Poet On a Motorbike...

Welcome to a world of pleasure and relaxation... a literary art gallery which aims to engage ones spirit....

Tuesday, 31 January 2012

The diary of a protagonist - Page IV

I lay on the floor shivering,  the cold draped me, and the loneliness embodied me.  The cold winter made the agony seem longer and harder. I looked out the window to see an angel floating in the snow.  Her eyes called me towards her, I summoned the last ounce of liveliness in my fragile body to walk towards her.  She looked like a fairy wanting to take me away from all the pain. She got on one knee and asked me to live the rest of my life with her.  I wake up suddenly from the heavenly vision due to a sudden jarring of the plane.  Hallucinations, they were one of the many repercussions of the tablets. Mostly they were nightmares, but sometimes pleasant trances which were even worse as they made me yearning to live longer in this estranged world. 
I’d finally reached London, I treasured airports, they housed many amazing characters all etched into one place, not because they wanted to, but by chance. Soon they would all depart to their desired destinations. For some it would mean happiness, home, for some it would still mean the same. I had fallen in love with being lonely for the most part of my life, and I always felt comfortable in an airport.
I took a rented car and drove down to the beautiful country side of Kent.  I had a short stay in London when I was a struggling instrumentalist out of college. I’d just started playing for a band where I was still finding my feet at music. It was in one of those jigs that I had met her.  She was breathtakingly beautiful, the kind of beauty that took your breathe away. She had little curls at the end of her dark beautiful hair, which would fall over her angelic face and her eyes; they told you stories that obsessed you. ...
In between the pastures I saw a cottage, there I saw her, playing in the small farm with her lovely daughter.  She looked at me; I couldn’t see the expressions on her face because of the beating sun. She beckoned her daughter to scurry inside the house and walked hurriedly towards me. With open arms I called out to her, “Kay”. Kaydence greeted me with a vicious right hook.   She restrained from her abuses when she saw the unsightly seizure and the blood pouring out of my nose.  My weak hands failed to help me reach the tablets in my coat.
I woke up in a beautiful room, covered with portraits of beautiful flowers and Kaydence’s beautiful eyes over me.  Her eyes showed the care but her face was expressionless.  Kaydence had been the rhythm in my out of tune life. The one I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with. I’d hurt her, like many others down the line, but I’d probably hurt her the most. ..........

Friday, 27 January 2012

The diary of a protagonist - Page III

I had endured yet another seizure, it reminded me about the careless life I had lived, and about the very modest time I had left. I had too little time and too much to do, I had to bid adieu to Rachel and Clara. Rachel held on to my arm, pleading me to stay on, deep down she hoped for a miraculous recovery by her aunt. But some how, Clara knew better beneath her almost vacant face, I could see that she was sure that I’d return back to her. She kissed me; it was one of the first times she’d done something impulsive in years. It reignited the passion in us; it took us back in time...It made us feel alive.

I had driven all the way to California. It gave me time to reflect about the long-ago, the present and what was to remain.  I hadn’t seen him in years, nor had I spoken to him. My secretary did once tell me that he had tried to contact me, but I never paid much concern. 
Down the aisle I walked, dry leaves fell at my feet. The wind pushed my hair back, there in the front porch sat a man, with steel grey hair, petting his dog. “Ted” I called out to him, through extremely large spectacles he gazed at me.  His face was void for a minute, but then he rose to greet me.  He still had that old bewildering smile, and he was still robust. We dint talk much, except about his new partner. It dint baffle me that he could still entice the ladies.
As the sun began to set, we headed out to the lake to indulge in some fishing. I told him about the dream I’d lived, about how fortunate I’d been. He listened to everything very intently. Then I told him about the ailment, about the lump that lived in my head. He turned to look at me; through his eyes I felt the compassion.  We had dinner by the lake; he went to sleep listening to one of my famed songs. He told me how he was my biggest admirer, and how proud he was of me.  I sang a song of heartbreak and hope under that moonlit sky, and the stars, they seemed brighter than ever.
The next morning we took a small road trip. We had no plan or agenda, we just went forward. We talked about Maggie, about the wonderful Lucy. About how they’d broken our hearts and how we’d learned to love them. We sang and shared jokes over some beers. We pulled up near a broken down airstrip. It housed some fascinating aircraft relics. It reminded me about the times when we would go to the airfields just to watch the planes fly, high into the sky. It was one of the most potent feelings ever. The burly bird made a thundering voice and shook everything in its path, before it disappeared beyond the horizon. It was something that fascinated us both, the power. I would emulate that a hundred times, gradually I would start my sprint down the runway, increasing pace along the way and spread my wings, and then I’d raise my head to look at the heavens. It gave me a sense of inconceivable freedom, peace and serenity.  I stepped out on to runway, painfully realizing that I was too late and too old to fly now.  Out from behind I heard a roaring voice; it was Ted, trying to lift off into the blue. I burst out laughing seeing the old man try to run, but  I knew what he was trying, a tear rolled down my cheek. Some say that you have to be blessed to laugh and cry at the same moment. I hugged the ageing trooper, “Thanks dad, thanks”. It was the first and the only time I’d called him that. 

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