WT: Doorways


It’s words on the walls –

always had me going,

but words on the walls

spoke of truths and lies . . . and cats and wars and messengers.

The words meant everything

but held something


as if by weight it could bring the walls





Hairline c.r.a.c.k.s across thousands of good paper

cut through stories,

cut them in ha/lf

that separates the kids from their               fathers,              the mothers,

the cows with their golden bells and red apples shining in woven baskets,

taking you on an Oz journey

and spins more words on threadbare carpets.

Words in pictures and pictures in words,

are the real truth,

are the real doorway,

to all you need to know.


Sidey’s Weekend Theme: Hiding Something

January-04-2012-21-43-17-HidingWolfMore can be found on SidevieW’s blog! 🙂 My contribution as follows:

He’s still laying in bed, nursing his guilt; above all, cradling regret as reminder to why he feels like dying. A burden is bearing down to crush his heart, ever so slowly, ever so cruelly. He is holding a book to his chest. Her diary.

“I love you. You know that, don’t you?” she asked. 
“Yes, honey, I do know,” he replied, perplexed.
There was some silence as keystrokes filled its space. 
“Just making sure,” she said with a smile.
“Good.” He was smiling. 

He screamed at her – his face reddened, contorted into something grotesque. He screamed at himself. Sometimes he disgraced himself by wetting his pants in sheer frustration and hurt. However, fear made him so. Fear made him . . . different from the person he was.

“Looking at that photo makes me smile,” he said to her.
“That dress made me look fat,” she stated.
“You looked like the evening star, truth be told,” he countered.
“Perhaps.” She wasn’t smiling.  

He’s laying still, staring at the ceiling, still cradling the holiest book he will ever read. Tears ran down his cheeks as silence steals its host. His eyes are glazed. He sees nothing. Nothing other than her, framed by endless memories. Not as vivid as what’s inside the diary.

“I wrote you a letter,” she said.
“Yeah? Are you going to give it to me?” he asked, watching her.
“No,” she said, and ran off, diary in hand.

He finally feels like opening the diary. It took him five months to build up the courage, and another five to contemplate whether that newfound courage had merit or not. It had some, he realizes. He sits up, his back propped against a headboard he converted into a memorial collage of his wife. That way, he never have to leave her side. Or she his. His dreams were filled with her laughter. He did not want it any other way.

It required so much strength to open the letter that fell out the day he reached for her sacred diary. The day after the funeral, that was. She had once told him about this letter she wrote for him and never gave it. He had been curious ever since and always tried to steal her diary away from her, certain she hid said letter in there. She never parted from her diary, though. She became more difficult in the end. He loved her so. He still loved her. He can’t picture a life spent without her. Yet, the letter was all he got.

To the love of my existence,
First of all, I love you with all my heart. Or what’s left of it. That’s a bad joke. Remember the time . . .  

Weekend Theme – Empty Hallways lurks a Burden


“Honey, what are we doing in here?” “Honey, I don’t like this place.” “Honey, where the fuck is Marvin?” “Honey, your mother is a bitch, I hate her.” “Honey, are you listening to me?” “Honey, I’m going out of my mind here. We don’t talk to each other anymore.” “Honey, I’m scared.” “Honey, I’m having another baby.” “Honey, do you even care?” “Honey, Marvin’s flu is acting up again.” “Honey, I did love you.” “Honey, I want a divorce.” “Bert, I hate your fucking guts. I’m leaving and I’m taking the children. You’re crazy, just like your father.”

I guess she was right. I am crazy. I let go and don’t even know why. I let go of my family and there is no turning back now. I have dug the grave was meant for me, and now everyone is gone. Like dust in the wind. Like the dust in the hallways of the loony bin; dust in the hallways where footsteps still echo across the linoleum, where it still bounces off the walls. The walls have ears, as you know. It speaks, too. Endless stories of victories and failure, of heart rendering sadness and some more victory. Victory in the smile of the warden prowling these corridors at night, his footfalls as soft as treading on the soft, wet white grainy-soft shore sand. What about the matron with her wicked ways, finding all kinds of silly reasons to manipulate and abuse us, my friends, my father and all those who deserted me when the time came. She even chased away my wife and kids, into the wilderness, never to be seen again. She must be stopped; she was stopped. She still lives, and that is the truth. Both of them. And my father.

Hurt welled up inside of me, and I fell to the floor. My tears started to run down the walls, crept along tiny fissures that gave it its texture. It dripped off the top of the door frames, onto the floor. Drip. Drip. Drip. I crawled on hands and knees, towards the end of the hallway. To that special room with the whitest door of all; christened by the warden himself. I was sure he and the matron was already waiting, the smiles on their faces comforting yet intolerably creepy. My tears flowed down onto the sand that crept beneath my fingers as I squeezed with every forward motion. It caked on my pants and made my knees hurt. I called for my wife. She answered, but in a tone of utter disdain. I called for my parents; I received no answer there. The white door doubled towards me with my every drag. I could not bear to look into the rooms as I passed. I kept my gaze averted, yet I knew what waited to steal my innocence had I snapped and turned to look inside. Girls and boys. Mothers and fathers. Teddies and little cars with its wheels scattered across the floor. Blood and more tears. My Wife and kids. My dad. Dad. I sniffed. The roof sagged and I jumped into a run. The sand beneath my feet was warm, as if gently heated by sun. I heard the ocean calling me. I decided to stay inside. I decided to confront the demons in ‘the special room’.

My hands are clammy. The nape of my neck capered with cold sweat. My hair was wet. The walls were dry. The paint on the roof sifted down on me, and looked like snow. From across a considerable distance, I heard my wife say: “Honey, everything is going to be all right.” I believed her. I waved at her, and I sensed her waving back at me, that beautiful smile still as bright as daylight sun. Like our vacation suns.

I opened the door. My mother and father looked up at me, and beckoned me inside their wholly embrace.