a personal story remix

This is a personal story. All stories come forth from an experience or a moment of reflection that results in a revelation of circumstance, but this is simply a personal story. Nothing more and certainly nothing less.


The morning was unlike any other in a daydream. The rays of light broke into my eyelids, peeling them back like the sharp edges of an unripe pear out of season. I had spent many sleepless nights awake in a flutter of thought of how the day could have been better and how my words could have had better strike in delivery. Sifting through moments to rid myself of the coulds and the shoulds, I often was sidetracked by the actual happenings trapped in my spiral memory. I was neither the same nor any different with my memory in tact, for the holes let the light in very brightly.
This was how I awoke this morning. Ripped open from a thoughtless daydream during the evening hours, I just simply couldn’t hold onto it anymore. The feeling of accomplishment and a job well done was not to be had in this moment.

Documenting My Morning Commute

I was alone in this minute but surrounded by seconds that felt fuller than that hug that lasted forever and a day.
The morning came just after nightfall had held its monthly party. I heard the stars dancing on the top of my roof, pittering and pattering with icicle heels and dresses made of moss, clipped in the back. Those parties eclipsed the breath I held in, most hours in my bed. Wondering what the music sounded like, the evening before the morning, for the first of all times, I ventured into the darkness with hestitation and presumed notions of futility.
How stupid.
This was wrong.
I was the mistake I couldn’t fix.
This was not mine.
I messed up. again.

The same soundtrack outplayed itself in my head like a dime stuck to a record with clear nail polish. Skipping over and over the good parts of melodies, the droning dismal voices echoed in my head as I stepped out the window. Knowing not how I was going to ascend to the roof, I first felt the breeze on my face. Warm with the welcoming of the trees, the wind carried the dreams of anything it touched. Full with the banter of hidden nuts, broken wings, lost ones, new beginnings, lavender ribbon, dangerous trails and floating castles on the wet ground, this particular wind stung my face with the cold knowing that dreams carry over miles to unknown. Tinged on the ends with fresh wood chips, newly blossomed mint and the subtle rot of the dying in a corner, this wind wrapped around my face after initial contact to hold my bone structure in invisible hands. Each thought kissed my eyelids, each dream tickled my cheeks and I even heard the cries whisper in my ears with solace of finally being heard. Blinking half awake with the wind’s tough caress, I gazed to the sky.
This is where the shock settled in quite quickly. They say that shock often creeps up on you in a swift move of defeat for yourself, but I eased into it eagerly. I was ready.
The sky was the blackest of night, no sign of light, no stray glimmer of glitter caught in the sky tonight.
I knew it. I knew the sky would always darken as I pretended to sleep my sleepless night away in a bed that comforted only in the easiest of efforts.
I had little trust for myself. Placed before me was the first of many times where I could learn to trust everything I knew.
Snapping my head quickly to the pale ceiling of my room, I was not startled by the increased frequency of the clatter that collected up north. Starting off slowly the rhythmic matter ascended into a booming rattle of commotion that attracted the likeliest of ears. Close enough to feel it, I noticed it slowed to match my racing heart beat when I breathed deeply in. Finally, I was connecting.
My decision was made.

Turning back to the open window, I closed my eyes easily using the fingers of the wind as a guide for descension. My moment was almost up, timed perfectly to the last number called.
Breathing in at the perfect ratio: the equation of doubling the seconds of exhale to the slight seconds of inhale, proceeding to double the equation in the quietest of darkness, until the feeling bubbled to the surface that I may never need to inhale again.
Immediately I was wrapped in the spiral wind, a coil sprung shut by its own trap set. Doubling over in breathy need to feel the environment that encased my senses, I felt towards the dark and touched the rough gravel of my roof. The wind unwound its tangle of arms when my balance had been fully regained.
Red Dawn
It was in this moment that everything I had spent every hour of my life distrusting, breaking down, criticizing in efforts of being the best I could never be, it was in this moment, that the wind carried it all away to unknown ears to weep over. I was left heartbroken by my own inferior need of sadist tendencies. I was lighter because I was empty and I was empty because there was nothing left to trust but the trust within me.
They hid in the night by a simple miscalculation of the eye’s dire need to readjust to any available light source. With out any means to adjust, the eyes will simply create motion within motion and fabricate the story as it supposedly happens. They danced in small circles with their heads down. Dripping in the ground coverings that no one ever paid attention to as our shoes crushed it, they were perfect apparitions of mist clad in moss clung tight to their curves and hiding most of the parts that would catch your eye.

It was only when their feet started moving together in the pitter patter that I had dreamed upon with my eyes squeezed open in the room below, it was only then that their eyes opened up above. It was only then did my eyes adjust to witness truly the only real moment that had ever happened.
The first step of the beginning was more of a pivot turn.
Their eyes darted from each other, to their skirts that they bunched their hands, to the trees that waved next to them braced by the dancing wind, their eyes moved in the same dance that their feet bore but with the intensity of concentrated light captured in just one tiny small space. The fractals of reflections gleamed off of dew drops clung desperately to newly formed leaves, to the watery eyes of the creatures asleep in dream, to the tears sliding down the edge of my face, the colors mixed perfectly with the dark sky to create a perfect circle of all that could have ever been and all that really was. The dance of the stars was not magical. The dance of the stars was not a spectacle. The dance of the stars was the simple truth that what was ever in that moment was forever in that moment with the intensity of all that ever was. Every moment carried everything, all the time. There was no potential, there was only witness.

Easing myself onto the edge of the roof, I was comforted by myself. Using the wind as a backing seat, I held myself softly, letting my soundtrack fade to an unknown memory. I was silence in its most basic state. Watching the stars dance for hours was a slight nod to the attendence of life itself, but I would have gladly watched them for all of time for that was all the time I had to give. I wanted to give them all of me, ripped open by the notions that I could trust myself to gift myself to them, but in all honesty, they didn’t want that nor did they need it. All they needed was my eyes for the presence of this time when we had met. This was the gift I gave that night, I gave myself to myself, holding my own hand, I accepted graciously with passionate dignity.
Hours after they tirelessly danced in frantic fury and soft passionate exile on my roof, the stars started to thin in their already barely visible attire. Slowly moss started to drop off their bodies, as if the full avalanche was right around the corner. I knew I was waking up the morning.
Galiano Island Easter
Slowly I turned my head around as my eyes sliced through the pink cloud that was peering through the tree line, just to the east of where I sat. The pink edged out a soft orange that clung to bits of yellow for support. Slowly swirling to the prepubescent blues that made up the natural gases of an everyday glance, I knew that this was it.
It was then that the rays pierced my eyelids. I was shocked at their brilliance, the sun was just tipping on the brink of breaking and the moss that covered my roof was a thick sponge of retractable thoughts. Pulled by the silver cord, I was done with my journey, the dances had ended on the note of remarkable fury, the gases were painting in aqua hues and I was struck by the stark reverence that the stars tolerated, no moss, concentrated light, sparking into the distance and snapping into the swirling hues of the sky’s every predictable palette.
The morning was unlike any other morning in a daydream. The morning was painted the same stain as the former ones but the missing element of filled with the newest of gods: silence, reverence, love and the knowledge that any moment is every moment awaiting to dance.

This is just a personal story. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.
(all photos by Kris Krüg)



Filed under story-telling

2 responses to “a personal story remix

  1. i like the last image. is that a bluemoon. love it.

  2. Wow, you probably lived more before you opened your eyes that morning than I did all day. Beautiful writing.

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