Waking the Dead

I wonder how you'd feel if you found out that my love for you lies bleeding, bruised and broken. I wonder how you'd react if you found out that it was all your fault. I don't think you'd be able to accept that; I think it would make you cry. I hope those tears you shed are more in number than the ones I shed for you because I deserve those tears as compensation for what you've done to me.

My heart now lies cold, in a tomb somewhere long forgotten; there's no chance of my getting it back. I fervently hope that someone will find it; I need someone to save me from your demolition of me. There was a time I thought I'd never be the one who needed saving, but that's one of the little ironies of life; the unthinkable becomes a reality.

But even the worst of times must be balanced with good; even death must be balanced with life. I cling to this tightly, my only hope that there is something better ahead. The ice cold, dead heart must be balanced with something warm, alive; so I'll hope my saviour has a fire burning in their eyes, enough to awaken what has died.

And then we'll take the world by storm.

Dream of Paradise

I had a dream of Paradise. It involved waking up every day next to you, the air filled with the scents of sweat and morning and love. Tracing my fingers lightly over the angles of your face, then down the ridges of your chest, and around, so that my hand lies resting on your lower back. You pull me closer, and we lie entangled, a mass of limbs and flesh, my skin tingling where your hand ran over it.

I live for the anticipation of those sleepy Sunday mornings, where the sun will rouse us from our lovers' slumber. We shall stir, but not move from that heap of sheets, afraid to lose the moment, the lovely contentment. None will dare intrude, and we shall be happy to pretend for a few minutes that nothing else exists outside our own bubble of satisfaction.

The world may beckon and call, and we shall rise to obey its every command, but not before we let ourselves enjoy those blessed moments with one another. They are all that shall matter, when one day we sit ourselves down and count our lives in moments.

I know that those times will come, I see them, hidden in your eyes; I see the promise in your disarming smile. I know that I will feel them when I can sit and watch you sleep.

The Mourning Bride

Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned

The Mourning Bride

William Congreve

Leaves of Dreams

Abandon the leaves, graffitied with dreams, awake to what is real, here in the world. Those night-time hallucinations tempt you and draw you in, time and time again, but things can be much better in reality if only you invested your time there to make it so.

If you are determined enough you can change your life to be the way you want it to be. You will be able to awake every morning next to your lover, have them kiss your eyelids while you whisper "hello love." You will be able to step into your clothes and not feel that you are assuming the mantle of a different person, nor feel that the fabrics hide who you are.

You can feel happy. You know it to be true, so why do you hesitate to reach for that which would absolve you of your mistakes, and reorganise your thoughts so that you look to the future, not the past? It would not be easy, of course, but you are throwing up your own obstacles that need not be there. Take your life into your own hands just this time; the next time, I will not have to tell you.

And maybe, just maybe, against that tiny glimmer of hope still burning in your heart, you might actually reach what you deemed unattainable. Those dreams, scrawled on those pages may actually become a reality.

More Than A Stranger

Confidence betrays vulnerability, and a smile betrays fragility. Please don't break me again; I'm sure you see how I can't stand against you any longer. Neither here nor there, and I don't know which way to go. Someone, please point me in the right direction. In any direction.

Some say I should be the better person and tell you I'm sorry, that I'll regret it my whole life if I don't. I scream in my mind "don't you think I know that?!" but you seek advice when you know the truth you don't want to accept, and hope that someone gives you an innovative alternative. None have, yet. I'd say that I'd keep searching, but time is running short; the last grains of sand are slowly trickling to the bottom of the hourglass.

In many ways I want this to be over. Yet not the way in which you think. I want this situation to be done, and for things to perhaps return to something normal; a time where I don't cry over you, or am depressed over you, when I can look at you and smile, or perhaps start a conversation. Is that so much to ask for?

Someone once told me, "In the three years we were close friends, I've never seen you so depressed," and thinking on this, I realised it was true. But I question: is the mark of love how much it hurts you to have it gone? Or is it better to have it gone because it hurts you?

I cannot understand how you must muster more courage to be humble than you do to be brave. Perhaps because in the latter you are gambling with your life, something fleeting, something which will eventually mean nothing, while in the former, you gamble your heart; and the heart knows tragedy like no other.

Sometimes I believe that we would all be better if we lost ourselves in the faery kingdom, as our ancestors had, long ago. Then we would need no pain like this, no worry, no need to be courageous in matters we thought we'd never face. The cobwebs would have been our playthings, the flowers our loves, the leaves our shelter, we should have needed nothing more.

But we are human, and those times are long gone, the faeries disappeared into their dwelling places within the earth, not to be glimpsed by the eyes of humanity; for humanity is a lie. It speaks of compassion and comfort and love, but in reality, will betray them out of fear. Humanity's weakness is its own insecurities, its fatal flaw the one it cannot overcome.

Thus I am left here, and you seem to sit beside me, your ghost leading all that I do, and I know that I cannot look at you, but perhaps I should not have to; the downfall began when we wanted to be lovers but knew not how to let go of the friendship. The truth is, we were limiting ourselves; if we had let our friendship grow, it would have encompassed us in our entirety and we would have become much more than mere lovers.

But it is too late. I cannot even look you in the eye; as a friend I never had to, as a lover I never could, and now as a stranger, want to, but simply cannot because it hurts. But it's the,most odd feeling, missing someone who is part of you, but is now nothing more than a stranger; and yet, so much more than a stranger.

Flying's a Matter of Trust

We've walked a strange way, have we not? There were times when the light shone full and bright upon us, leaving us without a care in the world. There were also times where it filtered down through leaves, those days bringing with them some darkness, but also light to help guide the way. Then those times where we could see nothing, everything cast in a darkness so black that we were blinded; no light, no hope, no direction. Those were the times we didn't think we'd make it through.

But we did. And we're better for it. Aren't we?

It's been a long, long day, lasting years, and now the sun is finally setting upon it. Night is settling in, but before it does, we have one last chance to utilise the last light of day. In these last few moments we will spread our wings and take off towards the horizon, showing them all how far we have travelled. None will believe it, but their eyes do prove them wrong.

Come, come fly with me. We will soar together, you and I, and no one would dare to stop us.

Do you trust me?

Breathe

For many years I drifted, alone and lost, without a sense of direction, of where I was, where I should be, where I was going. I was alone and as helpless as a rickety wooden boat, battered and tossed by the force of waves. But as my vision starts to clear and the sea calms, I see that I am where I was always meant to be; and that is here, beside you.

Slowly, but surely, I am being compelled back to the lonely shore, lonely no more. My boat shall alight upon the sands as the sky glows its last burning embers of colour, and you shall meet me there. Together you and I shall gaze out across the calm sea and observe how far we have come, and that although there were tempestuous times, we are indeed calm and patient now. And we are thankful, for we have each other; shoulders to support each when we weep, eyes to rejoice when we each laugh.

They might all take the sun, the moon, the stars, leaving us in blind darkness, but as long as we can feel the other beside us, we know we are never alone. There cannot be words to describe the gratefulness that one feels for having others such as we have each other.

There is an overwhelming comfort emanating from the knowledge that you and I share the same air, that you expel a breath which escapes only to be taken in by me as I inhale. This alone is a closer intimacy than that lovers could ever share, or mothers could experience with their children. Your breath is the life of me, your sigh is the heart of mine, your whisper is the love I share with you.

So please, keep breathing; I die if you stop.

Into the Ether

The sky offered us a better life. It said "Come join the stars. I promise they'll keep you safe." The setting sun winked at us as it descended past the horizon, and we cringed, thinking perhaps there was malice in that gesture. So we denied the sky and were thrown here.

This is what happens when a soul abandons the ether; they are cast down to the earth, a prison until they have learnt their lesson. Each one will have something to gain from such a time. Again and again and again they pass through the cycle upon the earth, and there are those among us who have walked the same tracks for millennia. The question is will we eventually learn when to let the sky take us?

We were born of the stars, and to the stars we shall return, but only when we allow ourselves to be taken. We each are like the lonely raindrop who drops from the clouds, spends a day clinging to the leaves of a tree, before trailing down and being soaked into the ground. The winding journey then begins, through the ground, into a creek, a stream, a river, before rushing into the ocean and being embraced in its entirety. So too are we like this raindrop; individual souls whose last resting place will the ocean of the ether. We have each returned there several times, but it is not until we allow ourselves to let go of Life that we truly belong there.

For that reason I will search for lessons in this life which I feel I must learn, so that perhaps next time, when the sky offers me a choice, I can say that I will stay and be like the broken boat returning to the healing shore. Perhaps when you return for your next lifetime, I will be above in that astral plane, watching you, guiding you and loving you.

Custodians of Lonely Hearts

I looked out my window to see the tiny crescent of the moon, glowing against the purple twilight sky. She feels like a guardian, watching over us as we go about our dreaming. She represents the most important cycle of life; that things come and pass, and nothing ever stays the same. You can see that truth in the dark half of the moon, still outlined, although the light of the rest makes it fade. Each month she passes through the phases of life, from birth to maturity to death, forcing us to remember that balance; the Ancients called her the Triple Goddess, and we do well to remember their truth.

She is accompanied by her friend, the Even Star. They guard the night while we sleep, while we dream; Immortal comforters of those who must pass. Until the afterglow of sunset dies they are the only ones in the sky, stealing moments alone before the rest of the stars appear to share in their light; I remember times when we were the same.

Now I wonder where you are, what you're doing, what you're seeing, feeling, thinking; wondering whether you're thinking about me. Beside me the candles flicker, and the light of that crescent moon and the star shine down through the slats of my Venetian blinds, and I exhale to the pulse of the ballad playing beside me, the powerful vocals expressing my very own thoughts. The sky has become draped in the darkest navy velvet, studded with that guiding light, listening to my heart's theme.

I have come to terms with the fact that I wasn't supposed to love you. Though I still wonder about you, I now wonder something else; whether there is someone else, sitting alone in the dark, listening to their own piano ballads, staring at the same thing I am. Are we supposed to meet, they and I? Will the moon and the Even Star,  those constant friends, those self same lovers, draw us together? Will those match makers of the sky bind us as we both stare at them upon their velvet throne, we, unknowing, until we collide during some lonely day. Will that ordinary day become the most cataclysmic of our lives?

I wonder what the sun will look like gleaming off their hair, what colour their eyes are, how they smell. I know that their disarming smile will make my stomach lurch everytime, I know that I won't feel out of place in their life, the way I did with you. We'll begin our first conversation, "I love you," with no question of "how could I fall for you?"

I send a prayer up to the moon "Please don't make me wait much longer. My heart can't take it anymore; I'm afraid it's going to explode within my chest and splatter all my love inside me. If I don't love, there isn't a point to this life of mine."

I wait in eager anticipation of the time when they and I become a "we"; the union of two separate entities. We'll lie beneath the curtains of light, on one beautiful night, the mother moon the smiling witness to our tryst. We'll whisper things that only the trees will hear, while we, entangled in one another, slowly fall asleep.

Searching for Something

I seem to wander aimlessly through life; there's no direction, no destination, even the journey seems dull. My eyes pass over things, always slightly out of focus, and everything seems to be covered in this impenetrable haze. The colour seems to have bled from the earth, and the wind seems to have become icy rather than warm.

I seem to be searching for something, without entirely knowing what it is that I am looking for. I think that I am relying on the belief, however naive, that I will know once I find it; that there will be a pull in my chest and I will simply know.

For a while I thought that you were what I was looking for, but I think now that I was wrong. You see, there wasn't a moment where everything became clear, and the haze lifted, but rather, the fog became thicker and the world became more confusing. There was too much uncertainty for me to believe that you were what I was looking for. At least, that is what I am hoping. I fervently pray that I haven't made a huge mistake and that I wake up in 6 months time wondering why on earth I let things pass as they did.

Boy and the Ghost

The streets are cold, and his fingers are numb; the poor little boy, locked out in the perpetual winter. They turn their backs and pretend that they don't see, but they see, they know he stands there in the frost, staring at them with doleful eyes; they know he wants to come in.

They call him the "Unnatural Child", the lost boy, the one without a home. It's not his fault that he must wander; she took his heart from him, she stole the warmth from his home. He does not want to return there, for fear that he might see her imprint lingering, that he might still smell her fragrance, that he might hear the cadence of her whispers. He can't face his ghost - the girl who held his heart.

He never imagined that he would suffer from a broken heart, and yet, he could feel the pieces of it scattered within him, piercing his lungs, his stomach, his throat, causing tears to spring to his eyes. It only hurt more when he caught a glimpse of her shadow, stalking the streets he wandered through, and for a moment, his ghost becomes solidified, a real person. He glances away, afraid to meet her gaze if she looks at him; he doesn't want to see his hurt reflected in her eyes, and yet he hopes that she hurts, instead of feeling indifferent.

Soon the seasons will change, winter banished into the oblivion of another year, spring taking its place, and then too passing, melting into the summer heat. With the coming of the summer, he would have left those cold streets, leaving her behind, leaving the cold, leaving all the people who couldn't care less. And while he hopes for a better future, he cannot comprehend life without her in it; it seems so pointless.

He cannot deny that there is a tug at his heartstrings when he looks at her for but a second, he cannot say that edges of the hole where she used to sit don't graze him. He misses her, he realises, and instantly wishes with all the pieces of his shattered heart that he was in her arms again. Alas, he knows it cannot be. He realises now, too late, that he loved her, that he had unknowingly entrusted his heart to her; her absence made him grow fonder. But she wants nothing to do with him anymore; she had given him chances, he gambled with them all, he lost them. He's broke. It hurts her like it hurts him, but she is steadfast in her feelings, and resolutely avoids him. He pretends that it doesn't matter, but he returns to that empty, cold house, and finding the darkest corner, draws himself into himself, and weeps.

He woke on the morrow, feelings wavering; there was a faltering determination to stop loving her. How was he ever to find another if he could not let go of her? But she passes too close, her eyes dart to him from beneath their eyelashes, he mumbles a few soft words, she moves on. The war within him is ignited again. Reason screams at him to pull himself together, reassemble what is broken and march forward to another day, leaving behind all traces of her. But the Heart, it whispers softly, its lilting voice cutting through the tormented anguish of Reason, reminding him that he still loves her, that even though he couldn't look past the flaws when she was with him, that he still loves her. It tells of how he took forever to fall for her, but as surely as the day follows night, he did, and it reminds him of the happiness he felt when she held him, the contentment, the quiet bliss. Reason cuts in to harshly remind him about the bad times, the uncertainty, the lies, the hurt, the things he didn't like about her, but the Heart's voice speaks clearer still, the chime of a crystal amid the din of a riot.

He wants to side with Reason, but knows the Heart is truer still. He just wanted things to go back to how they were, where she wasn't trying to force herself into a role she didn't fit, and he had to fight to keep up with a person he felt he didn't know anymore, and hated because he knew that she was different deep within.

He finds that he didn't hate her, he hated what she made him think he'd become, he hated the way he went from feeling loved to feeling worthless, all because of where her attention was directed. He hated that he didn't know how he felt most of the time, because she kept changing who she seemed to be. He got lost trying to follow the different personas. He got sick of trying to show her that she didn't need to be those other people, but could be who he knew her to be. He hates how his happiness went from being self created to being entirely dependent on her.

He is alone in those streets, wondering why on earth he is still there. Wondering why he can't pull himself away. He knows the answer of course, but wishes that he didn't. He hopes the summer will arrive quicker, and yet dreads it all the same. He sees her ghost again, crashing into his dreams, walking through his life, taking his life, slowly, by taking away his feelings, because he was stupid enough to give her his heart.

He feels alone, and his fingers are numb from the cold. Suddenly, out of the darkness, a warm hand takes his; it is not her, but someone different. For the first time in eons, he smiles, a heartfelt smile. And he begins to think that perhaps he fell for the wrong person after all.

Straightforward Lies, Contradicting Truths

Your perfume still lingers here, although you're long gone. Sometimes I wonder if I imagine the scent, dredged up from the ruins of my memories of you. Is this going to be the last ghost I have of you?

It's not easy becoming a stranger in your own life, and yet oh so easy. I look at my life as though I'm standing on the outside, in the cold, while the warmth mocks from the inside; from that place where you're still here. Maybe you can hear my heart thrashing out to the beat of an invisible drum every time I think of this.

Don't want you here anymore (can't let you go). The pain still wrestles with me, pinning me down. Count it out: one, two, three; Pain you win, why won't you leave me be?
You gripped me tightly, tore me too easily, released all the darkness, does that make you happy? Tell me why it was me. So many others but no, you came for me. Thank you, you held me till I bled, now the blood won't stop flowing. It won't stop until I sleep.

But you've made me an insomniac. There hasn't been a good night's rest since you left me. I wake and stare up at the empty ceiling, where I used to paint out the scenes of you and me with my eyes. Its whiteness mocks who we used to be. The false purity doesn't keep away the nightmares.

You had a grasp on my life so tight that I have still not pried my way out. Your talons grip my heart; oh god it hurts. You've gone but you've taken a huge chunk of me with you. How do I fill the hole? Its blackness grows, envelops me from within, there's no escape from it.

It's amazing how you managed to turn the tables. For someone who craved freedom above all else, I would give anything to be caged by you again. Irony's a knife and it stabs me over and over again.

I wish I didn't have to see you anymore (please don't disappear). I'll wish upon a lonely star; Star will you listen? Will you answer? I need your help, I cry to you in the dead of the night. Direct your light to the path I should take; should it be the one of reconciliation, or is it too late for that?

Lock us in a room together, until we sort it out. I'll bash at the door till my knuckles become black and blue and red, and I'll yell till I'm hoarse, but don't pay me any mind. Leave me there till I run out of breath. Then maybe I'll turn around and look you in the eye. Or maybe you'll kick me while I lie in a ball on the floor. Make the pain physical.
More physical than the depression in my chest, in that empty cavern you used to occupy. They don't lie when they say that emotional pain can become physically manifested; I feel that now that you're gone. How dare you leave me here alone?

Hey you. Fuck you (I miss you!).
I never forgave you (Please come back).
I hate you (I love you).

Desire

I'm just a little frayed around the edges; don't mind that, I'm not likely to fall apart where you can see. Be sure that you don't tug too hard or I may unravel, and you'll be able to read my story in the threads of me, the story you'll wish you never knew. There are desires there which you wouldn't perceive, and regrets you would not believe.

Wishes to run my fingers along everything, absorbing the essence through touch; making Beauty tactile. Moments of frenzy where to see is not enough, when satisfaction only arrives through contact; a whole dimension can be lost without touch like the roughness of the bark of a tree, or the softness of velvet or flower petals.
Desires to lightly trace my fingertips along the contours of your body; skin barely making contact with skin. Desires to lose myself in your neck, and leave behind a trail of kisses leading down to shoulders...chest...navel...
Desires to intertwine my fingers with yours, or to weave them through your hair. Desires to be tender, loving and affectionate without a plague of insecurities. Desires to feel you wrapped around me in the dark. Desires to see those desires reflected in your eyes.

Innate longings to fly free, in the most literal sense. There's the need to feel for a second that I am flying, that I am liberated, that I am invincible. How unfortunate it is that humans don't have wings. One day I shall climb into the sky, look down on the earth, far, far below, and then jump; the ground will rush up to meet me, but in those long minutes before we meet, the wind will roar around me, and the clouds will melt in protest; for that moment, I will feel invincible. The desire pulls at me, I can feel it in my chest, in my heart, more than any other. I may have to live with it unfulfilled.

There is a yearning to be reckless and carefree, to live selfishly for just one day. I want to laugh at the most ridiculous of things until the tears pour forth in an unstoppable flood. I want to sink into the haze of a vapour, creating a different persona for me for a few hours; perhaps I shall be touched by my inner artist, the one suppressed by thoughts and reason. I have the urge to see colours I'd never seen before and absorb details I'd been too careless to see. I have the thirst to pour out all my heart and soul for the rest of eternity.

Does that scare you?

It terrifies me.

A Forgotten Path

Who has ever sat and stared at those appendages at the end of their arms and marvel at the way that the digits move? We take them for granted, that is certain; they do so much more for us than we are fully aware.

Our hands write, pick up things, hold, touch, feel. They are records of things we have done, mistakes we've made, from touching heated iron to being cut on the razor edge of a paper. They mark the path we've taken through various stages of life. They bear the scars we've forgotten all about.

You can tell more about a person from their hands than anything else. Those who have a hard life have rough hands, scarred and marked and lined; their nails are chipped and dirty, their skin dry and hard. Those who have had less troubles, and not had to work so hard have smooth hands, with only the smallest of marks. All you need to know of a person is written in their hands. There is a basis to the art of palmistry after all.

Don't take them for granted; they aren't there to be bashed and abused by your carelessness. One day, there will be someone who holds your hand, and be able to tell from the feel of them alone what kind of person you are, whether writer, artist, musician or business person, accountant, or even parent.

Axis of Symmetry

For every little thing we take from this life, we must give back a little more. We must not steal from others when it would be easy for us to give them something in return. For every bit of beauty we experience, we must work to return with beauty of our own; a smile, a laugh, a touch.

We each must learn that there is a precarious balance we must maintain - our lives depend upon it. Too much giving and not enough taking and we collapse into a depressed heap, drained of all our life force. However, too much taking and not enough giving, and we end up alone.

Strive so that you may appreciate all there is to appreciate, to attain what you thought was unattainable, but also remember that for every thing which comes your way to help you to your goal, you must give something in return. Take opportunities which will help not only yourself, but others; put yourself in the way of a person who is struggling, and help them to the path which will lead them to fulfilment. And yet, do not give too much, for a person who is drowning will invariably cling to those who offer salvation, and both shall inevitably be lost.

I too shall try to do this, but as a wise being once said, "Do or do not. There is no try." We shall either be successful, or fail; but truth be told, the more people who strive for a common goal, the more likely it is to be attained.

Life is what you make it, so appreciate and create beauty where ever you may go.

Fanciful Wanderlust

As soon as the door is open wide enough for me to slip through, I shall be gone, disappeared into the haze which coats this city. I want to run, far away, so that the horizon might engulf me and take me away to a better place. It's a shame you won't listen now, because when you turn to say something to me, you will find that I am no longer there; and you won't know where I've gone because you never cared to listen.

I shall find a beautiful place, abandoned, with the dirt of decades staining the windows, and I shall claim it as my own. It shall look over a park and I shall watch the people go by, wondering how they each came to be there and what their stories are. Some shall have a spectacular elegance about them and I shall imagine them sitting around a long table, sipping their expensive wines. Others will have the look of dejection and depression; my heart will shout out to them, embracing them as kin. Then of course there will be those who walk on sunshine, and I shall pick them easily from the rest, for they shall tread lightly, as though there was a cushion of air separating them from the ground upon which they walk. The homeless too will play their part, stalking the grassy expanse, and settling down on the uncomfortable park bench as the light grows dim; I shall watch them the closest, for they are the ones who deserve much more than what they are given.

In that place, I shall find who I am. As yet, I am not one of anyone, a mere outsider, waiting to be sorted into a category I have no wish to be in; the walls of words shall be my prison, but I shall strive each day to tear them down. Perhaps I will be successful.

In any case, it shall be somewhere far from here, where the people speak a different language, and the air tastes different. I will float away on the breeze one day and arrive somewhere where freedom is rife.

To A Person I Loved

I know you don't like it when I tell our story. I know you hate that people are learning the truth. I know you rather I keep it all to myself. But there are reasons I speak out.

I hope that each time I tell it, it will hurt a little less. I hope that each time I tell it, there is someone else who can help me out of the hell I've trapped myself in. I hope that I can wake up tomorrow and not think about you, or want you, or regret everything that passed between us.

They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but first the world must shatter you completely, and scatter those parts of you in places you must spend the rest of your life trying to find; all so that you might have a chance at feeling whole again. I'm drained of life, and my own broken shards pierce me, unable to be dislodged, because I find that I am the one pushing them further in. Perhaps my feelings for you will drain out with my blood, upon my hands, upon the ground, the earth devouring the tale written in my red. The stain will never be removed.

I confess that I still watch you sometimes, when your back is turned. I cannot meet your eye; I'm afraid of what I might reveal in a glance. I'm sinking into a pain so numbing that it is obliterating all other feeling. The world no longer contains the joys it once did; laughter does not uplift me as it used to, there is no comfort in an embrace, but nor do tears pour forth. I know the blame does not lie with me alone, and yet I claim it as such, for I cannot let you take it; you are far more fragile than I, despite how it may seem. You do not know of all the times I sacrificed my pride, and hurt myself so that you wouldn't feel any pain. You don't know how much it still kills me every time I think of how I did hurt you.

I should not indulge in these thoughts, or these emotions; they do nothing for me but cause pain. And yet, I cannot help but want to sink more into their oblivion; there is almost a sweetness about it, almost a comfort that there is something which lies dead within me.

I loved you, and now desperately wish that I could stop. It is slowly fading, but the evils of emotion is that they don't fade fast enough. I'm afraid that the only way that I'm going to stop loving you is if someone else comes along and I fall for them instead. That's the main reason I plead for them so often in my writings.
.....I wish it weren't taking them so long.

Fight For A Cure

A leaden weight presses on my eyes and an iron chain anchors my spirit. I stumble through each day, dragging my burdens along with me, for I don't know how to leave them in the past. At the end of the day I collapse, a tired heap, and hysterics threaten to overcome me as I fight to stay awake. There must be some cure for this sickness.

I search high and low every waking second, hoping that something will present itself to me and cure me of all that is wrong. However, there is nothing, and every day I fall, disappointed, wondering if I should bother stirring on the morrow. Sometimes I don't feel at all, and other times, I wish I couldn't feel because the feelings are never good. I know that I am sick, and I know that there must be something that can be done, only, I don't know where to find my cure.

I'm tired of putting on a brave face, of pretending to be strong, when I feel so fragile and vulnerable on the inside. I don't want sympathy or pity, I want someone to fix it and make it all stop haunting me. I'm too frayed, and the threads of me are beginning to come apart; soon enough it will be obvious to everyone else. It's ridiculous how you can feel so alone but at the same time know that you are not.

I'll try to patch myself up with impermanent glue and sticky tape, but it has not been successful thus far. I will continue to drown among my sheets on my welcoming bed, the most sympathetic friend, and hope that tomorrow might bring something different, something that will stop this fatal illness.

Live Curious

I am left to believe sometimes, that we live each day for curiosity. It is as though what guides us, and pulls us and drags us through life is the burning curiosity to see what might be around the next corner, to see what might happen if we say that particular phrase, or wear that particular shirt, or press that particular button.

We can never say never because nothing at all is certain. What you thought might only last a moment might in fact last forever, and promises you thought were indestructible might be broken tomorrow. So we must grasp what we have been given, and mould it if we must, so that we are always reminded not to take it for granted.

We must over turn every stone and kick up every leaf, for we never know what might be hiding beneath them, waiting to be discovered. Look around every corner, and in every direction, use your eyes to see what isn't there as well as what is. Ask a million different questions, knowledge is sacred and what's sacred is remembered forever. Take the road less travelled by, for you do not know where it might lead you until you are well and truly on it; it may lead you exactly where you are supposed to be.

When you are ready, untie yourself from the moorings of comfort and home, and go exploring, the way you did as a child. The adventurer within you has not disappeared, but rather, lays dormant, ready to spring into action at the slightest beckoning. Trek where none have dared before and discover ways, methods and things no one else has discovered before you. Remember, shoes are meant for walking in, so don't be afraid to wear them out.

Humanity's Secret Amid the Urban Landscape

It's rather amazing how you can find some of the fundamental truths of being human in the most unlikely of places. It's amazing how the shock of seeing something like that in such an unexpected place forces you to think about what was written. This is the position I find myself in at the moment.

More often than not, I wonder whether you exist somewhere in the world, and if we shall collide one day and embark upon some whirlwind romance where up becomes down and left becomes right. Of course I want to believe that this is true, but reason interrupts such thoughts of fancy before they even have a chance to take flight. Too often have I collapsed into an abyss of depression, thinking that perhaps I am not meant to have you. But surely I cannot be fated to tread the paths of Life alone?

Often, I also wonder if perhaps I have already met you, and whether we have crossed our life threads already. It causes me to think that perhaps I walk through the days blindly, that perhaps I have missed you, who have perhaps been there all along. But surely it would not take me so long to notice someone as incredible as you?

Maybe what I need from you right now is a sign that you are still out there somewhere, as alone and as lost as myself. Maybe you cry out to me in the same way I cry out to you, with this silent desperation. Maybe if we have met, all you need to do is slap me in the face to make me look at you for a second longer; that second longer could be all it takes for me to fall in love with you. Some bonds are meant to be made in a second and be unbreakable throughout lifetimes. This will be one of them, to be sure. All we must do is find one another.

I'm not ready to relinquish hope just yet. So please; I don't want either of us to end up among the ranks of the lonely. We deserve far better.

The Symbiotic Paradox

The problem wasn't that I didn't love you enough. Nor that I was too afraid to stay. In fact, in many ways I'm still inescapably bound to you. There is that part of me which longs for escape, to be free at last, for the pain and the memories to dissipate. But then, there is also that part of me which cannot let go; which will never want to. So you see, I'm stuck in this strange position, where to be near you is to be in pain, but to not be yields the same result.

Yes, I said a lot of things, inspired by confusion, but now I find that I don't know how much of it was true, and how much of it was me restricting myself to certain paths of thought. Eloquence, it seems, is not my gift, but I will try here to put as much of it into words as is possible.

I know you didn't believe me when I told you that I had feelings for you. You told me as much yourself, that final time we spoke; that cruel conversation carried out with words across a screen, through telephone lines and radio signals, to get from me to you and from you to me. You really thought that I only liked you because you were the only one there?
That's partly my fault. I think I told you that, but the truth is, I never thought about any of the complicated reasons about why I did fall in love with you until you started asking. All I knew was that I did love you. That was enough; it didn't need to be understood. Things get complicated with reasoning.
I never "settled" for you, I actually fell for you. I'm sorry you thought otherwise. Truth is, there were other people I was attracted to before I'd even thought about you, but there came a point where any thoughts of them were obliterated by you.

The problem is, we are so very different from one another. We love very differently. You need to be loved openly, with lots of affection and attention and in fact, you sought those from me, and I hated it; it was a reminder of exactly what I was unable to give you. At the time I couldn't understand why what I was doing wasn't enough. Understanding of myself has led me to an understanding of you also, and why things were the way they were. My silent love wasn't good enough. The fact that I looked forward to seeing you, that my stomach jolted when I did, that I wanted to talk to you and be with you when you weren't near wasn't good enough because you simply couldn't see it; you needed the physical evidence, and it was that which I was too afraid, too embarrassed, to give. I'm sorry that my insecurities prevented me from showing you how much you meant to me.

I wasn't afraid of staying, I was too afraid of leaving, of you leaving. I didn't want to lose you. But although I'd given you my heart, and I knew it, you didn't, because I didn't give the rest of myself to you. I didn't think you wanted me; if I did know that, things would have been different. I wouldn't have restrained myself so much, nor kept my distance as I did. I would have let myself become so entangled with you that we would have spent the rest of eternity trying to unknot ourselves.

Alas, it is too late. Or rather, it is not too late to change things, but too painful. How could either of us risk trying to go back to how we were when we have hurt each other so much already?
I want to let you go because I know I can't have you, but there's no use appealing to you, you've already let me go. But the Universe won't yet let me forget you yet. Maybe there is a lesson I am yet to learn from this, which I have not yet grasped.
So I sit here, the miserable writer whose pen cannot capture inspiration and pour it forth across the page because the result always involves you. Perhaps one day I'll be able to turn our story into one of the greatest Romances That Never Happened in the history of literature. One day, when thinking of you doesn't cause me to weep.

Colour and Life

There is a beautiful view if only you care to look. Take in the whole picture and revel in the colour; they illuminate the recesses of your mind and paint the darkness with luminosity. They shall banish all the shadows, if only you let them.

Look at all the colour; this is the dream that lasts forever, growing more vivid in eternity. Realise that this is all that matters because this is the only thing which will still burn in your memory when everything else has faded.

But also remember to look closer, for there is much still to see among the petals and the stems; there is life. Perhaps for a moment you'll think that another creature's life is worth just as much, or perhaps even more, than your own.

Stream of Creativity

There is a great sense of uneasiness pervading the very fibres of my being, urging me to do something other than sit and stare into space. There is a tragedy in wanting to do something but being unable to do it, because of the restrictions of your surroundings, the restrictions of your mind, of your creativity.

Art is a natural thing, it comes to everybody in some form or another; it does not always express itself the same way in different people, but it is ever present. Never forget that. It is a fundamental truth, and the true basis of our humanity.

Even though it does not always well up from the grounds of creativity, but comes as a mere trickle, it must yet be embraced, be taken advantage of. As difficult as this may be, there is nothing worse than letting it pass, for it will soon become not existent, until the next outpouring. Not paying attention to it results in this ridiculous discomfort of the spirit, a punishment for ignoring what you should have embraced.

So next time there is a chance for creativity, seize it. You never know how far you may fly.

Create a Microcosm

Will you come and bathe with me in the sunlight?

Will you lie on the grass with me and laugh at the shapes in the clouds?

Will you keep those moments forever, locked away in the place reserved for the fondest of memories?

We'll ride away one day, into the Great Beyond which is Life, and remember where we've been, and laugh together, and cry together; even the best of times will bring tears to our eyes one day, simply because we cherish them so much. Perhaps one day we'll forget them, but think not on that miserable future; keep the memories in this moment, because right now the memories are worth their weight in gold. Some day, those memories will be all we're worth. But not yet.

Let us take one day at a time, live in the moment, cherish it, take chances by the second. Only then can we say when we're old, in the far flung future, that we've lived a fulfilled life. For now, we'll create our own perfect microcosm.

Stop and consider! life is but a day;
A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way
From a tree’s summit; a poor Indian’s sleep
While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep
Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?
Life is the rose’s hope while yet unblown;
The reading of an ever-changing tale;
The light uplifting of a maiden’s veil;
A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;
A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,
Riding the springy branches of an elm. 

Sleep and Poetry, John Keats

The Stowaway Hearts

There is a rhythm which pervades the core of the earth, reverberating through the leaves of trees, and bubbling away in the streams. If you take a moment and stop to listen, you may be fortunate enough to hear it. If the sun smiles down on you, you may not recognise it; if you are not so blessed by the sun's loving rays, then you may recognise the rhythm as one which resonates within yourself also.

It is a common thread between many a people. Many of them are unaware that they are not unique in having this rhythm beat within them, and it is a rare person who sees it reflected in the eyes of another. It is the beat of loneliness; the beat of unrequited love.

That poor affliction has infected too many people in this world, and they all sit thinking in their independent lives, mulling over their situations and wishing it were different. Each of them has lost their heart to another, but have been too afraid to shout it to the world. Fear holds them back, keeps them from reaching to the sky, when the sky is so close.

Hidden aboard the ship of love, sailing the void between one person and another, their hearts are free falling; the thread which attaches them to another person has not yet grown taut, and the wind billows in the ship's sails, pushing and pulling them violently, as though it were a unworthy toy. The heart calls, achingly, yet no one hears. So it beats in this constant rhythm, this bloodline which connects all the lonely people on the planet, and waits in the hope that someone will recognise it for what it is.
All the while, the people begin to fade away.

So please, listen; please help. They need you. If you don't help, there may soon be nothing left of them.