Catione

Yesterday, I dreamt of this word ‘catione’. It doesn’t make sense to me, but a voice whispered it over and over and over again. It said, Kat-e-own. I tried reasoning with it that such a word does not exist. But as voices in dreams are, this one too possessed no body to call its own and therefore, presumably, no ears to listen. It was just a thin whisper that formed in my head in irritatingly short intervals.

I concluded, while still asleep, that it meant ‘Caution’, I am warning myself of some impending danger. Fascinating stuff I tell you. I can sense Freud turning over in his grave.

But then thefreedictionary.com gives me a rather insipid explanation (though the pronunciations do not match). Catione is merely ‘cation’ in French and other languages. A positively charged ion characteristically moving towards the negative electrode.

My plot for a box office hit turns out to be a really boring documentary. Sheesh!

Afraid

Afraid of what the future holds, I train myself to shed no tears. I have been training myself for quite some time now, I never thought I would succeed, but I’m afraid I have. Now I find that future tears have solidified and rain as hail into my present, and in future I forever shall be stuck in the past where it rains sharp pellets of frozen tears.

Afraid of letting go of the tenuous hold on sanity afraid to mourn to grieve a future loss that I know for sure will happen, afraid of losing you, I wander, I have nowhere to go, I wander scared and lonely and I start at the slightest sound, the smallest irritant draws ferociousness out of me, my temper is a red hot molten flower which vaporises anything in its vicinity.

I look in the mirror and draw out hatred for the tired sallowness of my skin, the stretch marks on my thighs and I shift the blame onto them, I must believe it is because of them that I cannot have you.

My sadness is a pot of raging fire that I carry in my heart, sealed in its secret chambers, I’m afraid to take it outside, if I do the heat will consume my entire universe and several lives will perish.

The water I drink is blood, I have been darkened by darkness, my sky is filled with locusts of torn memories and the fear of your power over my soul and the hate I have for the wailing anguish in my heart.

There is fire in my bones, I am desolate, I have no strength, I faint as I walk. I weep in the night, I have sinned, I have loved you with my mind, body and spirit, you possess all three, my skin is tattooed with your love your lust your touch, I shall sin again, for My Lord, you are my one true love.

My hands hurt maul helpless innocence, my hands have a life of their own, they are the hands of the devil I have locked up inside. Claw at my breastbone and let it free let me cry let me mourn let me grieve and move on.

Marcus can never be Ligeia

I cannot, upon my word, bring to mind how or when I first laid my eyes on Marcus. It has been a long time since, and my memory is not what it used to be. Perhaps, the fact is that the singular cast of Marcus’ beauty had crept upon me slowly, degree by pleasant degree and he had filled my heart without my realizing it. My recollections are not entirely accurate, but I suspect I met Marcus in a rather curious way. It was in the town centre, where I had gone to buy red bangles and bright yellow marigolds. Marcus was also there, I cannot bring to mind the exact details of our first encounter, but he quite definitely did not blend into the background. In fact I suspect he stuck out in a rather prominent fashion or else I would not have noticed him. Of his lineage, I had surmised before he told me; and that was one reason that even while Marcus consumed my thoughts with the intense heat of an inferno, I had kept a respectable distance from him, for as long as I could. Marcus! Marcus! The very appellation is indicative of all the majesty of his persona. He was an emperor. His pale skin was a fabric knitted of the sun’s rays and it set a definite contrast against my own swarthy one. By the whisper of his name alone I bring to my grey life a starburst of colour. The sibilance lives on my tongue long after the name is uttered, a whisper that lives for him who is no more, him who lay sleeping in the black coffin a few days ago, or was it months or years?

Sorry EAP. The title says it all.