Today I’m happy. Ecstatic. Or as they used to say, ‘over the moon’. And rightly so. Why? Because I’ve finally figured out my ideal career and I can’t believe I hadn’t thought about it any soon.

It’s the kind of career of which I don’t have to worry about any flaw. I can even lose weight. I will never again have to worry about my hair, or  blemished skin, my thighs, the heat, or wearing anything on my feet. I don’t have to worry about being too this or being too that or that I’m growing too this and growing too that. All I have to do is -

Swim.

Yes, you've guessed correctly. I want to become a mermaid.

And not just any Ariel!

I want to swim to the depths of the ocean, with sea horses, colourful fish and tame sharks. Swim to the sunrise and sunset with a school of merry dolphins beneath a starry sky. Feel the rain splashing my already soaked hair and dye it too. Have a beautiful sea green tail and wear sea shells in my hair. Scare people away with my long, sharp nails and eerie tales. Steal precious items such as toothpicks from ships (while my tail morphs into twigs). Be surrounded by the colour blue and eat algae until my last peek-a-boo (and water some plants too).

I want to listen to the crushing waves and sing to the silver moon while I spit like a sailor (and swear like one too). I want to brush my hair with a fork and paint my nails through. I want to be surrounded by a rainbow – all colours too.  


Why don’t do such dreams come true?

Away from hills and away from mills,
Comes a child with no two eyes.
With its tiny hands blue and small mouth bled,
"There really can be no hope," they said.

It cries out loud, pulling at its rags
Carrying naught but stones and bones.
Throwing them with vigour (aiming at none!),
With its two eye sockets blind and dull.

But no people are there.

Naught but ghosts from antique towns
Resonating through the echoes of sand and crowns,
Shouting and laughing
Feeling not the stones,
Pretend to fall dead
As they chirp, chant, and dance.

~

As the memories distort,
A presence emanates from dust of broken mauls
Burying the ghosts in golden holes:
On beds of hard, cold, and mouldy bones
Whilst bestowing the child with eyes of ghost desert rose.

Some memories torture us evermore
Through a note which haunts,
And a picture which quivers our soul and renders us to naught.

And as if from a forgotten dream
or another breath
the soul reawakens to such joy,
Let it guide you in no restraint
like a talisman in times of woe.

Where the soul transcends
over stars which glow in depths of dark
in a crescent moon on a Christmas night
Amongst clouds and Artists song.

Let your eyes weep
and let it touch your soul -
for man's purpose of living
is art and art alone.