Spiral Staircase

It’s a staircase for sure.

There are steps one after the other and they’re decreasing (or increasing) in height at equal decrements (or increments).

It’s definitely a spiral. I’m quite dizzy from all the circular walking.

I’ve been on this spiral staircase for a while now. A long while.

I walk endlessly, taking the odd short break.

Time is an irrelevant factor, as is direction. As variables, I have no idea of either of their values.

Sometimes I can tell. The direction I mean. Whether I’m going up or down. Most days it doesn’t matter; I just keep walking aimlessly in that same direction without being able to figure if it’s up or down. Maybe I just don’t care enough to figure if it’s up or down. Then there are those few days when it’s absolutely certain which way I’m headed. And it’s almost always most likely to be downwards.

Of course it also depends on how you look at the entire setup. In all honesty I’m the only one with the key to the giant room. Sometimes, if I’m willing, I’ll let someone else do some poking around, although it never ends well. I always end up in tears and it doesn’t look or feel like anyone cleaned the place up. It’s as though they took a pile of the mess from one side of the room to the other. I would’ve done the same anyway, just alone, with no one else’s help.

Getting back to the setup. There’s the aforementioned giant room with one key. Within it is a small room (to which the someone elses are invited for a good poke and clean up) with a view to the setup that occupies the greater remainder of the giant room. When I say giant I mean giant to the power of unimaginable vastness. A never-ending spiral staircase (the entire setup; no really that is the entire setup) floats in this interstice of a space, contorting itself, unravelling slightly, nonetheless staying a spiral, filling up the space in entirety, almost as if consuming itself.

I, but a puny little pawn, walk along this staircase, climbing step after step.

One step, two step.

Go ahead a step.

Back-up a step.

Skip a step.

Fall off the step.

Step-by-step.

Step after step.

Step, step, step.

Step, step, step, step.

Step. Step. Step.

Step.

Unfortunately when I installed the Pay-per-view, I put on a permanent zoom lens. So now if I invite someone in, they can only see a close-up of where I am standing, instead of a breath-taking whole view, of which I have no patience in describing to others. A painting is only as beautiful if it has been viewed upon carefully, as a whole and as smaller parts that have come together.

While the viewing room that saw different people invited in had only that one lens to offer, the giant room itself had two tiny windows, which couldn’t really be seen even when inside the room. But if anyone did find them and gaze into either, they’d see a lot more than through the Pay-per-view. I can’t say many have dared to opt for that option. I also can’t say that I’ve given them that option. It’s more or less a discovery on each individual’s part.

Just as walking on the spiral was a discovery for me. I hadn’t noticed it until much after feelings of love towards staircases had consumed me enough to make me want to consciously ignore the elevator. Such disdain for an elevator I’ve never felt before. Now, even though I yearn for the elevator, I can’t seem to get off the staircase. Ever since I got on, I’ve been looking for the end so I may step off.

There are days I run around, under the impression that I’ve reached the end, having apparently seen it in the distance. An illusory glance. Sometimes I turn around and walk back, having forgotten a piece of the eternal candy that I would’ve left behind on a lonesome step. That candy is the only source of energy to keep me climbing those stairs.

On more days than is usual, I slide on the banister, whooshing past. These are the days I usually fall off as well and I have to pick myself up and trudge all the way back to pick up whatever might have fallen out of my pockets (all of them being pieces of eternal candy). The picking-up-after-myself part is super hard, but I like keeping things clean and so it’s more or less a necessity. And because I like cleaning, most of the time I’m glad I picked up all the pieces till the very step I slid off of.

Sometimes, I find myself going around in circles on the same step. When I suddenly realise this and stop, I sit down to regain my bearings, but by this time I’m so confused about which direction I must’ve come from (and there are only two to choose from) I just turn around some more, slowly this time, and whichever way I’m facing I walk in the opposite direction. I don’t walk backwards. I tried it once, it didn’t end well.

But there are some days I take my time on each step and walk slowly, step by step by step. These are the days I look out at the vastness. At the nothing that surrounds the staircase. At the tiny speck of a viewing room. At the someones inside the viewing room. At the two tiny pinholes of a windows. At the multitude of anyones outside the windows. It overwhelms me. And calms me. It makes me wonder if there are more staircases out there to climb. And if I’ll ever get to climb them.

I wonder if they are all spiral.

The Thing

A poem from last year

Nightmare. It’s only a nightmare.

The-there’s a thing.

An odious object sitting at the foot of my bed.

An article so astronomical I can’t see behind it.

The terrifying tool sits still, while I lie quaking under the covers.

Immobile, the item seems innocuous enough.

But could I trust it?

The artefact had appeared quite abruptly, and I definitely hadn’t put it there.

Did you?

Did you dump this dubious device on my duvet?

Is it a gift?

Is this great gadget a glorious gift?

Now this is interesting.

What is this curious commodity so covered in cotton cloth?

This extremely endearing entity that draws me closer as I crawl across to the contrivance.

I opened it to find a glossy glass gizmo.

With polished planes and cool curves,

The instrument has intricacies etched on every exterior.

The insides of the implement were equally elaborate with

Serpentine strokes scratched on the surface.

This breath-taking body, manufactured of manual muscle work, how could I ever use this utensil?

I can’t.

It’s too phenomenal a form to be flawed.

This piece of work, perfect from every perspective, I plan to preserve perpetually.

So storing the stupendous stuff, I go back to sleep.

I wake to warm water, sprinkled on my idle eyes.

Fragmented figures flash from the previous night.

Dashing to the drawer I find that forged form was a

REFRIGERATOR?!

Out at Sea

The waters are still, eerie and salty black.

I remember a poem from long ago,

One of stranded sailors and a lone survivor.

Of many nights at sea,

And albatrosses around necks.

I sit on my wreck

No compass, no map, nothing to guide me.

It’s dark.

The sky has no stars

As if telling me there can be no hope left.

There is no way back.

I look up, at a cloudy sky.

I can only hope there is no storm.

But what is hope anymore?

For despite so many clouds

There is not a silver lining.

It begins to pour.

I’m soaked to the skin.

There is nothing, I realise

That I can light to make a fire

Save the raft.

Afloat, with nothing but my mind to keep me company,

And the darkness all around,

I stay up for hours playing games with myself.

‘I Spy’ in the clouds, ‘Tic-Tac-Toe’ on the raft,

Until the delusions of life fade away.

I fall into a silent stare.

One that reaches far beyond

Into the vast nothingness.

And I’m lost once more,

In real dreams

With dying embers of hope.

The stars have taught me well

As they have any sailor.

Without them I would truly be nothing.

I am nothing.

A wave pulls me out of the murky depths.

The raft and I

Drift along

Complying with its gentleness.

We are anchorless.

We have lost our bearings.

We have nothing to keep us grounded,

Nothing to hold us.

There are more now, waves pulling us with them.

Lulling us into a sense of safety,

And comfortingly sleepy warmth.

In this old unfamiliar land,

There is happiness,

There is hope.

I can always find my way back.

But the stars are hiding today.

Falsehood grows

Becoming a storm,

Crashing through my reverie

Wreaking havoc upon the raft

As I wake to find it my reality.

The stars are right.

There can be no hope left.

Piece by piece,

The raft and I disintegrate.

We are laid bare to the storm.

Yet we hang on for dear life,

But for what?

What is a sailor without the North Star?

What purpose does life have if you have been lost?

Questions that will never be answered.

Questions that are silent screams.

The raft creaks in pain.

The storm only hears itself.

I laugh hysterically,

But no one hears me.

I have nothing to lose anymore.

I have nothing.

It has been lost,

I have been lost.

I am nothing.

Ember of Light

I walk the lonely stairs.
Right to the top.

I look around.

No one.

Not a soul.

Empty darkness...

Just like me.

I sit on the concrete ledge,

Smoothened by paint and P.O.P.

The stark white

Blinds me.

I like the dark.

It’s been home

For 3 years,

While my parents

Busy with their lives

Told me the whats and hows

Of life. My life.

I was a slave.

Their slave.

I lived not for me

But them.

Them, Oblivion’s children.

My sister,

The sheep

Amidst all the bitterness

Was my only hope.

The only ember of light

In my darkness.

I lived only to see her smile,

Her sleeping face

Every morning, angelic,

Lying amidst

Soft thick blankets

Which smelled of strawberry jam

Or chocolate cake,

Whichever she’d eaten,

With hints of hair oil.

Until two months ago

When Death’s arms embraced her.

Today I stand

Surrounded by white

Disturbed by the brown of a ladder.

And a rope,

Rough and knotted,

Thick as my arm.

Its braids within a braid

Remind me of my sister’s life

Within mine.

How we were intertwined,

Until the fatal day.

I look below.

Happy people, moving on

With their lives.

Is the jump worth it?

I step onto the flat edge

Of the low wall.

Nothing above.

Nothing below.

It feels rough on my feet

The edge,

Like my parents have been

On me.

I stare out

Waiting for Death

A friend from the dark.

A double tap on my shoulder

Turns me around.

No one, but wait...

My sister’s face in the wall.

White, pale, sad.

A hallucination

Or a sign?

I step down,

Off the ledge

Back on solid ground.

A salty tear

Escapes my eye

And into my mouth.

There’s too much to live for.

Today, …today I live.

Outcast

They say we have freedom.
But from what?
We're stuck in a void
Where the only people
Who rise,
Are those who have
Already risen.
Our words are
The void we are stuck in.
Their words', absolute.
Who said we have freedom?
Who says we're a democracy?

They mock me,
Push me around,
Watch me fall.
And laugh.
I'm not a plaything, a toy.
I'm not an alien.
I'm not so different from them.
I'm no different from you.
Then why treat me this way?

They don't accept it.
"It isn't a way of life."
"It isn't normal."
Is anything normal?
'Majority wins' isn't.
It's just unfair.
My 'condition' they say
Is a 'disease'.
Snaking its way
Through the crowd
Spreading, making them
Fall at its feet.
I've fallen too.
Not at its feet.
But at their feet
Whose every word is
Framed and hung on walls,
Worshipped like Gods,
By those who've
Shunned us all.

Shields

She sat in the corners 

Right at the back. 

Though dark, she would hope 

They’d cut her some slack. 

But the light of their evil 

Would shine, find her out. 

Torture her, torment her 

Till herself she’d doubt. 

Feelings of helplessness 

Would wash over her. 

For days it repeated. 

She soon was a loner. 

It’s not that people

Did not approach. 

She just stayed away. 

Like they would from a roach. 

Running away 

She hid in a shell. 

How she was coping, 

No one could tell. 

Her parents were also 

Kept far at bay. 

They were so in the dark 

They could help in no way. 

She’d created a void 

Where her heart should’ve been. 

From The Wizard of Oz, she was 

The man made of tin. 

Though the sadists soon 

Got tired of their game, 

The shell and her ‘shyness’ 

Were not to wane. 

She wasn’t cold to others. 

She was cold to herself. 

The only love she felt were 

Words of comfort from herself. 

She’d put on a smile 

For those she called friends. 

Everyone around her thought 

She was making amends. 

Alas! They could not have 

Been farther from truth. 

She was still treating 

Herself with the same ruth 

The kids in her class 

Hadn’t treated her with. 

But what had been done 

Could not be undid. 

She felt as worthless 

Two years after. 

Sad and alone she was 

Despite her friends’ laughter. 

Her parents and friends 

Tried to break through 

The many layers around her. 

Some did manage a few. 

Though she’d allowed them 

To let themselves in, 

She could never let them 

Come deep within. 

The Scar of Difference 

Had burned its way through. 

The only way out was 

To build herself anew. 

It was quite a task. 

Would last her for life. 

The only other option: 

To die by the knife. 

Month by month,

Day after day.

Through two years

She’d found her way. 

She’d met a girl,

Her friend transformed. 

Was just like her.

Her heart was warmed.

The layers around her,

Slowly they melted.

Layered still she was though, 

In case she was pelted,

By tormentors again.

Because of difference, so cruel.

Never again did she want 

To be another tool.

She still shields herself

Keeping everything out.

To this day 

She’s walking about.