Bubbles_glow

≡ Inside Kaleidoscope Dreams ≡

 
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  • Childhood
  • Artists
  • Fears
  • Death
  • Parenthood
  • Technology
  • Oddities
  • School
  • First Person Narrative
  • Second Person Narrative
  • Third Person Narrative
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Inside Kaleidoscope Dreams
 
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Step Inside The Kaleidoscope

Notice the shards -- the collected pieces of colors -- the kaleidoscope of voices that inhabit our minds. Distant echoes that seem at once so familiar and yet so strange, too. These are the stories being told every day inside of our lives, although often they are silenced by the world around us. Go ahead and twist the kaleidoscope. Change your view. Wander into the narrative. Consider yourself invited.

-- Kevin


Leaves Balloon Death Ants Yawn Guitar Threads Black_friday Disconnect Cat Tears Godzilla Test Bridge Winner Headless Blood Performance Ghost Smog Er Elevator
 
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Black Friday

How do you explain this? You can't. It's 2 a.m. You should be home right now, sound asleep with the cat purring near your head and the desire, if not the reality, of a warm body sleeping beside you. You need comfort, not bone-chilling cold. You should not be here, at this hour, in this place, waiting in this line. But here you are. You hold the ticket up in the moonlight, and you see the number 27. You can hear the mini-vans and the cars and the trucks running in the parking lot and you imagine the heat. You can't risk it so you bundle up as tight as you can possibly be. You draw yourself up inside of yourself, like so many other recent nights and descend into the darkness. Part of what brings you here is the understanding that he is there at home, with his youthful dreams of something that must better than what it is, and the other part of it is the knowledge that so much of your life together has been wrangled so completely out of your control. The divorce. The violence. The terrible abruptness of departure that has settled upon the two of you so heavily that it makes you choke sometimes. You can feel his inherent trust in you withering in this dark winter. Words are beyond you now. Words have no currency anymore. It kills you that your only way back into his heart may be through the object that sits on the shelves in there, beyond those big glass windows and bright neon signs. It's 2 a.m and you feel as if you have sold your soul to something wicked. You finger the credit card and hope to God that there is enough of a ceiling left to allow you to bring it home, wrap it up and be his hero again, if only for that one morning in December.