A Smoldering Heart

If I wished hard enough and long enough, with all my might, on all the stars in the blessed sky, would it be enough to make my hopes come true? Would someone really walk into my life and set on fire the passion that resides in my heart? It would bring me something that fulfils more than just a need for love or passion, but would heighten me spiritually, mentally, probably even physically; it would lift the veil which shrouds the finer aspects of life from me.

Is it you? It could be. I don't know. I don't know you. We haven't met. There have been others, to be sure, who have flitted in and out of my heart, alighting for a brief second and leaving not even a footprint, and of course those whose graffiti is still carved there, tender and sore, a scar which will always mark the surface. But none of them were you. I'm sure you've felt the same.

Maybe you aren't someone I'm going to spend the rest of my life with. And that's ok. We'll just be an absurd formula of the right person evoking the right feelings at the right time. Beyond that, once the moment's past, we have no control. We either fight to keep what we had, or let it go and know that it was the best it could be while it lasted. Either way, we're going to need one another. I'm just waiting. I'm sure we'll recognise each other when the time comes; it'll be something in the emotions hiding in our eyes, or the way we hold ourselves, or the way we speak, but whatever it is, it will be unmistakable. We will be unmistakable. Undeniable.

The Time of Freedom

No air left to breathe, no songs left to hear, no visions left to see; you're robbing me of everything. You must know that you're duty isn't to take, it is to give, as it always has been, and nothing has happened to turn the tables, so why do you insist on doing what you should not?

You only ever saw a portion of who I am, never the whole picture; you saw what you wanted to see, and to the rest you were oblivious. You have no pride on me, only shame, you place no trust in me, only responsibility, you do not allow me to grow. But my wings want to unfurl; they beat against the bars of my cage, growing weary and bloodied as flesh hits metal repeatedly. You do nothing for me as it is, why not just let me go: I stand on my own two feet already.Where were you when I was trapped in my darkest days? You were blind and saw nothing. You didn't even know what had happened until months later; you didn't know how many tears I had shed in the dark of the night. If I told you this, you would exclaim that you didn't know because I didn't tell you, but as a parent, you have a responsibility to look for the unspoken and understand the unsaid. I didn't tell you because I knew you would be of no help, but instead deepen the festering wound. I've never been supported by you. You should be ashamed to know it and still treat me as you do.

The time of freedom is dawning. I'm going to stand tall and proud, spread my arms and feel the waves of exultation flood over me and fill me with a power that you cannot break. You had me, and you didn't treat me right, you broke me and were blind to my other emotional trauma, so now, you've lost me. You're going to watch me walk away as the person you aren't, the person I had to learn to be on my own because you were incapable of teaching me; the person you're going to wish you'd been.

Dreams and Dances

I only ever met you once, perhaps only in some night time vision, but that one time was enough. You loved me, and that meant everything. You had a choice follow all the rest to wherever they were going, or do what you wanted to do, and you chose the latter; you chose to dance with me in the carpark. In some euphoric high we danced to a music no one else could hear, and you loved me and I loved you, and nothing else mattered.

And even if others all draped themselves over you, like some sea creatures with powerful suction, I would know that they don't matter, that it is me you will come back to and show them all that you aren't available. You would have the choice of them, but you would pick me. And we would go back into the carpark and dance the night away to music only we can hear. The prospect is so exciting.

Are you real? I have no idea. If we met would I recognise you? Would you know me? I fear that it is not likely. We will probably walk past one another, completely oblivious. But maybe, if luck would have it, you would notice me, I would notice you, and we would somehow progress past a quick glance to conversation. From there, well, who knows?

Embrace Uncertainty

Don't sit there and wait for them to save you. They won't. Or at least, by the time they try, it'll be too late. Stand up, face the day. You may be awash with uncertainty, but don't let that stop you - embrace it, for it will take you to places you never thought you'd go. Life's fraught with uncertainty, but you can be brave and make it through it all.

The Next Great Adventure

Death. I hadn't really thought about it. We all know what it is, and we all try to postpone it as long as possible, but we never really think about it. We try not to, avoiding its creeping presence in our minds. There are those who fear it, wishing that they could outrun it and live forever. There are those who are not given a chance to think of it, snatched while they are still in the womb, never seeing the light of day. There are those who are taken prematurely, unfortunate circumstances pulling them from this world into the next. And of course, there are those who see life through to its promised end, who are graced by white hair and wrinkled skin, and they fall gently into Death's embrace.

Perhaps we place too much importance on Death. Perhaps it is merely a matter of the wrong attitude. If we sit an think about it, we realise nothing more than it is as though we are lights who are blown out, the length of our candlestick representative of our years, indicating how long we burned. We wonder what it is like, what happens next. Whether it is peaceful, or whether we are thrown into another world, another life, hell, heaven, white light or eternal flames. Or maybe there is nothing. Maybe there is everything.

It's simple, and yet complicated. We simply cease to be, or rather, our body stops functioning as it should, and there is something of ourselves left behind, but the question remains, were we just some biological anomaly, just some electrical impulse generated by the neurons in the brain; that's what generates our thoughts, yes, but our personality, our conscience? Is it the same? Death is something a bit beyond the simple fact that our body stops functioning, for many of us inherently believe, or rather, intuitively feel that we merely occupy our bodies, that while we live there, they are ours, but they do not play an essential part in our growth. It's what they call spirituality.

Maybe it's time to rethink our attitudes. Maybe it's time to do more than just accept Death, though many people have difficulty with that alone. Maybe we ought to stop thinking of it as our loss, and think of it as their gain. Our attitude stems from selfishness, because we do not like losing what is most dear to us, especially to the unknown, because we fear, for the deceased, and for ourselves; we feel that if someone close to us dies, then we ourselves are closer to the death we hope to avoid. However, I think the time is upon us where we ought to think of Death as a doorway, and rejoice for the deceased because they have attained something beyond us, taking the next step of their journey, not mourn because they are no longer with us. We all die at precisely the moment the universe intended for us to die; we will have learnt everything we needed to learn, and we will have taught others everything we will have needed to teach. With our roles so perfectly fulfilled, why on earth should we not move on? Death, after all, is the next great adventure.

Splashes of Technicolour

Well, you got caught in the web of my dreams again. I was surprised that you returned, so much did I think that I would never see you traversing the worlds of my mind again while I slept. Forgive me, the cobwebs of my dreams are draped all over the velvet night sky, it is not your fault that you flew straight into them. I should have been more considerate; I hardly think that you would want to settle in my mind again.

It led me to wonder, however, how you were, what you were doing, what kind of life you lead now. Whether you're happy, or merely content, or whether you are depressed and no one sees it. But, we made our choices long ago; the ways we tread are the ones we picked for ourselves.

And yet... I must add more. I could not help but wonder, as my eyes opened to greet the morning, still burning with the images of you, and as my body, wrapped in heavy blankets could still feel your presence, whether perhaps your return to my dreams was one of life's neon signs, screaming that our workings in each other's lives are not complete. Perhaps there are lessons to be learned from you yet; I cannot know, I will not know, until they are. The future may hold many things in store, perhaps one of them is the answer to why images evoked by your presence burn in technicolour, while everything else blurs and dulls in comparison.

Force of Creation

There's a whole world inside your head, perhaps even more than one. Voices whisper ideas to you while your mind wanders and you get lost in realms that only exist for you. And it's entirely up to you what it is you do with what your imagination reveals to you in these journeys.

I for one must pour forth what I see into something artistic, whether it be upon the face of a blank canvas, or in something more physical, a creation of an image, and now and then, I may even take the time to pen the visions. You see, some people in this world fix things, doctors, mechanics, plumbers, others organise things, managers, CEOs, and others still help people, psychologists, volunteers. Then, in a class of their own, completely unique, are the artisans, those who create, whether painters, sculptures, designers or writers, they all pour forth the things that perhaps we take for granted. They don't really have a choice, I don't really have a choice, being one of them. You see, being an artisan isn't something you do, it's who you are. You create because you must.

Good Enough

Just, tell me why, ok? You know what, don't bother, I'm sure you don't have a good reason. Whatever it is might be good enough a reason for you, but it sure as hell isn't for me, so back off. I'm going to do what I like, and tell people what I like, which is the truth: remember, that thing you can't handle because you're ashamed of it. That's all it is, you're ashamed. Well fuck you, because I'm proud.

Oh, and next time, think about respect. Think about privacy. Think about how you'd feel if it was you. No, I guess you're so self absorbed that no one else matters to you. Well fine, if that's the way you want it, you don't mean a damn thing to me either. I've never been one to fight you much, but keep going this way, and I will make your life a living hell. That or I'm going to get the hell out of here and you'll never see or hear from me again. Oh, the joys of such thoughts, they're overwhelming.

Stop making me feel like I'm caught between your life and mine, because that isn't going to happen anymore. I'm not going to let it happen. I'm sick of it. Because you know what, you've overstepped every single boundary, and now I just want out. And you know what else, I fucking deserve better.

Now and Always

I just want you to know that I'm proud of you. Whatever happens, whatever the world says or does, I want you to know that I'm proud. And I hope that means something to you.

Sanctum

It's about finding that sacred spot, that sanctuary, away from the sounds and the vexations of life; a place where you can just be. We all need one of those places, whether an actual place, or a refuge within our own minds, it is essential to our existence. Sometimes, we just need a break. Sometimes we need somewhere to run to, turning our back on the world and screaming "leave me alone", somewhere we can hide for a while, and rest our spirit. Somewhere we don't need to hide from ourselves.

The Universe

We cannot even begin to fathom our insignificance amongst the size of the universe. We are tiny, minuscule, and even that is an exaggeration, making us think we are larger than we are. There are so many things, so many, which happen and cannot be explained, discoveries which turn accepted theories of science on their heads. Everything we thought we knew could be wrong; perhaps logic is pointing us in the way that our imaginations took a long time ago.

It's almost troubling that there are theories that black holes are doorways to other universes, because it means that perhaps our imaginations had led us to something we already knew, but had forgotten because it didn't seem reasonable. New discoveries, new theories, all challenge the boundaries of knowledge we have acquired about the universe; what we see is not only the tip of the iceberg, but what we know might not even be a fraction of the whole truth. It is awe inspiring to think that our universe only exists through a twist in chance, which did not result in total annihilation, as could have happened because of the universe's supposed original, equal proportions of matter and antimatter. It takes your breath away to know that if it had been slightly different, nothing would exist. Absolutely nothing.

However, science is fallible and often incorrect. We can only hope that sometimes we come across something that is actually right, that actually explains something about the universe. Only then can we stop calling them "theories" and start calling them "facts". But we should not be so lucky. Perhaps we aren't supposed to know everything about the universe, but simply accept that it is what it is.

Windows

What do you do when you're alone on the beach and the tide is rolling in? You sit and think about where you want to be and compare it to where you are, and wonder if you're capable of getting to that destination. You are, of course, we, as humans are always capable of achieving what we want, it all depends on adjusting attitude. Sometimes it's impossible, sometimes it's not, sometimes, it's the right thing.

It's all about discovery, a journey to find who you really are. Life is difficult when you don't know, and you'll wander and you'll hurt because you cannot fathom why you can't be who you want to be. Changing the attitude you've always held is not easy, and it's even harder when you don't know who you really are and what you really want. Are you as good as you liked to think? Are you worse? Do you have fun? Are you alone because you want to be?

Project yourself in the way you want to, if you know who that person you want to be is. Some spend their lifetime not knowing who they are, others always just knew; the rest take the time to try learn. Some succeed, some don't.

The only thing that's certain is that you cannot love anyone else without first loving yourself. And I'm not really sure, am I the type of person that I can love? Windows of opportunity open, it's time to start stepping through.

The Obscure Road

I don't know where this might lead, for all I know, it may be to nothing. However, I have a good feeling about this, and that it might last. I can only hope that it comes to fruition. Isn't that every writer's dream?

The path will be arduous, but I just know that this time, I can do it. For once, I don't think I'll fall into a crevasse along the way and be hindered in my progress forward. This time, I might actually finish what I started. The way is not clear, the details not all sorted, even the major points not thought of yet, but it is of little consequence, for I have a determination which I hope will trump all obstacles that I may encounter. I hope that ideas will float down from the ether and alight upon me, presenting themselves to my mind so that I may scrawl them across the face of my paper. In the end, I hope to transform something rough and as yet undeveloped into something rich and fantastic and lasting. This may be my only chance of scarring the world in my own way, like so many others before me. It is the only thing we as humans dream of.

Limited

I'm so small, and the world is so big, but I feel like I'm trapped in a place where nothing changes. For so long, I lived well within these bounds, and now my deepest wish is to break free of them, cross them, not merely gaze out into the life that they keep me away from.

I look at others and hate them, think them stupid, but what's worse is that part of my hate stems from the wish that I was like them. For once, I want to be the wild one, irresponsible, free; and yet, as I say that, I know it cannot be, I would despise myself for becoming that person, but hate the world for not being them also.

We move in such limited circles, among people we have known too long. For me, I understand that they will not be the ones to introduce me to the life I've held back thus far. I want to meet someone who will. It's why I looked forward to leaving so much. I wish it would hurry, that this person and I could crash into one another in a blaze of smiles and laughter and trust, so that my journey into discovery may begin. I can't wait anymore, the time is upon me to grow; I can't hold it back any longer, for fear of it tearing me apart from within as it tries to break through the barriers of my current life. I'm tired of the suspended animation.

World Within My Head

My only hope is that my words are ones that interest at least one person, for if only one person appreciated them, then it was worth all the time and effort penning them. They may not touch the heart, or uplift the soul, nor even engross as those of others, but perhaps someone shall appreciate them, and draw entertainment from my imperfect sentences.

They shall not be words which swirl around the mind for years to come; I doubt I have the wisdom to find any words to do so. They shall not be words to entice forth a laugh; humour is relative, and sometimes is out of place. They shall not be words to beckon tears of sorrow; the heart's emotions are difficult to capture with meagre sentences. But hopefully, they shall make someone, anyone, feel something. If I have any skill at all in crafting words, I hope it emerges now.

As yet the pages are unmarked, with only few paragraphs of scrawled handwriting to decorate them. The more I pen, the more the book shall seem sullied, but that shall not prevent me from pouring forth the world within my head. This time it must come out, it must be finished. This time, I have the potential to do so. When I am finished, I shall pass it onto someone else to read, and hope, as they come to the close of the plot, that it wasn't as bad as I feared it might be. I shall search their eyes and pray that there is something there to give me hope about my words. If not, then I will know that I have tried, and that it is perhaps one vocation I should not pursue.

Parisian Romance

Amazing how I should feel a connection with you. However, I must say that it is impossible for me to not, especially after what you said. It seems you have a life of which I could only dream; I think sometimes that I am doomed to dream while you were allowed to live, if only for a fraction of the time, that life I would have liked. Perhaps not all of it. You had your troubles, many of which I would not have liked to tackle myself. But then came a breakthrough for you and you were introduced into the life of which you yourself dreamt.

Then, your Parisian marriage became a mistake, but worse, for you thought it would offer you what you wanted, an escape, an opportunity, but soon it became your cage. Yet your reasons behind it were ones I know and understand perfectly. My heart hurt as yours did, and I almost gasped at your words, struggling to fight back the urge to scream that I felt the same, that what you got was what I wanted. I don't want to spend my life alone. Perhaps the rest of the world doesn't understand the loneliness, but you do, that's why you married him, even though you knew you didn't love him. A mistake, but a romantic one which will leave you memories that you will never be able to forget. I can only say that I hope for the same. Only for me, it won't be a mistake.

"All of a sudden I'm by myself in a foreign country, and I meet this guy who says he loves me. He wants to take care of me. And one too many bottles of Chateaux Margaux and a view from the Eiffel Tower and why not?"

-Taylor Townsend

The OC 4.4

Out of Time

Listen while I tell you what it's like for me. It's missing a life that you know you haven't led, missing songs you've never heard, missing places you've never been to, missing a sense of spirituality you've never held. It's no wonder that here I've always felt out of place; I've always felt out of time. 

Some of it is imagined, images, ideals gleaned from the novels which I have devoured over the years. But for that, it still seems as real as the life I lead now. I revel in melodies of times gone by, wishing that I was there, knowing that there is where I ought to be. This place seems like a wasteland: harsh, cold, and empty of the things which are important.

I know there are groups, among which I could be accepted, who still revel in the joys of the land and revere it for its gifts. Yet to join those who celebrate the sacred Sabbaths is to leave everything I have known. And this place is not without its good things too. Perhaps I must wed the life I wish I led to the life I do lead, full well knowing which would prevail over the other, and which would temper its attempts to reign. Then too, there would be those who would cast me out for my chosen path in life, those who would not understand, those from whom I have always wanted an escape. 

If I know anything, I know this: I do not belong here, I never have. Surely there must be places to whence I can go and satiate this hole within me. It will require sacrifice, I understand, of everything, of everyone I have ever known, but perhaps that is not too high a cost. Perhaps it is. I will never know until I am well and truly on the path that will either lead to my salvation, among ancient monoliths and ancient rituals, or my perdition, a soul crushing despair at making such a mistake. In the end I would be missing people I never truly learned to love, or be missing myself, who as such, I can never truly love. 

Oh if only life had been kind and thrust me back into the time I belonged, not here, where the greatest challenge will be learning to love myself in a world which I cannot accept. I only wish to explore the sacred pathways once more as the Ancients did before me.

The First Baptism

Already you have felt as though you've drowned, but in that, you have found that you arrived at an unexpected place; a place which has brought an unusual peace. You were tried, the challenge thrown up against you, slapping you in the face with all its might. You faltered, you wavered, you stumbled. You spent immeasurable time twisting, turning, trying to shake off the challenge and the emotions unleashed in you. If the memory returns and catches you off guard, still your stomach sinks and your heart stops beating for a fraction of a second.

You confronted familiar things, and hidden things. You wanted to wail and weep, but held fast in the onslaught. Barely. There were times your fingers slipped and you almost relinquished your grip on the life you had. The temptation to run tugged strongly at your mind, clouded with fear and a strange depression. And yet, you are here. That voice which rebuked you yelled strongly at your reason while you tried to hold your own against the tide. It made you feel anger, and shame, and disappointment; it made you feel fear. It made you realise that it was a test of your worth, of what kind of person you were. You held to what you knew to be right; pain is inconsequential when it means you are serving something greater than yourself.

When you realised, the light of day had broken through and held you in embrace, caressing and soothing. You carefully prised your heart from the cold claw which held it and began to move forward, leaving the past to rot behind you. You knew that it was time to forge something different, something new, something better. You shall falter again, but again you will stand true and push through the uncertainty. It is the only way to prove your own worth to yourself. Only then shall you accept yourself as you never had before. The path you tread has already proved treacherous, and shall do so again and again, but it is the one which shall allow you to love, yourself foremost, and then others, more than any other. You know that there shall not come a time again where you stand back and watch them leave your life, nor will you abandon those who most need you. You've realised you're better than that.

Macabre

Some things, they shock and haunt, searing themselves into your memory, leaving a scar that can never be erased. Some things, you don't know whether to weep at the dark beauty of it, or whether to scream and cringe from the horror. You stare, entirely captivated, eyes languidly perusing what you see, absorbing every detail, etching it all into your memory. You want to look away, horrified by the image, and yet it strangely enthrals you and you cannot tear your eyes away.

You stand there for a seemingly infinite time, so long that you can almost feel your body age. You hear the clock, its slow, heavy, rhythmic melody telling of the seconds which tick by. What will happen when time and luck run out?

You shall recall the images for the rest of your existence; they will burst forth and flicker before your eyes in the most unexpected of times, jolting you from reality into something darker, more sinister, and yet, entirely fictional. But its fictional nature does not overthrow its haunting nature. You shall never forget the first time you saw it, and it snatched your breath away, leaving you gasping for air, the pain in your chest mounting for the lack of oxygen.

Life isn't worth living without those moments that take your breath away. And beauty, even the darkest, most haunting kind, means nothing if you don't carry it with you in your soul.

Statistics

So just tell me, where have you all gone? I sit here and wait, check and recheck, but nothing. Suddenly, the world became a lonelier place. But that's ok; the sun will rise tomorrow, even though it sets on today, and I'll do it all again, all with a refreshed sense of hope.

I guess it doesn't matter much when you've become a number, just another statistic.

Last Ones Standing

I've been blessed to have known such a group of fantastic people, each one of the most amazing people on the planet. I'm glad that if I had to spend my final year in such a place, that it was with you; it means the world to me that you accepted me much more than any others.

There's you, one of the most beautiful people I've ever met, both on the inside and the outside; you're absolutely gorgeous. I owe you the biggest thanks of them all, for caring, talking and listening when I needed someone, anyone. When you took my hand tonight and led me to the dance floor, I complied and followed quietly, for how could I resist when you have been so kind? You didn't want me there for the sake of having me there, or to feel some sense of accomplishment at finally being the one to get me on the dance floor, you wanted me there because you wanted me to have a good time too, even though you are well aware that it's not quite up my alley. I hope that you continue to always treat people the way you have treated me, always greeting them with a huge smile and a warm hug, and I hope you always make people laugh with your antics; I'll always remember the time your sister and I laughed so hard because of something you did that we cried. It was the first time I'd ever laughed so hard in that class. You have a beautiful soul and a golden heart.

And you, the aforementioned sister, you're also amazing. Thank you so much for appreciating my humour and not thinking me a complete moron, despite the fact I'd deserve that classification. You were always so good to laugh along with, not only at the antics of your sister, but also other things. Tonight our laughs weaved themselves amid the loud music as we waited in the dark for our cue. Also, thank you for panicking just a little bit alongside me. It surprisingly means a lot.

Then there's you, who I've known for a good many years. You made things so entertaining with your little comments, leading us to chuckle a little, then smile and nod at each other suavely. Who would've thought that we'd have gotten along? We're not very alike at all, but no complaints here, I was grateful for someone to talk to when it seemed everyone else gravitated towards someone else.

And what to say to you? Did you see our fathers? They always get so crazy when they have one another, some alcohol and music. It's rather hilarious. But never mind them. You're also one of the most kind hearted people I've met. Also, one of the most understanding, and one of the most intelligent, and yet, put you together with that one other person, and everything seems to fade and you get lost amid insanity, laughter and a closeness akin to sisterhood.

You, the one who brings the insanity all about, you're the person I've known the longest among my friends. Crazy doesn't quite cover it. But it's fantastic! You're the person who manages to never look quite normal in photos, by your own admittance, the one who can be obstinately argumentative and who doesn't know how to let it go to prove a point, but must always argue it until someone listens. The one who cannot physically sit still once music starts playing, not even long enough to be in a photo. The one who's known me long enough to see the changes in me. Yet still the one who will talk to me as if nothing ever changed, though the fact we've drifted is obvious enough in our conversations. You're still one of the funniest people I know, one of the most stubborn, and, one of the shortest.

You all make up such a fantastic group, it's difficult to fathom how I could not have let myself get closer to you earlier. But then I remember why.

It was because of you. I don't blame you for keeping me from them, that was my fault as well, for letting you and for closing myself off from the world. You who walked out too early on a group of people you would have benefited from knowing a little better. Their being so down to earth would perhaps have grounded you a little too, and we know that would have been a good thing for you. I actually pity you for not knowing them better, you don't understand that you walked out on an amazing bunch of people. I'm sorry for you. Yet, also not at all. If you hadn't left, I wouldn't have learnt what they were really like either, and as much as I feel sorry for you, I realise that it's because of you that I never laughed like I did with them.

To the rest I have to say to you that we've been fledglings for such a long time. One by one now, we are slowly learning to fly, and now, all together as one, we've taken the steps to leave the nest. We may not meet there anymore, but we all know that we will meet again. In a community like ours, it's impossible for it to be otherwise, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Carousel

Thoughts keep churning, always returning to the same spot, the same answerless questions; such is that cycle of nature - it applies even to the workings of our minds. I always come back to this very spot, the view is always the same, the question always repeated, an answer never procured. Somehow I'm too afraid to look any further, even though an answer would allow my whirling mind to settle, at least for a little while.

What can I say? The way things are are the way things are. Perhaps it could be different; perhaps the way things are is only the tiniest glimpse of the way things could be. Would that we had the courage to try things a different way.

Do you ever wonder? What thoughts splatter the walls of your own mind? Are they similar to the ones which haunt mine? I'll never know, and for the most part, am content with that, but sometimes it would be nice to have just a little bit of insight. But it is so easy to speak of others and never of the things in our hearts; we dress our secrets in the most elaborate of guises, hoping that no one can decipher them, and yet, praying that they do. All the while we sit and gaze, impassive to the world, embarrassed by our mind's suggestions, knowing but hiding how much we wish they were a reality.

I have not the courage to speak of this, except in the secret places, where none shall hear me, where none shall know the truth. I have not the courage to pursue a different course, and should I lose you in the process, I shall bear that cross, with the full knowledge that it was I who sat on the emotions, quenching their battle for escape, suppressing the knowledge of their existence from you. Contrary to all advice, I will sit and wait, even though this might be the worst mistake I could ever make.

In the end, I will return here, to this place, this familiar place which has long known my presence, for every time I leave, I inevitably return. The scenery may change slightly between each visit, but the cycle never breaks; it's just one long carousel ride. For all its flashing lights and decadence, it's really all the same; there are only so many times you can go around.

The Light Behind Your Eyes

And when I'm with you, the hardest thing is to tell you that you're perfect.

Hero Complex

Something's missing here. Whether of dream or nightmare, I cannot tell, but it feels that there is something crucial missing, and that it is being shown to me in the night, dancing tantalisingly before my eyes, my eyelids trapping it in sleep, only to release it with the arrival of the morning. I awake, groping for that feeling, for what seems like it should be there, only to find that it is not, and that the feeling was only in my head.

Along with that came a startling realisation. I find that I always fall for the people who need a saviour; it may take me a lifetime to like them, but in one second that they show vulnerability, they have me - I'm theirs. Naturally such a destructive thing would happen to me. I do not hate it, but it has made me realise that the hardest thing that I will face in this lifetime is not saving people, or loving people, but distinguishing those I love out of love, and those I love out of the compulsion to help them. Only one is true love and I must be able to identify it before I am thrown into something where I am constantly being tugged upon to assist and being fed more heartache than it is worth. I must be on guard, for I must learn to distinguish those I love from the rest; such a momentous task for one who has always thought they were in love with the person they in fact only had the compulsion to save.

It's a recurring pattern in my life; my heart always aches after someone a little more when I have seen the tears streaking down their face. The fact is, I can't be held by that anymore. I can't love you only because you're vulnerable, I need to love you despite your vulnerability.

Before the Dawn

Do you stand in the middle of the highway, staring out to the horizon, wondering how the fuck you got there? The black tarmac laughs at you, smearing against the landscape, the same colour of the smear of darkness on your heart; an ugly scar on something that would have been so beautiful. Like Orpheus you cannot look back, or you may lose everything you want, everything you walk towards hiding just beyond the horizon; look back and you just may remember me. I am that black scar, that thing which you wish didn't happen, but did. Remember the pain as you carved it into your own heart?

Run, run, run faster, feet pounding asphalt, breath ragged, desperate, try outrun the past that dogs your steps. Poor fool. The memory remains, no matter how far you run. The sky will rain pins, each one piercing your skin as you flee, each one bringing back the pain, the fire. You will remember me inside you, in that place reserved only for me, and you will cry, the tears will hew their path down your cheeks and you will bleed red like the sun. Grind your teeth, run faster, wish harder, hope for some miracle cure. This time your arrogance cost you everything.

There's music in the setting sun that you run towards, as it bleeds across the sky and seeps beneath that horizon. It's that sound which sometimes flicks a switch within you, makes you want to want me, and you give in, so enticing is the sound. You open your arms and welcome me, take me in, breathe me, taste me, touch me, lie there while I rape your senses. Oh remember how you welcomed it, revelled even, now too afraid to even look at the shame that is me. You aren't as good as they believe, as you want to believe. Your soul is as dirty as worst, despite its pristine surface. Don't let them too close, be afraid, they might see through you.

Excruciating, isn't it, this reminder of mine? I won't fade, won't disappear. I'm the dark side of you, and you will give in to me, you know it. You want to - I can feel it when I make you writhe; you don't want me to leave, but you're afraid of who you'll be if I stay. My presence is the best torture and the worst pleasure. It's time for you to choose a side; you cannot indulge in both forever. This is the reason why you wake before the dawn each day.

Where Angels Fear to Tread

I don't even think I can explain this feeling. It was always more than simply looking at a picture and liking it, but more of a looking at a picture and feeling your breath get sucked out of you, followed by a feeling in your chest that this, this place, wherever it may be, was where you belonged, where you literally longed to be.

I dream of the place with water so clean and clear that it reflects the azure sky perfectly, adopting a luminescence that only these places can. I dream of gliding along that water, safe among the towering cliffs, with moss and vines and small bushes clinging to their faces. Even still, the boat does not rock, so calm and glass-like is the water, undisturbed but for the ripples caused by the ever slightly moving boat. If the air is hot, then the water is cool, a haven amongst the tropical weather patterns, wiping clean the sweat and the dirt, and bringing not only cleanliness, but also a sense of the spiritual. Here there is that connection to the higher realm, for here is where it is clean and tranquil and secluded, a secret place away from the rest of mankind. You must be able to touch that other realm whilst enveloped by the natural, for it is nigh impossible in the concrete jungles of skyscrapers and cars and millions of strangers, permanently stained by the dirt.

In your ears gently roars the sound of gushing water, dropping off some high precipice and crashing down below upon the surface of the turquoise pool. This sound, the only one, is the breath of life and it infuses you with calm and the ability to see beauty, so that you notice the exact colours of the water, the textures of the cliffs, the patterns of the growing plants. You realise that here is life, and that here, everything is much more alive than there in the sprawling urban landscape from whence you originated; even the cliffs, solid rock as they are, seem to hum with the song of the earth, while the waterfall and the trees seem to accompany it, each with their unique sounds.

My heart aches for it, as though to be reunited with a lost part of myself, from many eons ago. To drink its beauty, even once in this short lifetime would be akin to being caressed by the gentlest and most caring of lovers, who with one certain stroke could kindle a blazing passion within. It would truly be returning home. Here, in this place, even the angels fear to tread, for they have nothing more to offer it; it outstrips them in its radiant beauty, its heartaching wonder, and its secluded spirituality.

Of The Poet

Dear friend, you've gone, disappeared amongst the dead leaves. I cast the pen aside, left it rolling on the table, across the marked paper, having left its final stains in my little book. It had captured its last verse, its last fantastic image, its last soothing rhythm, and they lay enclosed within the frail pages in that book which is a memory of the past, done and gone.

You did not die, you evolved, taking a different form, but one so utterly different from your original, that it is thought that you have indeed died. I miss you sometimes, dear friend. No longer do we sit and muse on a great deal many things, no longer do we pen the thoughts of our darkened minds, for we have turned our imaginations to other pursuits. I cannot sit alone amid a crowd with my tiny notebook on my lap, pen in hand, ready to capture and weave into words the thread of the imagination, the string of emotion; it is not the same without you. The words do not form, the imagination does not fly and all is still on the surface of the mind, that impenetrable barrier. The vision of lonely romance, of beautiful seclusion, of a spiritual tranquility has since vanished, and I miss it.

The lesson's been taught old friend: not all those who are meant to write are destined to become poets.

Of The Dreamer

I hope to be taught a great many things in this life. I hope to find a teacher of whose attentions I am worthy. I hope to find a teacher patient, understanding, willing and forgiving, for I know that I will drift on more than one occasion; such is the habit of the dreamer.

I hope to be taught passion, of how it seeps forth from beneath the doors of the most unlikely edifice in the form of music; wild, unrestrained, almost demonic, but nearer heavenly, music. If indeed the devil played the fiddle, I should like to hear his song; the master of the fire must surely be the master of the passion. Is that not why he is feared?

I hope to be taught love, of how it takes one in its vice grip and never relinquishes that hold; that grip which while so fierce is yet also gentle, so that even the most fragile of flowers are merely caressed and never broken. Many a time people claim that they have been left fragmented due to love's restraining hold, but in truth, it is only because the hand unfurled somewhat and the person slipped through, falling out of love's grip to shatter into shards on the face of the earth below. But all risk breaking, for who does not entice what they fear?

Yet there are things I long for which cannot be taught. I desire to leap into the scattered stars and catch the moon on my tongue while it gazes from the velvet sky, have its liquid light slip down my throat, soothing as it goes, and settle at my core, in that safe place within my chest. I would like its silvery coolness to gather and set me aglow from within, so that I may shine with the beauty of the night and the warmth of guidance.

We must sit and contemplate all that we desire. We must impart those secrets or they may never weave themselves into the fabric of reality. And we must pray and hope and wish with every fibre of our beings that those dreams do not waste away and die, for none are saddest but those who have buried a portion of themselves.

The Sweet Escape

It must be nice to drift off into another world where someone else has worse problems than you, all of which are miraculously fixed by the end of the journey. There are adventures within words, and worlds within pages, people among the individual letters; all of this, bound and sown together, littering the globe in the form of a handsome volume.

Sometimes the world feels too small, and that the walls are crushing, closing in and suffocating you, even as you stare out the window into the wider world. Claustrophobia takes hold, and as your breath becomes ragged, you do the best thing you can do to calm yourself: you pick up a book. There you can lose yourself and live several lifetimes, with the wisdom of the writer being imparted upon you. It's not the same as living, but sometimes it can be infinitely more thrilling.

It is true that there are only few stories in the world, and you begin to notice eventually that many outcomes are the same. However, it must be said that it is not the final destination which matters, it is the journey; the same can be said of novels: the ending does not matter, it is the words that got you there that are important. People craft sentences specific to them, so that they are unique. Those words are the ones which tug at your intuition, or pull at your heartstrings, or work the muscles of your face into a smile. And that is why they are significant, it is why the art of writing will never lose style, and why books will never be out of fashion.

There is no better way of escaping the harshness of reality than losing one's self in a novel, in another place, another world, another time.

Bridge of Sighs

We shouldn't define our world in black and white. Too often this is not the case. You will learn that nothing is ever as clear cut as you wanted to think it was, so don't make the mistake of thinking that everything can be sorted into two very separate categories. If you look a little closer, you will find that there are vast areas of grey, the shades which indicate how close something is to a category, while still mockingly being in neither.

Most of our decisions lie in that grey area, and barely ever are they clearly defined. We tend to overthink things, to find reasons for and reasons against, and we take the option with the more reasons, sometimes at the cost of ignoring our instincts. In the end, it is fear that stops us; the fear that going against the grain, against all reason will lead us somewhere worse than where we are. We know deep down that there is a chance that it could lead to something better, but we are too afraid to take the chance, especially as so many things in life are constantly in flux. We are afraid of getting there and losing what we wanted so much.

Often we'll meet someone or read something where a person did not take the chance that they so badly wanted and ended up regretting that decision for the rest of their lives. There is much wisdom in words saying that you will regret what you didn't do much more than the things that you did do. But humans are not so trusting creatures, and we are wary of life, even when we want to believe that it can turn out for the best.

So, take a chance on me, and I'll take a chance on you. Dispel the fear, don't weigh up the pros and cons, just follow your instinct. We're instinctual creatures, and you'll be surprised at how often your intuition is correct. Next time, take a chance on that stranger whose eye you meet, or that person you shared a smile with. You never know, after crossing that bridge of sighs, upon which you swayed precariously, unsure of yourself, you may find yourself in a place where the grass is really greener. You may find that the world not only is not black and white, but is in fact made up of splashes of colour. What was once scary may no longer hold any fear at all.

The Foreign Language

As far as things go, the truth is always the most foreign to the tongue, the most difficult to pronounce, as the words drip and slither off your tongue into another dimension, and the words you say are the ones you know will be back to haunt you, but not in the way you'd wished.

The Chore

I can honestly say that I didn't miss this at all. Sorry, but that's the truth.

An Empty Place

She barely understood the feeling which had settled upon her. She sat alone, away from the prying eyes of the world, in a place frequented by none but the rats, a place, abandoned, secret, safe. There among the concrete walls, the empty windows, she bent her head and sighed, that forsaken girl who couldn't find her place.

It's not that she was a stranger to the places she visited, to the people she spoke to, but still she felt as though she was an outsider, looking at a life she led, created by someone else and lived by someone she didn't recognise, despite how they looked like her. And no one saw through the plastered smile on her face, to the loneliness and vulnerability below; they shook her hand, they laughed with her, they all looked, but no one saw.

She came to this secret place, where she could be alone, left to her thoughts, and guarded by the trees, and the concrete walls. She'd lost someone once, and though this was not the source of her sadness, sometimes the memories would tear through her, and rip open the wounds once more; she would bleed and she could cry and scream and wish that she hadn't lost them, so that they might come and make it better, the way they always used to. Nostalgia washes over her, and she cannot escape, though she struggles and tells herself that it's all in the past and for good reason.

Other times she cries for almost no reason at all; tears run down her cheeks, hot, and she doesn't even fight them, just lets them go from her eyes, and hopes to find a reason for them. Most times there is nothing. She finds that she cannot say what she wishes to say, for fear of shattering decorum, for fear of not doing her emotions justice; for fear of sounding stupid. She soon realises that although she has never left her family, she's lived alone all her life.

She returns to this spot, every time the melancholy feeling takes hold, and just sits there with her thoughts and the voice which runs in her head. Sometimes she walks away with determination, other times with depression, but sometimes, just sometimes, she walks away proud of her place in the world. She realises that for someone, the world would be a much lonelier place without her.

What Are You Thinking Of?

Sometimes I'd like to know what's on your mind. Occasionally you go silent, and disappear off the map for a while, and I wonder where you go to. It's interesting to speculate, but speculation never got anyone anywhere; all it brought was frustration. I'm not going to ask for answers, I won't even ask questions, for I respect you too much for that. Distance is something that we should afford one another. If it's something you want to say, you will come around to saying it when you are ready.

That doesn't stop me from wondering, and even sometimes wishing that I could penetrate the fortress of your mind, to see the cogs and wheels and gears turning, and indeed, what they are crunching between their teeth; what it is that keeps them turning for so long. I want to be able to help you when you lose yourself in your own world. I want to know why sometimes you lock yourself away from me; I miss you when you're gone. Mind reading would be a gift on occasions - sometimes it seems like the only way that I'll know what goes on in that head of yours.

And maybe then that tiny voice within me will stop its incessant question of, "are you thinking of me?"

Making the Most of Every Situation

Let me tell you something: what you're feeling now, it passes. If you're lucky, you may never feel it again, but let's be realistic, this is life we're talking about. Take the bad, you need it to show you the good when it comes along, and it will come along again, to be sure; endless days of light, where the warm breeze dances around you and your eyes close in content, even days of ice, huddled around the warmth with those dearest to you, sharing laughs and stories and good conversation.

You're not always going to remember what happened to make you feel this way, what you are going to remember is what you felt, and how you dealt with it. Did you let it bore holes through your innards, like some potent acid, or did you accept it, then unfurl your clenched fist to release it into the ether? Yes, those emotions will come again, and again you will have to make the decision, but what you may take into account is that it will never be the same thing which causes it; consider the bad emotions as part of the experience, without them, there would be no experience. You must experience grief to revel in joy. They don't lie when they say that the secret is to always find the silver lining, and though sometimes it may blend well with the grey of the cloud, it is present, waiting for you to discover.

You could take a sad song and make it better, or you could ride out the wave of melancholy on the notes of that song, until eventually it pulls you under and you drown. The truth is, eventually, you're going to have to pull yourself out of it.

However, if that wave breaks, and leaves you in pieces along the shoreline, I promise that I will be there to pick you up and put you back together, every last piece. And I'll stay with you until all the wounds heal, and even afterwards, because you are worth every second spent on you. Eventually, you'll start to find the silver lining without help, and my presence will become redundant, but until then, be assured that you could never be rid of me.

Expressions

Oh you with the emotions expressed by your eyes, what would life be without you? You're warm and soft and a comforter when no one else notices that something's wrong. You're crazy, running up and down the small space at a hundred miles per hour, and we, watching, fear that you'll not be able to stop in time, and run headfirst into the door, or the wall. But you manage to stop, every time.

Oh you with the endless minutes of scratching; at yourself, at things, at the door, waiting to be let in. And who could deny you? You stop when we look at you, our eyes meet, and you with those big inviting eyes, and the ears slightly pulled back in hope, stare, waiting, and then our will gives way and you bound inside, tail wagging in triumph. Yes, you know the way to the heart, you clever thing.

Now you've done yourself wrong, and you lie on the rug, head resting on paws, and your eyes close in fatigue. But not all is good, despite your unchanged behaviour; still you perk your head up at the jingle of keys, or the mention of a walk, and still you bound to the door, and dart between our legs, more deftly than a butterfly among leaves, but there is physical evidence to say that all is not well. You've done something to yourself and we cannot fathom what.

It is true that I worry unnecessarily on occasion, and I hope this is the case this time, because as resolutely as I said that you would be ok, my heart said it with less certainty and with more hope. Others have survived worse, I'm sure, but the problem lies in that we do not know what you have done. All I know is that should you sleep tonight, I hope that you awake on the morrow. Our souls cannot exist in the unnerving quiet which would descend without your presence.

Timeline of Eternity

 Calmness pervades the air, settling down and covering everything like a blanket of snow. A meditative stillness overcomes you and you sit, cross legged on the grass, with your eyes closed and your mind open. You almost hear the earth whispering to you, the ancient tales thought lost, erased by time and dimmed by the voices which faded. There on the grass, alone and lonely, but content, you forge a connection with people long forgotten, with cultures long buried and with the earth, long ignored.

In one moment, you feel your whole existence in the grand scheme of all existence; you feel your place among the ancients and your memory among those who will live. Yet you do not feel insignificant; the feeling overwhelms you and is like nothing felt before, but where others would be dismayed at such a small role in the universe, you revel in the fact that there is a role at all, that your presence, fleeting though it may be, has an impact on the present, leaves traces in the future, and is a connection to the past.

It is soothing to feel this connection, as you feel yourself part of the timeline that is the history of humanity. Few manage to experience such a thing. The blades of grass feel the way they have always felt and the earth smells the way it will always smell, the comforting scent of its dampness wafting into your lungs, reminding you that you too are part of it. The trees rustle their leaves in the breeze, and that breeze caresses you, carrying to you the voices from all time - millions of faint whispers, inaudible independently, together creating a quiet melody.

The moment seems to last forever, as you take a glimpse into eternity and are gently reminded of the ancient past, of civilisations fallen, and of those which will rise. For you, this bond will never be severed, and though it will fade into the background, it will always envelop your heart, soothing it when nothing else is able. Until the end of your days you will carry with you the past, the future and the present.

You open your eyes and the scenery invokes a stronger sense of calm. Then you remember, you had an idea before you slipped into time, but it has since left, melted by the rain which beats gently upon you and the earth, cleansing all which needs to be cleansed. From then on, you remember to listen to the rain.

Regrowth

I really do wonder if wings grow back from the wounds. Will it hurt as much as tearing them out? Will it hurt as much as realising you can no longer fly? Will it be the same?

Will you still be able to fly if they do grow back?

The Lonely Are Overlooked

Well I know I ain't perfect. Who can even pretend to be? Although we don't pretend to be perfect, we pretend to be happy. We ignore every goddamn slander against ourselves, we keep ourselves together when we most feel like breaking apart, waiting until we're all alone to let it out. And then it's too late, the anger, the hurt, it's all overwhelmed us, and all we feel like doing it striking the hard wall with balled fists, over and over, till we feel the bones break and the blood seep through the torn skin.

No one ever hears us scream because we never let it out. We keep so many things caged within us, too afraid to fight, to afraid to let all our emotions show. Sometimes it's because we cannot take the feeling of imprisonment, sometimes because we can't bear the thought of not being able to tell someone that we love them, other times because the world never fucking seems to go right. We just sit and hope that something, anything decides to turn our luck in our favour.

Well, let me tell you something. It ain't going to happen. No one is going to come to your rescue, so stop fucking waiting. Stop sitting with your head hanging low, with the tears seeping from beneath your eyelids while you sit in the dark and try not to scream, try not to go on a homicidal rampage. Stop hoping for a change if you're not going to bother to bring it about.

You sit in your heartache and wait for someone to come and wipe away the tears, to whisper reassurances, to banish the loneliness and despair which sit with you as companions. No one is going to come. Your pity party isn't going to get you the change you want. Even those you thought you could count on have disappeared, and those who you were taught to think would always be there, well they are not only the problem, but are also completely oblivious to your problems. The reason people become completely independent is because they are the ones who realise that no one else gives a shit.

The lonely don't choose to become lonely. They are lonely because they can't stand the world disappointing them one more time. They can't bear to lose everything all over again, so they forsake it. Perhaps they are the wisest of all because they will never again have to go through the pain and disappointment of realising that they are unloved, that no one cares, and that people are only going to let you down.

I joined their ranks a long time ago. For a moment, just a moment, I thought that maybe I could forsake loneliness, that I could actually live in happiness, and nothing would bring that down. Alas, not the case. Loneliness is my oldest friend, and as it seems, the most dependable. The only thing it's bad at is consoling you when you want to punch something till it's bruised, broken and bleeding. Because it reminds you that you are someone who is bruised, broken and bleeding.

Maybe it's this way because we are afraid of love. Well, that's how it seems, we know. The truth is, we're afraid of abandonment. It's not the commitment we fear, but feeling of being alone after all in the end. It's the fear of letting someone in because once they are inside, they have the ability to break you beyond recovery. We're all that way because it's happened to each and every one of us; by different people at different times, but it's happened. And then, life stopped progressing. We are held in stasis because the world taught us that the only ones we should trust are ourselves.

There aren't enough patient or understand people in the world to teach us otherwise. There aren't enough people who could love us enough that we could change our deepest fears. There aren't enough people who could be bothered to try. Even less are the people who are strong enough to stick it out.

It's no wonder death seems like the best option most of the time.

Keep Moving

Damn it, you came back and stabbed me again just when I thought I was done with you. For once I thought that maybe I could not run into you, not have to try desperately to stop my eyes from being drawn to you, but no, being my life, this was not the case. But damn it, I thought I'd left you behind.

Is the world really so small that we must keep meeting? I would rather avoid you. If I don't see you, perhaps I can move on. Sometimes I hate you, sometimes I love you; recently, I've missed you. But I'm not going to take today as a sign, because I want nothing more than to let go. For someone who has always been able to let things go easily, I'm finding you very difficult to release. Except I thought I had. Until today.

Oh, you still have be bound and chained and you don't know it. The only difference is that this time, I'm slowly breaking the chains. I'm almost free; I can almost grasp the freedom, so tangible it is. So if today was a set up, and I'm almost self absorbed enough to believe that you orchestrated it perfectly so that you'd be there when you knew I would be, then that's it, stop it. You can't have me anymore. You had me once, you lost me. For both our sakes, our sanity, we need to keep moving. Stop and we lose our balance. So I'll keep going, even if it means leaving you behind; I've done it once, I can do it again.

Sometimes I think that my happiness lies with you, but I know, I have to carve out my own life now. I might let you in again if you truly wanted it, but I wouldn't trust you again.

I've realised that I owe myself happiness. Don't get in the way.

Examinations and Dreams

They have a funny way of helping you achieve your dreams. They make you sit down and pour out all the knowledge you've miraculously managed to retain in your overcrowded memory, the facts slipping over the rim and sliding down the side like waterdrops, lost forever. I wonder if they truly see a use in it. What are they testing? What are they examining?

Foolishly, they believe that they are testing us on how much we have learnt, but this is not the case; they instead test us on the capacity of our memory. To say the least, it is not a fair system. Perhaps they should revise.

We each have dreams we aspire towards, we each desperately hope that we may achieve them; whole cups filled with little rolled up pieces of paper, upon each one, a hope penned in the neatest of handwriting, then oh so carefully rolled up into a scroll and tied closed with string. We pray to attain what is written on those tiny scrolls, but the truth is, life has a way of putting us down.

So, we go in, we write all that we can possibly remember, all that we tried to cram into our overstuffed brains, and hope for the best. The reality is, no one cares about what you learnt, what you took from your lessons. They just want to see what you remember.

The saddest thing is, at the end of it all, you will forget, purposefully, everything you tried to remember.

Sky Turns To Shadow

Tell me fortune teller, what do you see? Is my future written in your cards? Where do I go? What happens now?

Do I end up happy?

The sky is overrun by shadows, which flit past my eyes, taunting, laughing, teasing; the ghosts of a past in ruins. I cannot help but feel that I follow the road to perdition, yet, I know that it cannot be true. Transparent though those ghosts are, they plunge their hands in me and attempt to wrench out my heart, for they know what haunts it most; they know what hurts it most.

Images flicker on screens, whole pictures painted with tiny pinpoints of colour, blended together to be something; a portrait, a scene, a message. Some images have such a hold that I cannot move away, and I watch, and my stomach clenches, flutters, trips over itself; and then, I remember that it's just an image from a scripted life. The magic is lost, the feeling fades, the image moves on. Bone crushing sadness takes me in its embrace, pulling me closer, holding me tighter, and whispering promises in my ear; promises, threats, they're all the same thing.

So I need to know. Does the loneliness ever go away?

Hanging in the Balance

You're going to leave your life in ruins. When you hear no other voice, you listen to that of instinct, and that is what instinct whispers to you; your life will end in ruins. Can anything more be expected when your shadow is a burden and the world denies you happiness?

You can't rely on miracles, you can't rely on sunlight, you can't rely on the thoughts which spin through your mind. Planet keeps turning, your mind keeps churning; there are no answers which you don't already know. You keep walking but you can't see where you're going; the path's a black screen before you, moving with you, inch by inch. You can't go back, and you can't stay still, so you keep moving forward, terrified because you can't tell what you're walking into. And behind you all the way, are they, urging, pushing, prodding, threatening. They expect you to be independent without allowing you the chance to gain independence.

You can't rely on yourself. It seems you do nothing but wrong, leaving all in a mess, a complex knot which cannot be untied. People walk out of your life as though you meant nothing to them, and still haunt you in your dreams. Others pretend to be there for you, but turn their backs the second you need them. Of course this leaves them vulnerable to attack, but you're too moral to backstab. The rest of the world gets under your skin, pushes you to the edge, unknowing that you really could overbalance and plunge to the depths of insanity and rage, the waves of which already scorch your feet.

Time is of the essence. But time means nothing to you because you can't even live your life for yourself. It feels like you're at a standstill, and though the clock keeps ticking, it seems as though it's been still for an eternity. One second is all it takes; will you fall forward and sink into the agony of insanity and untempered anger, or take the only other path and walk parallel to the waves, leaving the rest of the world gaping in your wake?

Void Space

Unconsciousness is a surprisingly sweet escape from life, however temporary it may be. It can be said that I enjoy sleep much more than being awake, for you see, life has more of a tendency to hold together when I'm asleep; everything tends to crumble during the waking hours.

Facing things you'd rather not face is a given during the day. Problems envelop you, eat at your soul while you struggle in their grip, fighting against them for freedom. You try to hold together the pieces of yourself as you fall apart, crumbling like chalk, chipping like rock. Too soon the tears get the better of you, rolling down your face and leaving behind those tell tale paths which glisten in the light, even as you try to hide yourself in the dark.

Finally, you are left with nothing; empty spaces which used to be filled. Is there a cure for the void?

Samhain Night

I wonder how many people realise what they're really celebrating. The origins of this auspicious day where people dress up and hand out candy, carving faces into pumpkins. Do they know that it was once, long ago, a Celtic holiday ushering in the dark half of the year, and waving farewell to the time of abundance?

Fires were lit, masks were worn, the dead ancestors were welcomed into the home during this night when the veil was thinnest between this world and the Otherworld. Those evil spirits were kept away by the masks worn, a guise to warn them not to dare enter. It heralded the beginning of winter, the beginning of a new year; and what better way to begin the new year than to dine with ancestors you lost long ago? They called it Samhain.

Much of the beauty, the symbolism of this night has been lost, drowned by commercialism of the western world. But once, this was not only one of the holiest nights of the year, but one of the most beautiful.

While many frown upon it today, this tradition of the Celts, they forget that it is they who appallingly took over the holiday of the simple country people, uprooting it to an extent, then placing another holiday the day after, blessing all the saints. Ironic how those who are meant to love and accept are those who follow their rules the least.

But we remember. And as long we live, this will never die.

Possession of the Stars

I don't need to own the stars to be happy. I don't even need to touch them.

Did it ever occur to you that maybe my idea of happiness differs from yours?
You are lazy. You want everything to be easy without having worked for it, otherwise you would be living your life differently, you would be in a different place. Me, I don't care if it's hard. As long as I enjoy it, I am happy, and content and this is something that you may never even be lucky enough to experience.

Obviously it never occurred to you that there is enjoyment to be had by simply looking at the stars. Some things are ruined by possession.

The Heart of Home

Pack your bags, your little travel case covered with stickers, and embark on a journey to the ends of the earth. You always wanted to see wonders, curiosities, the unusual; beauty in all its glory. So go. The road can take you anywhere if only you dare travel it.

Remember to look back though, remember where you've been, where you came from. For all the awe inspired by the arches of the Eiffel Tower, or the sunsets over glorious beaches, or even the laughter in the yellow lights of downtown pubs, nothing will have a hold over you the way your home does. Remember when you leave, who is left behind. Home is where the heart is, and the further you go, the more you realise that your heart is with those who await your return.

The Things That Are Missed

It's been a long time since I put pencil to paper. I can't remember the last time I sat down for the purpose of creating something on a sheet of paper with nothing more than a pencil. I don't remember the last time I returned to simple black and white and shades of grey.

I miss the feel of the pencil in my grip, the way it scratches and glides across the paper. I miss the way that something so beautiful can be created with a few well placed lines and the addition of appropriate tone. Tonality is the secret to creating something worth looking at. I miss the last time I could stand back and look at something that came from the work of my very own hands, and proudly say "I drew that".

Catalyst

I fear being left with nothing but the shards of a shattered sky. This isn't where I wanted to be, who I wanted to be, nor is this the life I wanted to live. Viewing a broad spectrum of life, I saw that there were lifestyles which were wholly unattainable for me, some of which I wanted more than anything. Surely there can be lazy and romantic days, where the sun shines and the sky is blue, and even if there is no romance, there can be a certain joy in simply being?

Control is exercised only over the smallest of decisions. Thinking of the road ahead I do not see any change in the current situation and I fear that I will forever be overshadowed by those who cannot live themselves. My biggest fear is that I end up like them; having achieved nothing, drowning in the life in which they achieved nothing, and having no escape, doomed to carry on in the same way until the day they drop dead.

The very thought is a catalyst which kindles a fire within me, a quiet determination that I will not be like them. No, I am not who I want to be, and the world is not a perfect place, but it is the place we must deal with and people can always change who they are. We must be the change we wish to see in the world.

I keep thinking that it will happen, that I will be that change, that catalyst, once I am free and living. But maybe I should not be waiting for it to happen, but be making it happen. Otherwise who's to say when, or indeed if, we stop waiting and start living? We cannot thrive under dictatorship, and this may perhaps turn into a revolution, a civil war tearing apart a house. But no one said that change was a road without bloodshed. No one has ever changed their world without fighting for it.

Where The Moon Goes

Somewhere along the way, I became a student of night. Somewhere along the way, I learned to breathe and learn and live by the light of the dim stars, and the shining moon as it waxed and waned, shined full bright and disappeared. Perhaps because there was a certain quiet, or maybe because the bed seemed so lonely, and the sheets threatened to strangle me in their tangled hold. Or perhaps it was just because I found that I couldn't sleep either way.

By the incandescent light I have my papers, or my charcoal, or my canvas and I work, late, until my body cannot take anymore and I collapse into a tired heap amid those sheets, and my eyes, burning, shut in grateful sleep. Only in sleep do the clogs of my whirring mind grind to a halt, and those far deeper begin to stir, bringing forth strange dreams not to be recalled by the morning light which fights to break through the crimson curtains hiding me from the world.

In the night's quiet much can be accomplished, and I make the most of what I can, when I am not vexed by the temptation of the Spring sun. And I enjoy these sojourns with the moon. My vampiric existence has led me to build a rapport with the glowing beauty of the night, and perhaps, one night, when the crimson curtains have closed on the day once more, I shall be allowed to borrow the moon from her lofty perch and perhaps, if you are lucky, I shall present her as a gift to you. For, you see, there is a reason why the moon disappears on one night out of the month, and this is where she goes.

Reaching Divinity

I'm making a promise to you right now, that one day we shall live in the shadow of mountains, where the clouds obscure their peaks, and they perch on the edge of a vast lake, as blue as the summer sky. We'll have a waterfront house, and each day we shall wake to watch the sun rise.

We'll choose a place where there are no cars to poison the environment, and everyone gets around on bicycles, rollerblades and skateboards. We'll find a secret place to go when we want our peace, away from the confinement of our house, and there we shall stare at the peaks, pretending that we can reach out and touch them, and take the clouds in our hands. We'll get lost in our dreams of dreams.

Everyday we shall take out our kayaks and glide along the glass surface of the blue lake. When we tire we shall drift and lie back to observe the sky, and embrace the feeling of falling into the blue space. Up shall become down, and there, among the mountains and the water and the pine trees which guard the banks of the lake, we will live; a life like no other has ever known.

There we can be adventurers, and dreamers, and whatever else we wish to be. Perhaps that will be the closest we come to reaching divinity.

Behind Closed Doors

Sprawled carelessly on a bed, smothered by complete darkness, staring at a ceiling that isn't visible. You can't even form a thought in your fatigue induced haze. You wonder how you're going to get through today, you wonder how you'll get through tomorrow. You cannot recall what needs to be recalled in this state - you can barely remember your name.

Close the door, turn out the light, close the blinds, turn the curtains. Lie back with shut eyes and pray that sleep will take you. As soon as you try the fatigue vanishes and insomnia takes hold, and your eyes stay wide open against the darkness which presses upon them. They itch and burn and cry to be left alone in dark contentment, but the mind churns and whirls and thoughts dance across your consciousness, never allowing your eyes a moment's rest.

The black is supposed to help, but even where the sun doesn't shine, you are offered no relief, no release from the struggle to stay coherent. People pass back and forth, ignoring the unremarkable door which shields you from the day. It's not that people don't know what happens behind closed doors, it's that they don't even care to find out.

Moments For Ourselves

It's that time again, when our only desire is to escape from this life. To press the off button, so that we may have some time to recover again our sanity, our interests, our life which we'd forgotten. Instead we must resort to stolen moments amidst out daily lives, quiet times to simply be, without distraction, or worry, or obligation. Such moments are always followed by regret at having lost that time, but those are also the moments which we look back at with warmth; for in fact, they were not lost, they were well spent. All the stress which comes afterwards is worth those snatched moments of peace and tranquility.

We should not shield our eyes from the world, because it is in the world that all beauty exists. Nor should we mourn time which we spent on ourselves amidst the buzz of routine. Often it is better for those moments to have existed, than not. There is no escape in being blind to the passing of time, there is only disappointment at having let the time slip by without taking notice. Whatever we may do, we must not regret moments stolen from life, for ourselves.

Worthless

The only thing I can say thank you for, is teaching me how to love. Thank you for showing me that to love someone is to treat them the way you never treated me.

Don't worry, your grip which is trying to stunt my growth, it's working in some ways; the problem is that you don't see that I've mostly slipped from your fingers. You won't know I'm completely gone until I've disappeared and you open your hand to insult me again and realise that I'm no longer there.

It's funny how your family are the ones who hurt you the most. But don't worry; the one thing I refuse to do is cry myself to sleep over you. You're not worth it.

Girl and the Ship

She stands at the edge, looking out to the far horizon, so flat, so calm. Her bare feet are baptised by the gentle waves, lapping against the sandy shore. "Shh" they tell her as their white foam caresses and comforts, quieting the constant humming of her mind. Here she is allowed to be herself.

She walks into the water, it's coolness grasping her legs, her hips, her navel, and the way it moves around her makes her feel like she is rocking. Her hands, too tightly grasping the beautifully crafted little ship, dip into the water, steadying the ship against the current. It precariously balances on the peaks and the troughs, holding its own against the water which overwhelms it. She closes her eyes, scrunching the lids together as hard as she can, then slowly, reluctantly, she feels the wooden boat slip from her grip as her fingers unfurl from its sides.

For a moment, she stands there still, eyes shut against the sea, and the horizon and the azure sky. With that ship she sends her prayers, her hopes of escape. With the water swirling around her, she almost feels as though she is upon that ship, swaying as the waves rock it from side to side, and it rolls over one wave onto another.

Opening her eyes, she observes it for a moment. It has drifted from her. Again she prays that her salvation will come with the liberation of that little wooden boat. Then she turns, walks out of the water, up the sand and into the life she wanted to leave, never once looking back. She left her heart on that ship.

She doesn't see that moments later it washes up on the shore, its few minutes of sailing glory over. That poor girl; when will she realise that it was all just an illusion?

A New Serenade

We are merely particles in the space of the Universe; tiny atoms, floating around on this chunk of rock, sincerely thinking that there is nothing more important than ourselves. You try to show others what you're worth, that there is more to you than what may originally be ascertained. All the while, you are blinded to what others are trying to show you. But every so often someone does something miraculous, by looking past themselves and realising that there is someone who is more in need than they. We call these acts of kindness, but they are more akin to miracles.

Too often we are dragged from place to place, through conversations and through choices by our ego. There is something about the human race and its need to hide vulnerability, its need to never show a sign of weakness; we do not realise that weakness is what ties us all together - the common bond between all species.

Every so often we should let the guard down. We should let others recognise in us the things which scare them; we would find that we are drawn intimately closer, even without conscious thought. Unbelievably, but people fall in love with those who show weakness, because it is a reminder that there is something to be given, something that is needed. That vulnerability touches the darkest recesses of our hearts and compassion is drawn out, even from those who claim to have none. Yes, it is true, a person can fall in love with you simply because you cried.

This is the message that should be conveyed through songs and film and words. There is too much riding on the idea of a fairytale, when reality is not like that; and we all know it. It is time to inspire people, because there is such a lack of inspiring people in the world that it is disheartening; every person should be someone to another. You are, even if you don't know it.

Think: what could you do for another?
What could you do for yourself?
Sometimes we all need someone to lean on.

Distorted Time

Oh you poor thing, so quick to move on. You leave and try to forget all that you are leaving behind, but you take them with you, there is no doubt about it. You wanted to make the goodbye quick, but you couldn't tear yourself away. And now you're stuck, waiting until it finally ends.

It's amazing how sometimes a minute can drag on forever.

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

Tell me, what happens to the writer who cannot write?
The lover who cannot love?
The dreamer who cannot dream?
The traveller who cannot travel?

The sun which cannot burn?
The tide which cannot ebb?
The lightning which cannot strike?
The flowers which cannot bloom?

Is it not true that they will all simply return to that from whence they came?

Another Day, Cloudy Memory

There are volumes filled with incessant stream of consciousness, an outpouring of thoughts which skid and slide and sink into the surface of the paper upon which they are written. Half formed thoughts, scrawled sentences, single words; there is not a more comprehensive insight into a mind than those books. You would be able to build an entire psychological profile from those pages.

I fear that someone will read those journals one day; there is too much in them which would embarrass the writer. I could not face the truth written there, under the influence of various emotions; anguish, hope, fear, love, anger - all make their mark and leave traces. Snapshots of a time, a place, the people, the feelings.

Burning them seems to be the easy option, for it means they cannot be found, and yet, it also means that their contents will be lost. Are memories worthless enough to be burned? There may come a time where I would give anything to be able to remember those times, and feel a great sense of loss in discovering that in a moment of insecurity, I had destroyed the only record I had of them. I shall not walk away from them, but nor shall I leave them unguarded.

For, every entry points to one undeniable truth:

NYC

If you listen very carefully, sitting in a silence only you can create, you may be able to hear the heartbeat of the city. In the dome of light, beneath the night sky, intricate with intersecting streets, and buildings which almost touch the stars, there is a certain rhythm, a certain beat. Open yourself to it, because that is the way to experience the real city.

Out there, in among the concrete jungle, the passing of tin boxes and the flashing of neon lights, there is someone who is doing just as you are doing; listening. Straining to hear whether there is another out there like them. Perhaps they sit in the park coated white with snow, and perhaps their breath comes out as mist, and they shiver against the cold. Or perhaps they lounge beneath the trees in the fall, when the leaves turn fiery colours and then fall to blanket the ground. Whatever the case, they are there, listening just as you do.

They listen for you. They want to find you, the way you want to find them. Among the lights of the city, and its dark shadows you will meet, and you will know immediately; they are the person you hear in moments of silence. The city is big, it's loud, it's tough, you could go with years without it, and then return and never have enough. It's too busy, too crazy. But you know, sitting there on the shore of the Hudson that together, you and the person sitting beside you could take it by storm, because you know it's secret; you have heard its heartbeat.

Uncertainty and Clarity

I just had the craziest notion. What if you actually want me? Is it really too insane to think that perhaps you might? You know that I don't just pluck these ideas from the air, though you might argue that you've seen it flitting there before.

Questions you ask sometimes set off a cataclysmic chain of thoughts and they lead down paths I'd only briefly considered before; only briefly considered because I thought it was impossible, but what if it isn't? Sometimes things you say make me think that yes, there is something there; something deeper than the words, the looks, the brushes of your hand on my arm. I'd like to know whether there is.

See, I wasn't entirely truthful. I didn't lie, but I told only a half truth. Now it presses on my heart, heavily - the weight of a wet blanket which simply cannot be lifted. I confess, I was afraid; the fear that if I spoke the truth, you'd turn away, and the last I would see of you was your back as you disappeared into a future which didn't include me. To lose another friend, it was a risk too great to take. Forgive me.

We've all got our secrets, even the girl you thought would have nothing but an impeccable past has some darkness lurking there; sometimes the most unlikely of people suffer from a broken heart. I'm falling for you. Have fallen? I'm not so sure anymore. The feelings for you have always been a little strange, walking the borderline between the living and the shades; now walking in the light, now melding back behind the impenetrable barrier.

It's strange to say that I fell for you before I'd even realised, but experience has taught me that it usually takes the mind some time to comprehend the heart. I woke up from a dream one day and that was it, I knew. That was before her. With her around you faded to the background; but you are the very reason I believe that you can be in love with more than one person. Though, I suppose, I was never one for the idealistic belief in "The One" either, so perhaps I am no authority to go by.

She's gone now, and my thoughts have found their way back to you; and they're different from what they were with her. She meant the world to me, but not the way you do. It had always been awkward and difficult; it was comfortable in her arms, but it was never more than just that comfort. With you, it is easy, like slipping into a light, comfortable and well loved T-shirt; everything is comfortable, like we've known one another our whole lives. Not the case, of course, but for some reason, there is an understanding between us that I cannot fathom.

It is said that you must fall for the wrong one to recognise the right one, and perhaps this is one such case. I'm not sure. Uncertainty claws at my chest; if you could see the inside of my chest, you'd be able to see all the scars and all the wounds it has left, the gifts for a lonely wretch.

Well, pay no heed. It does not matter. Perhaps I am right, I wonder if I will ever find out, but I am not courageous enough to ask. I should like to let it go, and not think such things, for I believe that I make some of it up sometimes; perhaps yes, even pluck it from the air, proving that you indeed saw it flitting there. This is merely the work of an over analytical, and overly hopeful imagination. It is likely that there is only heartbreak here, nothing more.

I shall just go back to dreaming, shall I?