Posted on by Ruisi

Time -novel excerpt-

Time is the tatter-wingēd butterfly that flits, delicate, among the petals, occasionally pausing for a bead of saccharine nectar. It is a tree’s scrapbook of leaves, considered but never truly admired– when even a breath of air itself takes time.

To bask amongst the fresh fragrance of the tulips standing withered a decade later, the forlorn memories of a forgotten beauty taken with—

to dip one’s feet in the bubbling brook flowing still, but without the liveliness that made it so bright, brilliant—

—that is the feeling of a lost life, of lost time.

Articulation of dreams is no simple task, and at the intangible door of thoughts do wisps of hope await, intertwined, with the silken filaments of regrets and roads-not-taken; alas, one worries he may never live out his dreams, for the days, seasons, years—they pass much too quickly.

Wisdom grows with age, they say, and perhaps that it is true, but only if the entire definition of the word is flipped. Adults say, and they always will say, how children know nothing—that children are naive, ignorant, yet in reality they are the ones who see the world for what it is. The covert masks of strangers melt away in their eyes, their previously veiled shadows struck by the light, for the gentle hearts of youths find it effortless to trust and to love without preoccupation over ulterior motives or repercussions. As it is, it is only later that the absolute fickleness of human emotion and thought is discovered.

Some age faster than others. They are the youths whose sight can end up changing not only their lives, but even the sorrowful temporariness of other beings.

To them, life is no such dalliance.


Posted on by Ruisi

Indents

Cross over the shallow running water
to where skyline meets buried rootstock
Jagged rocks peek past overgrown reeds
and the brushstrokes of rosy flutter plastered
with invisible droplets meld into ticking clockwork.
Indents in the wood worn over time remain
a Game played by Children and Adults alike.
Posted on by Ruisi

Chaos

Amidst the white glare of the stars
you reach out your hands and feel only
     the flames scorching your fingers.
Blind, you remain; yet you are the one to see
     [the plagued skin of the defiant]
Deaf, you remain; yet you are the last to hear
     [the warning screams of the fallen].

From whence the crying comes you consider not
     because whilst the noises and voices conflate
into a disembodied greyscale hum, untranslatable-
a labyrinth of intangible faces to one’s sanity bate-
you stay mute by throwing down all reason
     so that they may skitter away to beleaguer
     the crackēd bones of those already desolate.
Repulsed by the taste of your own venom
its pungent acridity pervading every bud
you spit on the entrails toss’d safe astray
     and rely on the imprints in the dirt for guidance
but the ground before you crumbles away
     and you find yourself lost without ever taking a step.

Seeing still all visages through the smoke of the pyre
wondering why their masks are dripping at the edges-
Weep; glass tears scrape at the film clouding your eyes
     -and fear- then, if you are finally seeing clear
for all you shall discover when the sun doth rise
when the shade departs and the weak-hearted cower
be the pyrrhic ravages o’ crimson ash mix’d with burnt souls-
     all the carnage of Armageddon a simple hand-mirror.
Posted on by Ruisi

Place of Travel

She always meets them in a place of travel, when the mode of expectation is polite quiet and careful small talk. She sits by one in a rollercoaster car–before the ride, he asks her where she comes from, and she laughs and answers in passing. He’s from another city. They share contact information once they exit the ride, once the thrill of shouting a conversation whilst speeding through the night sky above the lights of the amusement park below wears off slightly. He messages her after the fact, and they pass a few texts in exchange. Her responses slow. They met once during an intersection of travel—that’s all it’ll ever be.

When it happens the second time, she wonders what she’s doing to end up in conversations so easily with strangers. She’s on a plane for home–she arrives late in a rush, staggering into her seat with a heated flush across her cheeks. The man who has the seat beside her says hi and introduces himself. Well, she thinks, as least we’re traveling to the same place. The flight is long; they spend time chatting, checking out the media systems on the backs of the seats in front of them, listening to music–this is fun, she thinks. She gazes outside the window as the plane begins to touch down, watching the yellow and orange lights below signal the end of their little interlude. They find each other on social media. He’s years older than her. Later, he sends her a message. She doesn’t respond. Same flight, same destination, but she tells herself it’s asymptotic. A rollercoaster, a plane—she thinks afterwards, I wonder if this means something.