing over us as if we are the only ones that it affects.  The main character decides to play out his part even if if means his own death.  The story becomes more interesting without an agenda or a forecast of the storm.  Poseidon rules the seas, and no dweller of earth can manage to wield his trident except perhaps the one laying in the newly formed rubble if he heals.  These events carry on.  Not every great novel is written.  Some are simply lived in Thoreau’s quiet desperation.  Explosions seem to occur every day when we don’t focus on the scale, but rather, on the impact upon character and the human condition.  Can you see it before it happens?  This wedding of opposites leaves room at the reception for any number of outcomes.  The yellow flag gathers dust, for the most part, lies ignored.  Dramatic inquiry aside, we can each lay beside the character and empathize or not.  We are angels in desolate places waiting to return home.  We are flying clowns waiting to entertain the ideas held within our wildest dreams.  Excitement turns into stoic stares back up at the sky.  We are engaged with our own small stories and often neglect the bigger picture that is unfolding.  A muted explosion is like a nervous breakdown in a halted elevator.  Life goes on.  Lists are made.  Groceries are purchased.  Feasts are had.  Leftovers are boxed up.  Dogs eat table scraps.  People hurt each other unintentionally.  Lovers find ways to reconcile.  Dreamers find ways to continue.  When do the final credits roll?  He lays there facing up.  His back is upon the floor.  The light cuts through the element of fog that meanders its way across the skyline.  I don’t know if the character will live or die.  Sing with me until the story reveals itself.  Patterned obelisks lean to the southeast side of the atrium.  Wall tiles rest from their game of leap frog.  Dust settles.  Laughter continues on the page but not over the phone.  The plaques focus on the positive, but fail to tell the whole story.  Fragmented lives become epic characters in narratives who wish to get their ever loving hands on the author.  I love you, but you must die.

About SIDEWAYS EIGHT

Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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