by Rhee ©
Iím walking the streets, holding this sharp sliver of glass in my mind. Iím not sure why, I canít see it, but I know its there. I feel it. I hear its high pitched alien song calling me. The sirens song. I walk the streets with pointed, uncomfortable thoughts- like thereís something I'm looking straight at but canít see. And I imagine I know how ancient mariners felt when they heard the mermaids calling, crazy to reach nirvana. I hear their voices sing, drawing me in.
The sun shoots bullet holes through the cloud cover and maybe the glass in my mind is ice, because it doesnít seem as sharp in this yellow warmth.
If the mermaids sing then do angels also? Is it the sirens sitting on the loneliness stones in the oceans of our hearts? Is it the sirens that place the cold needles of doubt in my brain? And if so, will the angels light melt it away? What about the fairies? The unicorn? The dragon? The gryphon? Did they all sing a song? And did we slaughter that song with our nasty hearts and napalm minds? I look about me, grey city streets, and the trees, what about the trees? Whereís their song? Where did they go?
I read a story once about a man who thought bird song was annoying. So he cut down the trees and polluted the air and killed the birds- only to discover that the birdís song was the only thing that bought him joy. But I prefer the story about a boy on a beach before dawn, picking up starfish and throwing them back into the sea. When asked why he was doing it, told that he couldnít make a difference to the thousands of starfish on the beach, he looked at the one in his hands, threw it into the safety of the waves and replied, ďIt makes a difference to that one.Ē
Maybe the sea is salt from mermaidís tears? And maybe pearls are really the seeds of new worlds and if we shot them into the stars (under the right conditions) they would germinate and flower whole beautiful civilizations that sang the oceans song.
Do you know how I feel? What I mean? Like thereís a crack in your brain you can try to ignore, but it keeps letting in cold, incensed air and sirens song. You can smell it, but canít place it. Hear it, yet donít understand the language. You know its there, you just donít know where. And all along the notion persists that if you found that crack, that clear piece of mirror, and squeezed through it then youíd find the fairies and get their songÖ not just listen.
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