to be nothing, i am

New Story by SI

i remember yesterday, but i am not absorbed by it,
recollections of it are neutralized,
i look at it from an observer's view,
it's no longer me,
yesterday is supposed to shape me,
not entirely, or not at all,
since loosening myself from it,
maintaining contemporaneous fluidity,
now I am free,
from its perturbations,
from its bedlam,
from its crux,
to be nothingness, no shame, no remorse,
the categories coming with this physicality,
even they are consigned to nothing more than peculiar details,
of a life lived,
unless i'm in company of the few who have some under classification,
i don't mind, it can't alter or disturb the passage,
because the passage is, during a retrospection, an observer,
paramount to point out that...
i am nothing,
nothing is emancipation, setting free, soveriegnty,
at least to me, it portrays the neoteric,
the unusual, the innovative, the raw,
i don't know why they who are around me are perpetually sobbing,
at any moment, at every moment,
they are chained to quondom resolutions,
such approaches aren't of the harmonious variety,
they bear stagnation, the mopes of no hope,
the people lather in lament,
even though their lives are not in yesteryear,
they are too here and now, they too can find their independence,
or is it clearance,
i was one of them, for some time, not presently, not these days, not ever from now,
gleeful, gratified, can't complain, even though they don't consider it as truthfulness,
they don't believe because they're in theirs, nonetheless,
they require me to be nestled in my own craters, excavate all, like them,
but the observer only perceives if alone, articulates what is prevalent if with them,
what is before them, the people's sorrowing, the people's wretchedness,
when these people ask, who are you if you are not "she" from the past?
i answer, i am me, from the here and now, not "she",
if they wished for "she", they'll never encounter "her", never unearth "her" from me,
"those days", they settled in, with no suffering, no struggle,
with placidity, with congeniality, with quiet partition,
today, the looker-on, only at certain intervals,
in exact definitude, i am awake, living, potent,
i am de novo,
better still,
a blank, a cipher,
entirely a zero.

the story of the ball

reaching up and away by SI

it was a tennis ball, yellow, round, white threading,
it was handled by a few, thrown and caught, then, thrown and hit,
it rolled the few times it thought it made its escape,
only to be picked up and thrown and hit,
again and again,
it wasn't worried though, it eventually will,
it didn't do as well as the other ones,
but it wasn't meant to just be (a ball),
it was meant for superlative catapulting,
that no hand could throw,
although the hand or some other object must give it its momentum,
otherwise it will stay forever under a bench or seat,
finding repose on a placid floor of green,
that was the goal of other tennis balls,
but not for it, not for it,
it was meant to be on its own,
with forms of patronage to move and release it,
with that came minor freedoms, as it moved outside,
and then major ones dazzled it,
it flew over and across an entire route of conveyances and contraptions,
then it made its way through a wet, grassy grove,
torpedoing above hedonistic edifices,
parachuting towards incandescent Moirai,
it wanted to go beyond the caboodle,
feel the sun's rays, the moon's obscurity,
or the hole as it swallows it whole,
and so, all of it happens,
and it is no more, because it fell into the hole,
and into that hole, it must have come undone,
it was a tennis ball, yellow, round, white threading,
but now, it is nothing, that is how it wished to end.

From the Tops of the Hills and High Above Into the Stars...

...this scruffy pale-skinned kid shuffled his way up, moving "in all ballerina-like ease" up the craggy mountain-face that saw him at times half-crawling on all fours or once at the top, standing in utter bewilderment at the magnificent scene around us. He took a raw overview of the space surrounding him now, feeling the soothing cooling down of temperatures as they wrapped their whispery thin, almost translucent frailties around you, the boy.

but, nope, you're not afraid, this time. Cuz you witnessed just moments before that fiery spirit give birth in your hands - your heart pulsating bright reds and then launched into my orbit.