Discover, Share, Connect
Blind from birth, the spring was all about the sounds, the tastes and the rising air temperature for Mila. With keen awareness of the frigidity of winter rain, she knew before her keen sighted friends when the winter season was in transition. She felt the breeze kiss her more warmly and let her hands explore the overhanging branches of neighbourhood trees to find the swelling buds- buds that would soon crack open to release the soft papery leaves within.The myriad of verdant hues from the grass to the leaves above were lost to her; but their gentle fragrance never was. She would take a new lush blade or leaf and rub it between her fingers, releasing its perfume. She knew the flowers of her neighbourhood by their scents, either that which they released to the damp air or by crushing a petal to release the aromatic sap. She knew the call of each bird species and marked the progress of the season with their song.
There is a kind of waiting that feels like gentle onshore breezes kissing salty stones. It isn't warm but there is a sense of calm, of nature, of things expected. Then there is the kind that feels like the head of a medieval mace is loose in my guts and my head has taken a beating with a hefty plank of wood. As I wait to see if Cory's lights come down the lane, it is the latter. I stare so hard my mind almost conjures some to please me but I won't let it. Tonight I have to stay in reality, for Cory, not depart into the fantasy life that demands my attention at all the worst moments.
I wonder; if an artist painted a picture book of Libertarianism (far right) and true communism (far left), if they would look just the same - no words, just pictures. I wonder the same for the principles of every religion, if instead of words it was only art. Wouldn't they all be paintings of love, of sharing, of caring? And wouldn't they be so much easier to understand than inches of text?
In the twilight your skin is honeyed. I let my eye roam over your chest, to the muscle tone in your arms. As my gaze rises to take in the face that soothes me, I see your eyes, their hue matching the newly fallen chestnuts in the park. My hands fall into yours. I love the way you smile, so gentle, understated. Then in an instant we are close and I feel our body heat combine like our emotions - as if they are painted into the air about us.
How is it that my love for you travelled from my heart into my blood? That it flows through the skin that touches yours. It is that I love your mind, your soul, that makes this body connection explosive beyond reason. It's there in everything we do, everything we say, even in our silences.
The pitter patter of the rain creates a shield around me. I love the rain, I always have. The silver puddles create an obstacle course that only the bravest of us battle. The sky is grey today, I mean everything is some form of grey, it always has been on days like this. I sometimes wonder what colour things are when it's raining. Maybe they aren’t. Maybe there is only black and white and different shades of in between. That ‘in between’ the space of wonder, of mystery, is a place that I love. I wonder what goes on outside my world of grey on rainy days.
Jasmine would often describe her baby as frenetic and fractious. 'She was born with a hurricane for a soul, that one,' she would say. But she said it in a loving way with that soft glow in her eyes that only a mother can have for such difficult offspring. She would rock her in the dead of night when she found it impossible to sleep and she would wear her all day long in a baby carrier so that she would be calmed by the body to body contact. She would soothe her with lullaby's and stroke her tiny back and soft hair. She would whisper sweet things in her ears and cover her with kisses. She would love the hurricane right out of that child and replace it with a sweet summer breeze because above all, she was her baby, and she loved her with a power mightier than the wind.
Despite the crispness of the suit and the perfect tailoring the man inside wasn't far out of high-school. Against his smooth brown skin his black hair moved in the spring breeze. It was cold enough for some to be in winter jackets still, but he made no motion to suggest he even felt it. On his feet were shiny black shoes that Freddy couldn't imagine the guy polishing himself. At his side was a case in fine brown leather. So this was the guy he had to befriend and betray. Not hard. Kids like that were always lonely and bored, just had to find the right angle. And as for the betrayal part, he didn't see a problem with that. He hated him already.
The boy's eyes were green but not the kind of shade that's easy to describe. It was almost like they were both green and yellow at the same time, with blue creeping in around the edges as if it were trying to take over. He blinked and the beauty was momentarily covered by the shield of his eyelashes; naturally long and soft looking - feminine compared to the rest of his well structured features. By the time the boy's eyes opened again, I had still not recovered from his intense stare. It was a stare that communicated the boy's former pain, and his wish for me to let go and to move on. But I could not move on, just as I could not forget those glaring eyes whose light never faded even in death.
As Zac spoke his eyes followed the leaves on a tree outside, moving in a summer breeze. "Leaders are only leaders if you follow them. 'Just following orders' will never be an excuse again, not that it ever really was. Everything we do must be guided by love. Power is the poison in our veins, empathy is the antidote."