The Word Cloud

The following was written sitting in my hotel room in Tyumen, Russia. The place was crowded as we were hosting a party. I didn't feel in a social mood and so I sat with my headphones in and wrote. The following is the unedited result:

Today is the day my self-esteem will be executed, but all I can do is sit here and write. You force my pen to the paper and take the fly from my ointment. With one touch of your hand you could sever the noose strangling my mind. But your fingers are busy, touching him, because he'll always win.

Each word adds variation to the paint in my pallet. With a few simple sentences entire worlds can be constructed - and old one's destroyed. Writing is a system, one that's as overrated yet simultaneously under-appreciated as wisdom.

I've caught myself writing more often than usual, though I've no idea why. Perhaps I enjoy seeing my thoughts in a much more readable format. I can't understand them while they float around in my head like goldfish in an ever changing bowl, but this? This is easy.

My mind's a minefield; a mindfield riddled with conflicting emotions as they bombard each other with missiles carrying self-doubt & animosity. Regardless of which side wins, the other will of course lose. As they're merely a part of me, that means I lose, too.

Forever a loser, Andrew.

As the plane approached its final destination everything changed. Through the window I could see the city of Liverpool growing larger as we drew nearer; the area seemed to have a grey veil draped over it in preparation for our arrival.

The cityscape, once a sight which had impressed and captivated my mind now resembled a dull sludge; a sigh independently escaped my lips. I didn't mind, it was fitting. I was unhappy to arrive home. Pining for the humbleness of Kurgan and the warming buzz of Tyumen, my own city wasn't even half as welcoming.

As we landed in Liverpool Airport it was as if we were being lowered into a great vat of melancholic acid. The city seemed to have taken the form of an energy vampire as the plane rolled along the runway. With a light, final bump we came to a complete stop. The doors opened and everything seemed so final, as though the past two weeks had been forced into remaining a mere memory . . . but I'll always have them, my memories.

Thankfully Elena Lonchavoka accompanied us for the whole trip, one of the most snap-happy and talented photographers I've ever had the pleasure of coming across, and now we've got over a thousand images to reflect upon.

In Tyumen we spent a day at a children's camp; the happy faces and sheer joy for life they seemed to all possess will be the only things keeping me going until I can spread my wings once more.

 

"It was too good to last, he thought. Might as well have been a dream, he thought."

Again I find myself in the oh-so-familiar process of staring lazily out from a window. This time, it's from a second-storey windowsill in the main stairwell of our hostel in Kurgan, Russia.

My iPod blurs as I look out towards the quasi-busy street below. It's alive out there. Vehicles dance together in a never-ending stream as though they're all a part of some mechanical ballet. The last of the sun's rays are filtering through the leaves of some . . . tree. I'd prefer to name it, instead of giving it the simple all-encompassing label of 'tree', but my knowledge of different types of tree is limited to 'Christmas tree' and 'not a Christmas tree'. And this was definitely not a Christmas tree.

But anyway, there, scattered throughout this picture they're going about their day-to-day lives completely unaware to the beauty of it all are the town's inhabitants, the Russians. Inside this building are people repeating the scene outside, except these are people from Romania, Britain, Ukraine, and even a few Germans. I think my brain doesn't work. Why can I find beauty in the smallest of things; moments and actions that seem to be brushed aside and ignored by the rest of the world?

I wish my contacts weren't broken and I hadn't left my glasses at home. I'd be able to view this scene as other people could; if only they would. But no, they don't see any of it. They never open their eyes to the true perfectness of the simplest parts of our world.

Or maybe I'm just a freak. They're all far too busy living. I guess my musings are the cause for why I'm a self-proclaimed loser; and why my incessant losings have named me muser.

Castles in the Sky, by Andrew Williams

I take a careful breath as I sit and stare out from the window of this man-made dream machine. An ocean of cloud stretches out before my eyes while they capture the image, freeze-framing the portrait for future reference.

The vast grey nothingness warrants no grandiose explanation. There's just nothing out there, save for a bleak greyness staining the sky.

One short glance soon becomes a desert of eternity. Somehow, my thoughts and troubles dissipate and I'm left feeling refreshed. Although my eyes were open, I felt like seeing this scene had opened them again as a calming sensation captivated my very essence and reminded me that: despite having problems of my own, this world is much older and permanent than I could ever be.

A strange feeling of achievement encompassed my mindfield as a ceasefire was called into effect; it's hard to describe the sensation without running off on some egregious tangent.

So, away we go.

It's like the rush of the chase and then the triumph of the first phonecall arranging the date. It's the heartbeat that skips when you see her for the first time as her bus pulls up at the station and it's the smile that adorns her face when she sees you're not late.

When you find a girl not as readable as this cliché ridden piece: you can't wait to decipher that smile, it's a challenge to you; you yearn to piece together the puzzle behind her wide eyes and unlock her heart.

What I'm trying to say is that there's a simple beauty in just getting to know one another. A beauty not tainted by past feelings of animosity or childish jealousy . . .

Sex is sex. A prize sought by all but a lucky few. Pretty girls and handsome men are as common as a forced simile. The real treasure worth fighting for is a lover with a personality capable of inspiring even the dullest of poets into waxing lyrical for hours without need for reprieve.

I'm an Atheist. Yet right now if asked whether I believe Heaven exists nestled amongst the mountains of cloud; I'd be lying if I said no. I believe that Heaven becomes reality in moments of clarity and bliss - such as this; - times that may justifiably be referred to as the epitome of serenity are where you'll find it.

I wanted to do more than attempt to store this in my memory, it would be a losing battle. The self-destructive habit my thoughts have seemed to implement has made me wary of trusting my mind with anything, so I write while my fellow passengers sleep.

I've found myself stumbling upon the answer, rather clumsily, to one of the oldest questions ever asked: 'why does man, born with legs perfectly suited to walk the earth and swim in its oceans;wish to be able to kick his feet and just fly?'

A moment such as this was too special to allow to simply flutter by, so with a quick reversal of the process I've preserved it behind your computer screen like a pinned-down butterfly.

END