They dance around a flaming pyramid of wood to the relentless pounding of drums, whooping in delight as the flames bite at the bitter, retreating cold. The cold that surrounds them, the cold that they run from, swear at in unison, the cold that they try in vain to defy for as long as possible.
I watch from my window, even stealing a laugh at their antics, as they seemingly throw inhibition to the wind, pirouetting around, closer than ever before, to their fellow man, and to their mother earth.
But they have their rituals, as do I.
As the sparks float up past my window, I hand myself a blade.
I acknowledge its power, gleaming in all its cold, steely glory, firmly gripping it with willful hands.
The drums stop.
I face myself in the mirror, silently looking at the past of the future.
I see much, but the time to reminisce, as the silence reveals, has sadly run out.
I make the first cut, and feel nothing.
Yet the face in the mirror flinches.
I continue, hacking away at what once was, as the face in the mirror turns silent, too stoic to show its pain.
The blade runs through like a knife through butter, the heat from the fire propels, smoldering through, surging forth, to expose, to bring to light, the inner skin.
The mirror is in metamorphosis, chrysalis now in sight.
The drums, faster now, head toward a climax as their hands feed the flames.
Crackling, giddy in their self-consumption, glowing ever brighter as the night flinches, prancing back in disgust.
My hands drop to my sides, shaking from their labours.
I see now, through eyelids welded shut.
I see now.
All around me, it lies.
Nameless, formless, waiting to be flushed away.
The blade drops from my tired, shaking hands.
It shatters as it hits the ground, instantly turning to a hundred thousand atomies that shine forth, swallowing up all that lies on the floor and disseminates in an instant, leaving nought but ash.
The fires have died out.
The phoenix has risen, and flown away.
The ash, the only witness.
In their minds, the seasons change, as they usher in Baisakh with their song, dance and flame.
Is it only me then, who wonders, if anything has changed?
What means this ritual, of rebirth, of coming full circle?
I ask not for them, but for me.
I ask not of resurrection, let the phoenix have his way.
I ask of reinvention, of my very own Arizona Bay.
--------
ciao
I watch from my window, even stealing a laugh at their antics, as they seemingly throw inhibition to the wind, pirouetting around, closer than ever before, to their fellow man, and to their mother earth.
But they have their rituals, as do I.
As the sparks float up past my window, I hand myself a blade.
I acknowledge its power, gleaming in all its cold, steely glory, firmly gripping it with willful hands.
The drums stop.
I face myself in the mirror, silently looking at the past of the future.
I see much, but the time to reminisce, as the silence reveals, has sadly run out.
I make the first cut, and feel nothing.
Yet the face in the mirror flinches.
I continue, hacking away at what once was, as the face in the mirror turns silent, too stoic to show its pain.
The blade runs through like a knife through butter, the heat from the fire propels, smoldering through, surging forth, to expose, to bring to light, the inner skin.
The mirror is in metamorphosis, chrysalis now in sight.
The drums, faster now, head toward a climax as their hands feed the flames.
Crackling, giddy in their self-consumption, glowing ever brighter as the night flinches, prancing back in disgust.
My hands drop to my sides, shaking from their labours.
I see now, through eyelids welded shut.
I see now.
All around me, it lies.
Nameless, formless, waiting to be flushed away.
The blade drops from my tired, shaking hands.
It shatters as it hits the ground, instantly turning to a hundred thousand atomies that shine forth, swallowing up all that lies on the floor and disseminates in an instant, leaving nought but ash.
The fires have died out.
The phoenix has risen, and flown away.
The ash, the only witness.
In their minds, the seasons change, as they usher in Baisakh with their song, dance and flame.
Is it only me then, who wonders, if anything has changed?
What means this ritual, of rebirth, of coming full circle?
I ask not for them, but for me.
I ask not of resurrection, let the phoenix have his way.
I ask of reinvention, of my very own Arizona Bay.
--------
ciao
