weekend wonderland

the moon is waning
this month is getting old
the darkest part of night is over
fingers warming in the cold

the desert howling in the dusk
as if mourning for a long-lost lover
hoping that the tears of the past night
slumber in the sands forever

the mirages are dancing
right before your eyes
the backdrop turns to crimson
as the first light stabs the sky

out of the vision came
the brightest eyes, unclouded and fair
a thousand miles and a third of a lifetime i gave
just to be caught in your stare

the sun is waxing
melting down the sands of time
the brightest part of the day is yet to come
because your fingers can and will always find mine

I was rummaging through rows upon rows of dusty shelves, I was looking to purchase a new phone in this dusty room. The house was dark, the boarded windows and weather-beaten doors kept the light out. It would not have mattered anyway, in this dream-state I could not tell wether it was night or day.

From a corner hunched a watch-repair man, pre-occupied with his craft. A woman was sitting beside him, her head was resting comfortably on the watch-maker's broad back. From a shelf beside these figures, I was able to make figures of fully-assembled model kits. Finally! something familiar (and interesting) in this place, I drew a sigh of relief. Me and my friend (which I do not remember being acquainted with and who suddenly appeared out of nowhere) began to lift out the models from their cases to be able to appreciate them more closely. I was looking into a gun-turret-shelled Gundam model when a girl began tugging at my sleeves. She had a disshevelled look that always belonged to this place. Beneath her grimy face are the brightest eyes that dimmed even the slivers of light that filters into the room. I began telling her the reason why I was there-that I was looking for a new mobile phone. Her eyes never left my face, always sincere through all that absurdity.

When I told her that I was leaving to look for a phone somewhere else, she told me to wait then disappeared around the dusty shelves. She later came back and put a sliver of broken crystal in my hand. This is a piece of Venus, she said. My father (the watch-maker) used to be a scientist working with the government, but politics and corrupt officials robbed him of his job. The piece of Venus was his greatest find, and now it is yours.

I looked at the thing in my hand, and felt the sharp edges of the glowing white thing as I close my fingers around it. It was white as the moon, yet it had it own kaleidoscope of color when you stare at it long enough (very much like a very faint pixelation of digital images). Later I would put it in a purse of rags and never see it again. On my way out, the woman beside the watch-maker started yelling in Japanese while I was stopped by the family's butler at the door. We were talking in French.

I'm singing...

My One and Only Love
Sting

The very thought of you makes
My heart sing
Like an April breeze
On the wings of spring
And you appear in all your splendour
My one and only love

The shadows fall
And spread their mystic charms
In the hush of nightWhile you're in my arms
I feel your lips so warm and tender
My one and only love
The touch of your hand is like heaven
A heaven that I've never known
The blush on your cheek
Whenever I speak
Tells me that you are my own

You fill my eager heart with
Such desire
Every kiss you give
Sets my soul on fire
I give myself in sweet surrender
My one and only love
The blush on your cheek
Whenever I speak
Tells me that you are my own

You fill my eager heart with
Such desire
Every kiss you give
Sets my soul on fire
I give myself in sweet surrender
My one and only love

The flashing light as the train door closed took me out me out of my reverie. I shifted my position, shielding my eyes as the last glare of the sunset hit my eyes. It gonna be night soon, I mused. Already the crickets are welcoming the coming dark and windswept dry leaves collecting at the train floor each time the door would open at each stop, as if seeking shelter from the dusk. This coach is almost devoid of people, except for an elderly man and a pregnant woman, each lost on their own thoughts as I was a few moments ago, longing at the setting sun. I settled more comfortably in my seat and tried to sleep, my stop is still 3 more stations anyway. Might as well take the time to absorb the sensations that come with this flesh of a shell before I cast it all off after I finish my job.

I dream...

I woke up to the shuddering of the train coach as it comes to a halt. My stop, I yawned. i began to collect my things and lazily made my way to the exit door with the flashing light. Gone were the old man and the girl who's too young to be a mother, in their place was a wino and more dried leaves who'd made their way into the train. This was the last stop, not much people to be expected here. I was whistling out loud. The time for the reaping is come. I shook the last sands from the boots that I was wearing and proceeded to the exit tunnel, swallowed by the gathering dusk.

The woman standing at the train platform froze. The shock was too great that she totally missed the train, the last ride to the city. She caught a fleeting glance at the figure at the other side of the platform before it was gone but it was the familiar prickling at the back of her neck that caught her by surprise. She knew that silhouette, and the familiar haunting that came with it. it was 27 years ago when she first felt the same presence, when she saw the same shadow of a figure before her fiance met a car accident. She always thought if IT (he does'nt seem human to me) as a harbinger of bad luck, and yet she (thought) she felt the same presence when her mother finally found peace after a long battle with an unknown disease that ate away at her memory. Her mind is whirling now, as she stands rooted in the darkening train platform. Can it be possible that the ravens that brought all the mourning in her life is the same as the birds that signal each morning when she cared to watch the sunrise, when she was happy? She saw this same figure twice in her life and as she was recalling the events that came after each appearance, she was sure that each one is somehow related. Behind all the confusion, she was sure that the appearances mean something. Something so basic that it was tickling the back of her throat. The ravens are cawing in her mind again, and there was something else - a different sound that came with it. It was the blaring of a trumpet, faint at first but its regular throbbing finally drowns out the blackbirds. Then it hit her, her eyes widening in disbelief. The sands...It is time to collect, she was silently mouthing the words. She could feel the dust in her mouth, smiled and bit her tongue until the saltiness filled her senses.

Then she slept...

The whistling of the last train has long been gone, the bustle of the crowd has died away into the night. The woman sitting on the grimy bench finally stood up, shook the sand off her sandals and took to the exit.

My job here is done...