Rain, You've found me alone

You remind me of sweeter times, of twenty years waiting, staring down the dirt road.

Of summer rains and winter snows,

of the first signs of spring, the last gasp of autumns warm breath.

You remind me of everywhere we've ever been,

everywhere I've ever felt at home,

of the clink of glasses, the soft murmur of familiarity.

I walked to your house one winter evening, just to sit by your side. 

The sun was setting, it's cold arms gripping the colours of the sky,

And I could feel your breath running through the trees.

You made us a map to find our way around your home.

And I braved ice and wind, silence and solitude

To find my way back to you.

That night we stood, facing eachother 

hands held, foreheads touching, the breath from our mouths rising

intertwined to become the mist that would join the fog,

the fog which would find it's place amongst the clouds,

becoming the snow that would fall upon our rooftops as we sleep.

The wind sang to us with heavenly intonation through the trees.

Breaking each part of our hearts with ghostly progression

Until the tear-like rains of fragility flowed into mirth.

Birthing with it the fragrance of new life, hope confirmed.

You are my best years, my long summer eves, my journeys, my home.

The one I'll walk with each day until the fading light envelops all.

And the quiet knowledge that our hearts were meant to be

And when I'm away chasing the life I know I'll find once more in you, you'll wait.

Patiently, because you know I'll always return.

And when I do, timid and humbled, you will take me into your arms and promise to never untwine your heart from mine.

You'll take my battle wounds, and kiss them, like you always would,

and though they might not all heal straight away, I'll know you'll be there, teaching me to walk once more, through the rocky and the narrow.

And when I knock, once more at your door, you'll embrace me, as if you knew exactly when I'd be back.

You will cover my back and mend my heart, laugh at all my stories and cry at my defeats.

And in the evening, when the day is exhausted and my soul is healing,

You'll call everyone I've ever loved and who has loved me,

and in our rawness, we will find the soul and the essence of communion.

Celebrating our life and the simplicity of reunion,

Of heavenly moments we shared, the true friends we find along the rocky path, a glimpse of something larger than us.

A song whose beauty pierces through the tough exteriors to our hearts.

You will hold my hand through it all, and whisper reassurances to my heart.

And you will know, as if you've always known,

That I am, and will eternally be

Yours.

Our Brother

'I can never sleep when I go back home', he said, 'The dishwasher sound like someone is always walking up the stairs. Thud, thud, thud. A perpetual thud, thudding. It drives me mad'.

I always thought he was a light sleeper. He could hear our sister writing, her felt-tip pen scratching on paper from the other end of the house.
He loved to watch her write. He would sit for hours in the same room as her, pretending to read, but all the time silently staring, transfixed, at her.

I think he was so amazed to watch someone become so absorbed by their fantasy world yet still function intelligently in the world of here and now.
Sometimes it was if he saw the worlds she wrote about, dancing about her head, and that's why he was always so entranced by watching her write.
After he left my sister said it felt odd to write now.

'Something's been lost, and I just can't pick it', her grey eyes glossing over like they did when she would search her mind for something important, 'they just don't have the life they used to have. Like something in my mind has lost some vital aspect.'
I wondered if I should tell her about our brother. I saw the brokenness in her gaze and thought better of it.

When we go back home now we always eat dinner in front of the t.v. Even if nothing is on, and it's on mute. even if the television is off. I think my mother just couldn't bear to see the empty seat that would have usually seated my brother.

He used to carry my books home from school. He told me once that they helped him get muscles and girls.
That summertime I was amazed to see his girlfriend and him at the creek on afternoon. No one had told me about the side effects of meeting the girl of your dreams, I just thought my books had been some mighty hard work.
He told that girl he would one day marry her, and after searing every part of the earth for her, kept his word. As he lent in to kiss her he whispered 'Told you I would.'

I missed the birth of their first child, following my brother's footsteps though India, seeking the adventure that had so easily found him. I arrived to find their child hadn't missed my name, the crinkle eyed smile was duplicated, and I finally felt at home.

December Valentine

I'll be the judge and I'll be the jury,

I'll cause you to stumble,

Said cunning old Fury.

I'll keep what I've stolen,

I'll take what is mine.

I'll capture your heart,

Oh, my sweet valentine.

(Loosely and indirectly based on Lewis Caroll's poem 'The Mouse's Tale' from Alice In Wonderland. Dedicated also loosely and indirectly to Temika Jayne Murray, even if she never reads it. )

The cultivation of us

I found you in the wilderness. The age of fire, of stone, of ice.

You warmed up to me. Eventually.



We danced that night, with no light but that from the stars. The age of songs, music and flowers.

You looked to the left of my eyes. Stared at my lips. I pretended I didn't see.



I stood before you with nothing but myself to offer. The age of time, of clocks and symphonys.

You held my face in your hands and we laughed at what the future showed us.



I lost you in the forest. The age of rain, of damp and silence.

And I waited.



You ran back into my life. I grasped your hand as you kissed my eyelids. The age of promises, of eternity, of renewal.

The morning light washed our inequites, as holiness atones sin.



I watched you walk towards me, surrounded by light, a new certainty in your eyes. The age of silver cutlery, of wooden doors, of renaissance.

Before everyone we knew, before the heavens we declared.



You held my hand as we cried together. Tears of unspeakable joy. The age of new life, of tiny handprints, of blessing.

Guided by what we knew with all our hearts, we grew together. Expanded.



For an age is never enough to spend with you. A legacy created in the ripple of our lives is merely an echo of what we knew was to come.

And finally, we spun slowly underneath the chandelier of ages, embracing each moment of our history as eternity claimed us for its own.

I wish I had more to say

(Also, probably listen to this whilst reading)

I live in a world full of you, I see you in everything, yet I want to see more. To know more of you, of who you are. And I want for so much. I want for others to see you like I do.

Suprisingly enough, I'm getting better at being alone.

Standing strong when all others crawl away.

I've still got the smell of smoke lingering on my skin, but it's lesser now. I said to my friend.
We were sitting on the grass, I was propped up on my elbows, he was sitting with his arms wrapped loosely around his knees. The sunset that evening was incredible.

This week my heart was taken from me. Taken and stretched, pulled at, torn. It's not yet broken, I think it's stonger than that. But my, how it aches. It shares its pain with my lungs, and together they sigh restlessly, and from my lips creep soft whispers of longing.

This isn't about lovelorn cries. This isn't about myself, my own pursuit of dreams and fantasies.

This is about you. This is about the hurt, the broken. Those whom I love, falling apart at the seams. My heart aches for you. If I could take away the pain, oh, believe me my love, I would.

But I can't. Not in the way I would wish. To make all certain and definate. Infinitely better.

I am a hoarder of old things, of ancient stories, of love that lived together, that died together. Of knives and forks that saw things untold. Of picture frames that saw decisions to stay, decisions to leave. That saw resolution and despair. The couches that first seated ambiguous love, declarations of eternity, life mulitplied. The walls that sang, that cried, lights that danced with joy, that lit the way through untold darkness, leading the lost home.

It's been a long time since I saw you smile like you used to.

In the still

The few who dwelt in the mist of the forest knew of her.

They knew her footseps like those of a beloved.

The slightly staggered breath of heartbreak.


They knew her,

her story,

her past,

all their lives,

but had never met her.

She prefered to keep it that way.


Lost without form, without absolute certainty at what the world may bring to her, she waited,

drifting from hollow to hollow, leaving trails of her breath in the still morning.

She was waiting for her fortune,

Waiting for her future to arrive.

The more I know you, the more weird you become

And you know what, I'm okay with that.

Now, because I'm way too tired to still be awake, I'm delusional. And because I'm delusional (and somewhat flattered by milkies secret exultaions over at beyond here be dragons) I feel like I need to tell you about my favorite people.


MEGAN

She is my cousin, and probably one of my all-time favorie people ever. Seriously. The fact that I'll see her for the first time in months and it will be at the midnight screening of Harry Potter. And that she'll tell me about her plan to go as a basilisk to the next one, and proceed to put sketches on my facebook of the costume. That there, that is one of the many reasons why I love her so. Follow her on twitter or something, she'd like to talk to someone other than Barack Obama.


ALEXA

She is my very best friend in the whole world. She's the one I'll call first. She's always hungry for desert, and for a very long time didn't like vegetables. She's marrying a lovely guy and they'll probably have kids which I can give cool presents to and teach them to read Harry Potter before they reach kindergarten. And she'd be cool with that. She is all kinds of incredible, and our children will be friends. I love her, beyond comprehension.


BLUKE

Brother. Luke. I don't know what I'd do without him. He's about as weird as I am, but somehow, it's just normal. We'll talk all the time, but rarely know what the other is up to. It's always sharing things. I have so so so much love for him.


JAKE

There is something about this guy. He is one of those really neat people who just get you and all your weirdness, and is cool with it. He loves Jesus and Jesus really loves him. This is the guy who makes me dinner and doesn't seem to mind that I'm always around. I have so much respect for him, and I'm rather thenkful he's around. (Yes, thenkful. Which is Thankful in New Zealand)


MILKIE WAY

Milkie. You know when you just meet someone and you just... click. I've known her for less than six months and she is seriously one of my most favorite people ever. She's one of those people that will be around for a long time, and I value her so much. I don't think you can really say this about many people but she, she is extraordinary. Seriously. She's got a beautiful heart and I really respect and admire her. She's also probably the only one who reads all my writing and gets as excited about it as I do. I like how she thinks capital letters are pretentious and shows me up on any instrument, every time. Also, incredible artist. beyondherebedragons and asilentwar


I think I find it hard to express how much these five mean to me. Like I said for Millie, but is so true for each of these people. They truly are extraordinary. I could go on about each of them for an age and a half, but I won't for all of our sakes.

Ahem, back to the usual program...

It’s this darn unreasonable obsession with seeing things from another’s perspective.

‘It’s not as if I can’t sleep.’ She said. ‘I’m just afraid that if I close my eyes I’ll never wake up.'


I looked at her, playing with the fraying holes in the tablecloth. She looked tired, and sort of stretched. Like life had been too wide and too deep for her.

She continued without looking up. She never looked up. 'And you know that feeling that you get. The one, usually late at night, which whispers, ‘You’re meant for something bigger than this. Something greater than this.’ But by the morning, you’ve forgotten. Well, I don't. I never forget. And it kills me, knowing it all the time. Knowing that I'm better than this. That even though right now, no one should love me, not after what I've done to you, to everyone. I don't deserve love. But knowing that I could be better, should be better and I can't seem to change, no matter what I try... That kills me.'

'You know I'll love you regardless.' I said, gazing at the bottom of my glass.


'But that's the thing! I don't deserve love. Especially not your love! You shouldn't love me. I'm tainted, contaminated. I'm not someone you should love. So don't. Stop letting yourself feel that way about me. You don't deserve it. I don't deserve you. Just... stop', she finished wearily.


Her shoulders had hunched, and her eyelashes were wet, but she was determined not to look at me. I leant forward to whisper to her, ‘There are things one must love without permission from the brain, simply the heart acting in accordance with its predestined purpose. Things that are as natural as breathing, yet so apart from this earthly situation that one may never know or realise their origins. You see, Eugenia, contrary to what others may say on the matter, it is only those who have known such a love as this that really have the authority to speak.’


‘And what allows you to be so opinionated?’ She asked, raising her heavily lidded eyes to mine, showing me for the first time a sort of transparent vulnerability.


‘You.’ I replied. ‘You, and only you. I love you as certain dark things are made to be loved, without thought or reason, origin or support. It just is, as was from the moment I met you, it existed. Like such a love, it has existed long before ourselves.


She met my glance and smiled dully. The war wasn't over yet.

Every word you say I feel I should write down.

The stars whispered soft secrets to my heart, and I saw them, unspoken in your eyes.

If secrets and lies are children of the dust, of soil and things buried,


then you are the air,

you are the wind.


You once said I was like the oceans,

untameable and deeper than you could ever know.


So I,


I’ll follow the moon as you sweep over me.

Together, let’s whip up a storm.

Harry Potter and other glories

Tonight I saw Harry Potter for the second time. It's been out two days. I don't plan on slowing down any time soon. And I don't know why I didn't think about gushing here before, especially after that midnight showing (of which I shall elaborate on later) because everyone I told basically did the same thing.

'Ah! Oh my goodness, I saw Harry Potter last night! Like, the midnight showing! Oh my freaking goodness!'
'Don't tell me anything!' They say, putting their hands up to their ears.
'Like, I won't, but'
'Uh uh uh uh uh. Don't.' They interrupt, 'If you do, I'll kill you.'
'Hmm. Understandable. Just, all I'm going to say is'
'No!' they say, in a rising tone of distress and panic, 'Nothing! I don't want to hear it! I know I've read all the books but I just.. don't!'
'Okay. All I'll say is you'll love it. I loved it. So good. Ahhh!' And then I do a few air kicks, just to emphasise my point.

And now that people have seen it. Man, am I going to go mad. Froth at the mouth mad. Oh my goodness.

Okay, quick update on my week.
Sunday. Bought a mini harmonica and a ukulele. Parks and fields of burgers.
Monday. Dinner at Milkie Ways. My, I've missed them.
Tuesday. Deep conversation, the real meaning of community, love abounding, clean clothes.
Wednesday. Last assignment, baked dinners, tea and a vision for the future. Alexa and Megan and midnight HP.
Thursday. Afternoon naps. Sunsets and ukuleles, ovals and revelations.
Friday. Op-shops, parks and cheap food. Joining buskers, spontaneous Harry Potter, spontaneous friends.

Oh, you want to know more about the joining buskers? Okay, i'll tell you. Picture this. Martin Place. Guy playing keyboard (who will now be known as Robert) microphone setup. We stop and watch him. I've got my uke. He calls me over and asks me to play something. I start somewhere over the rainbow. Jake starts recording a video of this. Robert gives me microphone. Tells me to sing. I sing. Crowd gathers.
Now picture this. Pitt St mall. Half an hour later. Walking along, playing. We walk past a saxophonist playing, you guessed it, somewhere over the rainbow. Yeah, what of it, the song is rocking. I get excited and go up and talk to him. We start jamming, uke and sax. Sax and uke. Crowd also gathers.

In other stories, I've finished college for the year. I went op-shopping today. I'm going to New Zealand in 10 days. I saw my mama and we had lunch and it was lovely. I've been playing my ukulele constantly. I talked to my brother on the phone about HP. My cousin is back on the beaches. There will be tea with Milkie many times. Life is rocking.

Post script; Glory cats, how good is that image. Oh my gosh, yes!

Until the next time, my love

It’s like looking at the face of the person you love the most in the world after you’ve been apart for a while. You forget the small creases and lines, the shape of their mouth, the shadow their nose makes, until they become just a whisper of a memory, hazy and inconsistent. And when you finally see them, it’s like looking at the face of a stranger you’ve known all along, except so much more than that.

Even the worst things have things to love in them.

I like unnecessary objects. I like obscure references to literature in songs. I like ponchos. I like people who talk to others easily. I like exclamation marks! I like people who salute. I like wrists. I like making faces at children on buses. I like beautiful sunsets. I like puns. I like neat handwriting. I like lamps. I like people who make faces when they read. I like cufflinks. I like finding new ways to get places. I like eggs. I like people who wear ugly clothes with style. I like finding things. I like beautiful buildings. I like old things. I like adventures. I like making up the history of things. I like socks. I like bookshelves. I like looking at the stars. I like hats. I like people in hats. I like being mesmerised. I like interesting words. I like climbing trees. I like people with moustaches. I like looking at other peoples handwriting. I like sunlight. I like rain. I like the smell of books. I like looking at the notes people leave around for others. I like tall ships. I like engravings in stone. I like vines growing over buildings. I like council pickup weeks. I like joyful people. I like pergolas. I like the different ways people mark their place in books. I like leaving notes for strangers. I like felt-tip pens. I like white. I like the faces people pull when they have something stuck in their eye. I like parks in the morning. I like trees with their roots visible. I like seeing people walk to the beat of the song I’m listening to. I like ankles. I like mismatching socks. I like flower stores. I like seeing the sky through the trees. I like beautiful writing. I like seeing people talk with their hands and making up what they’re saying. I like awkward handshakes. I like people who are passionate about things. I like springtime. I like looking into parked cars as I walk past. I like skywriting. I like people holding hands. I like sitting on couches in odd places. I like seeing people smoke pipes. I like funny signs. I like mornings. I like alleyways. I like jasmine. I like nail polish that chips in unusual patterns. I like beautiful songs. I think listening to others conversations. I like velvet. I like Ukuleles. I like mini things. I like the look of spiders webs in the sun after the rain. I like laughing. I like sitting on the floor. I like singing. I like lovely things. I like you.

Meeting

And then you met the girl who would one day change your world.

Who would make you the man you are today.

The one who would break your heart beyond breaking, and complete you like no other girl ever could.

Did you see it in her eyes?

Did you know, deep down, in that place beyond explanation, that this was the girl for you?

When did you open your heart up to her?

Really open your heart up to her? To that point where she holds your world in her hands, to do with what she will, to break it, to walk away, to destroy you if she so pleases.

But you know she wont.

Because she's known for longer than she'll ever admit. Since before she met you.

You are the one she'd dreamt about, the faceless man, perfect in character.

But in reality, you are so much more than that.

You have a face, for one.

You see in her more than just what you want.

You see a combination of all those little things, the things that you never would have thought of, but now you know them, could never live without.

And to think that there was a time you didn't even know her name.

Oh dear

Want to know whay there are so many posts recently?
Well, I'll tell you why.
I've been doing some pondering. Pondering is easy when you sew. And when you draw. And when you don't sleep. And when your mind is hyperextended due to a cold (not so close to death. The vitamin C's I take in place of candy really do pay off). But basically, I think alot. And when I think alot, I talk to myself alot. And when I talk to myself alot, I get all these wild ideas, which means I have to stop what I'm doing to write them down. And considering that my place is a paper and fabric bomb (Yes. A bomb. If I open the doors everything will fly out an cover the whole of sydney. I swear, this is true. Except instead of shrapnel, its loose threads and paper scraps.) I've decided digital format is just as good as any to write them down. And then I like them so much that I post them. I think all the tea that I'm drinking is also like some accelerant to my mind or something. I swear I'm fitting about a week into each day. Seriously.

But that's the reason. And now on my third break of the day, and feeling reasonably secure to do so, I'm writing whatever the hell I feel like. Except for that, that was crass, and I'm sorry. I just did it for effect, and so I can keep the effect and not be percieved as some madman cussmouth, I apologised and babbled on about it for a while. And that leaves us right... here.

So. Colds. Yum. Not really. But an extremely valid excuse not to see people. Because unlike when I'm healthy and well and want to see people but can't because of college work, I feel gross, and just want to stay inside with no makeup on, wearing long johns and glasses. This is not something I want to share with others. This is not something others want to share with me. And because I'm sick, its reason enough to stay segregated.

But it's 10.33pm. It's Saturday night. I've finished basically all of my pieces. I've fudged my way through my drawing portfolio. I'm about to fall asleep. I've decided that priorities require sleep to actually be around the top section of my to-do list. I have one illustration, two hems, and two zips to do.  Easy. You think so? I can't find my eraser. I can't find my flipping eraser. I'm drawing an awesome skeleton girl and I have no eraser to get rid of the one too many ribs I gave her.

On the plus side, Cherloe, who will also be known as heavenly bringer of food and encouragement, or Cherlobot, came over with soup. And not just any soup. Minestrone soup. And not just any minestrone soup. Amazing minestrone soup. And bread. (I could go on about the bread, but we all know how great bread is). I am so so so thankful for her. She. Is. Great. Great, great, great.

Now, I'm off to die. Or drink more tea, draw half of my girl, sew a zip, unpick something, shower, and retire to bed to hand stitch a hem while talking with Jesus. All by 12.30. That's right. I've got favour. Bam.

The next Einstein

'You see, there's a difference between all mad people', she said, half absent-mindedly, half wistfully.
'There's clean mad, and then there's dirty mad. But it's all a shame', she continued dully, 'You see, people celebrate the clean-mad. They are the intellects, the artisans and the thinkers of a generation. They bring forward society to their rising ideas, and people love that. They are mad, of course, because you have to be mad to think the way they do, but they shower, they trim their nails and although they mumble to themselves, they usually have a pipe stuck between their lips, and therefore society has invented some excuse for this unconventional behavior.'
'And what about the other type? The dirty type?' He asked.
'Oh. The dirty mad.' You could almost see the sadness, the compassion in her tome, 'They are the sorts you see on the streerts, dirt underneath their fingernails, scruffy hair, a beard far longer then social convention would usually allow, the sort you cross the road to avoid. The sad thing is, that they are most likely highly intelligent, they just haven't been given a chance. Society shuns them before they can even open their mouths. That's the terrible thing. They could be the smartest person on the planet, but they might as well be the only person on the planet. Nobody sees them.'
'So, what do you propose we do about it?'
'I don't know. Who knows, with these things? I suppose if one went to the street and started a conversation with some, not a conversation full of condemnation and judgement, but showing a sincere desire to know about them, about their lives, you might actually find your next Einstein. You just never know. Remember Pygmalion?'
He nodded, and looked out the foggy window into the cloudy grey sky. He wondered how true she actually knew everything she said was. Lighting his pipe, he began to dream.


[Image: Marching the Skies.]

Home.

I guess things were different after I found friends. Or rather, friends found me.

I met him on a wednesday. Nothing about it was significant.
I met her on a friday. Prayer and supposition, transusbtantiation, awkward intellectually drivien humour.

'These two are going to be around for a while, I think' I said to my best friend.
She agreed as we walked, arms wrapped around our chests in an effort to keep the warmth in, and the icy breeze out.

'You're different now. Compared to how you used to be.'
I never know what to say.
'I guess, it's a good thing, but you've just come more into yourself. It's like you've just gotten used to a new house, and you've started to make it your own, started to feel comfortable in it. Like you've figured out how many steps to the bathroom, but not to the fridge.'
I nodded. It was an accurate analogy, I guess.
'Don't ever find out how many steps to the fridge. Familiarity breeds contempt.'

I never thought that. Familiarity brings a sense of home. Love. Trust. Honour. Not contempt though. Never contempt.

So I close my eyes and I walk. Walk, hoping that the steps I take over the grooves in the floorboards are straight, that even if I stub my toe, the light switch won't be too far away.

You

You come from that place, deep within my soul, beyond the walls I put up. Beyond my imagination, a certainty more visceral than reality, more tangible than dream.

From a time before I knew better, when all was clean and new, and nothing else much mattered. A time when innocence wasn't extraordinary, and fantasy saw so much of our hearts, our hopes and dreams, and made them real.

I see you in the clean morning light, in the spores that fly off dandelions, in the dappled breeze of a summers afternoon. You are the breath that lingers in the still forest, the whisper in the middle of the night, assuring me that all is well.

Waxing poetical, my heart leaps as each syllable draws me closer to you. The key change of a song calls me out to you, inhaling me into your presence, until nothing else remains, nothing else matters. You fill so much of me, yet there is so much of you which I could never even comprehend.

You are larger than me. Larger than the universe. You hold my heart, the earth, the stars in your hands. My soul lingers in your eyes, and you weep at the things that crush us.

From the depths of my soul you dwell, lingering until I call you upwards, where as I permit you, you fill me. You make me whole. When all brokenness is gone, you remain.

Your words exist like fire and you, you inflame my soul, calling me above this place, calling me to you. And as we walk through dark and dreary, through storm and flame, know that I am yours, still. With you there is no smoke, no ashes to sweep away.
And from you I live. From you I find all I ever needed. All I ever need.

You.



[Image: Marching the Skies]

Mad, we are.

'Ah, Crystal, you've been so melancholy these days, what's happening?!'
'Well, you know, I think I just needed to write some really sad things, so I wouldn't accidentally act them out in my own life.'
'Sounds like bollocks to me'
'Yeah... Well... Okay, it kind of is..'
'Thought so. So, are you going to start writing fun things again?'
'Ah, well... yes. But I think to write fun stuff I need cupcakes.'
'True. Cupcakes are conducive to happiness.'
'So, maybe I'll just wait for some cupcakes, and then go from there..'
'Yep. Sounds like a great idea, Crystal.'
'Well thanks for your encouragement, Crystal.'
'No problem.'
'Yeah, well, I'll see you round.'
'Yeah, I'm going away for a while, you probably won't miss me though.'
'Oh, okay. Where are you going to?'
'I don't know. Probably somewhere I can get really lost.'
'Oh, cool. Sounds like fun. See you when you get back.'
'Yeah, sure. Bye.'
'Bye.'


And that's how I lost my mind.
But seriously, Right now I feel like I'm going crazy. I haven't been going to bed early and so I can't wake up with ny alarms in the morning. It's crazy! And I have multiple alarms.
But what else is going on, apart from my really depressive stories, you ask?
Well, apart from that conversation with my mind and the consequent vacating of it in my life from about a week and a half ago, and the sleep thing, I am great!
No, seriously, I am.

Googling kittens in sweaters, sewing, sewing, sewing, having the most wonderful friends, Jesus, Cheesus, twitter not working (what?!), sewing, looking at pretty things, no shoes, no bags = freedom, night filming mid-city, colours and lights, cameras, coffee, podcasts, lavender, tea, harry potter, big fish, things working out, blueberries, laughing, finding things, driving in the rain, getting things done.

How delightful.

(And soon, like, week-and-a-half-soon, there will be joy in these untouchable pages. Maybe even sooner, if procrastination prevails.)

Three months

'I bought a two litre bottle of milk today.' Your sister said. 'I’ve just had enough with going to the store every time I run out.'


I looked at her. 'You know that's what people do. Normal people.'

'Well, I'm not normal', she dismissed, 'I think it’s all the tea. I’ll drink it, just because I’m at home and it feels like that proper, homely thing to do, but then when I really feel like a cup of tea... no milk.'

I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it again. What makes a home? Endless cups of tea. White cushions and big living room windows. Cats, dogs, children, rugs, shoes by the door. Is it the smell of someone else as you come home? Anothers toothbrush, hair on your pillow, socks mixed in with yours?

I have trouble telling the time now that you're not around anymore. I always wander in, more late that I intended, caught up in the haze, in the storm that is my mind.

I think I'm becoming unstuck.

I call out to you in the middle of the night. I wake up to myself sobbing. Weeping. For what? For what could have been. For our grandchildren. For the breath my lungs deserve. For my sleepless nights, staing at the ceiling with a mind full of shimmering dark.

No thoughts. No sounds. Just movement.

'You know when words just don't seem to be enough to describe what you're feeling?' I whispered to a stray cat.
He looked at me. 'Why are you talking to a cat? I don't know the problems of humanity.'
I stayed crouched, staring him in the eyes.
'Because you're the only one who will listen.'

It's a saturday night.
I have four different windows up, three different types of paper, all trying to convey the one feeling deep in my core. The one which doesn't have words that evoke what I want to say. What I want to feel.

So I'll pretend that it's alright. That I've said all I need to say.

That the chasm you left is slowly filling itself once more.

That's all.

Listen to this.

Close your eyes.

Don't think about your day, your night.

Don't think about the one who broke your heart,

stole your heart,

the one you dream about,

the one you're not even sure exisits.

Forget all that

and

just

listen.

Dynamics

She turned and looked me dead in the eyes


‘Hit me’, she spat, ‘go on, I dare you.’

I didn’t reply, my eyes brushing over her dishevelled appearance in response. She was bright-eyed and clammy, her hairline sweaty from the musty club we had just been in. One strap of her top as falling down her shoulder and her skirt was twisted.

‘You’re too soft. No wonder no one likes to go out with you’, she slurred. We were standing out the front of some overrated underground bar that she had been raving about for weeks now. The brisk evening breeze bit at my skin as I offered her my coat. Throwing it down into a dirty alley gutter she challenged me again. I walked over and picked it up. I wasn’t going to rise to her provocation.

It was the first time I had been out with Cynthia, and she was proving every one of the reasons for my hesitation right. I knew she was a heavy drinker, but I never understood the reasons why she always had unexplained bruises and cuts. Now I did.

‘Do it. I won’t feel it, I swear. I’m magic’, She guffawed.

‘No, you’re drunk.’

She swore at me as she turned to walk away, putting too much momentum into her heel spin and stumbling. I watched her as she straightened and began to slowly walk in the opposite direction.

I always hated going out with people from work. I think it had something to do with the safety of the one-dimensional character I saw. It was as if I ventured outside the work environment with them, I’d see another side to their personalities, and that would be the end, I’d know too much.

I figured there must be something about me, something that invited people to tell me their secrets, to talk and talk until all their problems were off their chests and they could breathe easily again. People would tell me about affairs, broken promises, old flings and new flings, which members of their family they hated, which ones they loved, sometimes a little too much. Cynthia had done the same, punctuated with frequent refills of her glass.

‘You know that guy I was seeing a few months back?’ She asked, ordering a scotch on the rocks. I nodded, racking my brains for any previous conversation which could have mentioned this particular guy. She took a massive gulp and I winced. Her father must have been a violent drunk, if she could down scotch like that.

‘Got me pregnant. Bastard.’ She muttered.

I surveyed her slightly hunched shoulders, like she was carrying the world on her back. I was no longer surprised by anything anyone told me these days. I was immune, even to the greatest horrors of humanity. My silence prompted her to elaborate.

‘All he wanted was a few good nights, I guess.’ She spat bitterly. ‘He said his wife was always too tired, what with their baby and all. Can you believe that? I was a dirty mistress. A dirty mistress, wrecking some lovely girl’s life, some innocent baby’s family’, she ran her fingers through the curls of her dirty blonde hair.

I wondered when it would be appropriate to leave. I was tired. Across the bar a young could sat laughing. I loved watching the dynamics between couples. These two were drawn to each other, each hanging onto what the other was saying, giving each world weight through their attentiveness. Cynthia continued to talk, and I only half-listened while observing these two. Being a closet sentimental, I appreciated the way their styles complemented each other, as if they unintentionally coordinated even their outfits according to their collective moods. I wondered how long they had spent together for such an intuitive awareness to develop. Everything they did was centred around the other, and even when they looked around, and eventually left, they were both so aware of the others presence.

I looked back to Cynthia. She was on her eighth drink, a heroic effort for 10pm, and she had already passed though the tumultuous dynamics of her family, her childhood pets and their untimely deaths at the hands of her brother and her sisters’ teenage mayhem. I had had enough. Standing up, I suggested we try somewhere else out, intending to walk her to a taxi and drive myself home.

Smiling and giggling goodbyes at the bartender, her composure turned suddenly as soon as we stepped out into the gutter, and I could feel the resentment prickling towards me, as if it were my fault she said so much. Like I had drawn it out of her through painful torture and extraction. Like now I would no longer be able to look at her the same way again. That was true, but I was so used to it by now that I could so easily disguise my disinterest.

She turned and I could see a glimmer of fear in her eyes. Deep down she was still a child, a child in a world that was and always had been a little too big for her to handle.

That Summer

It is something to behold, the love one human can have for another. I wonder if you had known this, would things have been different? Time may never tell. But of course, you lived almost solely on the hope that there was such a love, one that could both create and destroy. That is the love people write about. That is the love that you believed would complete you. Did it?


Your naivety astounded me at times. You were so sharp tongued and aware of the little things that made up the bigger picture. Tell me, did you ever catch a glimpse of that bigger picture? From where I stood, I doubt you ever could have. Did you know I was sceptical at the best of times? I wondered if you were just fantasy, and the things you knew about the real world just made your imaginary world real, the evidence you gave for it sounded like a filtered version of reality, in the context of your own imagination.

My doctor quoted Henry Miller to me today, 'The surest way to get over a woman is to turn her into literature'. I wonder if he knew how much I desired you that way. To turn you into a tangible, obtainable object, on which my desire could rest and smoulder. You never allowed me to do such a thing. I could never understand your refusal of my love. Who did you think you were to govern who one should or should not love? I gave you my heart, again and again. I gave you my soul. I gave you so much of myself that I became like a shell, abandoned on the shore, its smooth curves chipped, built up with calcifications and scum. My love, I tore myself apart for you.

There is always something in the way with us. There is never clear ground. Never an even playing field. It is a perpetual struggle for supremacy. Sometimes I wondered what you were thinking, all those times when despite us being together, you never spoke. You would pretend to read, but I knew better. I would watch you. Were you aware how ardently I would stare? How hungrily I would take in your features, burning them onto my heart? Was it then that I should have noticed your lack of reciprocation? You would take too long to turn a page, or read the same sections over and over. Was it me? I knew you felt uncomfortable with the feeling that another could have such intimate knowledge of yourself. Was it because you feared that under scrutiny you would rise as inadequate? That if another got too close they could pick you to pieces, as wilder beasts do to carcasses. For an age I was desperate to know why you would shut yourself off. My insecurities told me I was overbearing, my sense of hope said you were just a pitiful soul lost in your own imagination, my imagination invented a terrible and tragic past as an excuse. None of these, however, provided your explanation. Could you have even given one?

At first your mysticism intrigued me, attracting me in a fascinating way, but as time went on, more and more of the things that drew me to you began to draw blood. Your eyes, like swinging doors, one minute so transparent you could see to the very depths of your soul, the next an impenetrable fortress. I dreamt about your eyes, the night after we met.

It was mid-February and I hadn’t seen you in an age. You had escaped to your parent’s house for the summer. You had left so suddenly that I never had time to come with you. Was that your intention? Were you sick of my presence already? I thought I’d surprise you with one of those romantic gestures that I thought so much of, and you so little. Perhaps because it was too subtle, perhaps too commonplace, too pedestrian. It was an extremely hot day, don’t you remember? You were in your parents pool, reading. You didn’t see me right away, so I stood in the shadows, watching you. Occasionally you would lick your lips and purse them together, or float your legs in a pseudo-aqua-aerobic move unsuitable for the shallows you were in.

Your nails were a bright colour, matching that strapless bikini top you were wearing. The high waisted bottoms, so childishly torn on the seams, did nothing to dispel an image so alike Humbert Humbert’s Lolita, and for a second I felt what it would have been like for poor Humbert. To see that skin, the unknown innocence. You would never be able to fathom the strong desire I had at that moment to take hold of you, explore that innocence and to claim it for my own. I came and sat beside you in the water, leaning in to kiss your cheek. You vaguely acknowledged me with a searching hand looking for mine. You did not look up as I squeezed your fingers, but from that moment as I watched you your posture was less relaxed, your concentration more forced and the page never turned. I asked you what the matter was. You brushed me off with a brief ‘Nothing’. How was I to know then what went through that mind of yours?

The next time you spoke it was to vaguely mention some new fact that your scatterbrained readings had procured. I hungrily absorbed your appearance, your dark hair glistening from the water’s light reflection, your feet prune-like and waterlogged. If I looked closely I would see that you hadn’t expected to see anyone, your eyebrows had grown out, you’re hair was scraped up in a messy elegance and you weren’t wearing make-up, and probably hadn’t for weeks. It was at this moment that I found myself loving you, but I was still so uncertain, so I kept quiet.

I was always your girl

I remember it vaguely, mixed up with the rest of the story that is us.


‘Don’t you ever think about it? What it would be like to be my girl?’
I said nothing.

I was always your girl.

The night you offered me everything you had to give. I said no.
2 AM in May is a very cold time. Colder than you’d think. I had blonde hair then.
For the next two years I thought about that night.

My best friend looked at me shrewdly, ‘You’re falling for him, aren’t you?’
I blushed.

Together and not, with others and not, you were the one I kept coming back to.
I tried to brush it off as a teenage crush. It wasn’t eternal. I didn’t love you. You, who offered yourself to me in the weakest hour of the night, did not mean it.
Yet I didn’t want to see you moving on.

Before everything, we were friends. We worked better as friends. Those nights you’d come over and we’d sit and talk about everything, making jokes only we would understand. We had the same sort of humour.

When you’d leave, I’d go out to your car with you. Standing in the middle of the road, I’d look into your eyes and see a glimmer of something. I’d look away, scared.
I was always scared with you. I wanted so much, but the stars said something different.

One night I kissed you.

We used each other to validate ourselves. But I would always be the one to step back, to turn away, and to go home. I had brown hair then.
‘If you touch me I will rip out your spinal cord and use it as a whip.’
You just laughed.
I was serious.

I denied the existence of love, in favour of time and space. If I felt love, I would want too much.

You said you were sorry, that I deserved to be treated much better. One again you humbled yourself for me. We left for our own lives.

I saw you the other day, after over a year. I greeted you as the old friend you are, with a joke only you would understand and wild red hair.

It was different, this time around.
‘I think I’m on the way to knowing who I am. The visceral part, anyways’, you mumbled, looking straight forward at the road. I thought the same.
You bought me old books. I said I would pay you back.
I forgot.

The night before you left you walked me out to my car. I held your hand.
We stood in the middle of the road. I kissed your cheek; you wrapped your arms around me.
‘I’ll miss you when you’re gone’.

The roads are always quiet there.
You left this old town, as did I.

I cried at the train station when I realised you were gone, once again.
‘I know you love him,’ said my best friend.
‘Not in that way. I’m not in love with him. I just love him.’
‘I know. And he knows. You’ll see him again.’

And through it all, I have always been your girl.

Good day, fine ladies and gentle... man.

(This is a talk that I actually did for college. I just found the notes and thought I should share)

I...(pause for effect) Like poetry. I like Poe. I like Edgar Allan Poe. I think he is probably one of the greatest poet slash writers of all time, so my talk is therefore about why you should like him, probably not as much as me, but a whole lot. And why you should find out more about him.

He wrote in the preface to 'The Raven and Other Stories',
'With me, poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion, and the passions must be held in reverance: they must not - they can not at will be excited, with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations.'

Which I think is just fabulous, and rather true. But now, I shall tell all you uneducated cottonheaded ninnymuggins a little more about Edgar Allan Poe's glorious life.

He was born in Boston, Massachusetts in 1809 to itenerant actors, and brought up in England from 1815-20. He went to the university of Virginia from 1926-7, and take this, gossip girl, was expelled for not paying his gambling debts. Bam.

Now, don't think badly of him when I tell you this, but he did marry his cousin. Who was 13. But he loved her madly and she did die from consumption, AKA tuberculosis in 1847. So it kind of evened itself out in the end. He wrote the poem Annabel Lee for her, which if you haven't read it, is one of the most beautiful poems ever. Seriously. It makes me cry.

But other than his magnificent writing skills, he was a bit of a grump and a recluse and a booze-hound. Not many people liked him all that much. But I do. And that's what matters.

He died in 1849, which was a shame, but he basically did drink himself to death. He was found in a terrible state at an inn, and died shortly after that. In my head I seem to imagine that the 'terrible state' meant that he was found on a highway, covered in chicken feathers and near-death. I'm probably wrong.

So basically, Edgar Allan Poe is a fantastic poet, who you should really know more about. I did take his collected works with me to see Inception. Read Dream Within A Dream and you'll understand why. And there you are. Edgar Allan Poe.

And then I took a bow.

It was glorious.

The one you see with your eyes closed

'Lights always look better when you're standing in the dark, don't you think?' She asked me, her head sideways, as if to gain a different perspective.

That's how I see her in my mind, burnt onto the inside of my eyelids, so even in the dark, I see that image of her. Her sitting on a mis-matched jumble of all the jackets, cardigans and shirts we could find in the backseat of my car. Her mousy brown hair had a curl in it from wearing it up all day, she'd taken it out so the length could shield her neck from the brisk evening. Her arms, still white though it was mid-summer, were wrapped loosely about her knees. Her floral dress was crinkled. In the bright of the even stars you could just see the freckles on her little snub nose. She had un uneven mouth, a little too large for her face, and eyes that could overwhelm the sea. She had a terrible habit of unconsciously biting her top lip so her lower teeth would flash white against her dark lips, and she would cock her head to the side as she questioned you, eyes searching each minute expression on your face for something unspoken.

She always had this way with words. She would make me agree to something before I had even realised the depth of what had been said. She would look at me and somehow I felt like she knew what I was thinking. Like in her experience of accumulating the hearts of men she had become hyper-sensitive to each momentary tick and thought-process.
I never told her that, it wasn't something that I'd admit, that someone could see more ito the depths of me than my usual guards would allow. It intimidated me. The way she knew things scared me.
I think, in a way, she was more observant than she'd ever let on. When she appeared to be off in another world, I think part of her was still around, listening and watching, peering into each soul, searching for truth.

We were sitting on what most people would call a cliff, the slightly damp grass trying its best to seep through the layers of jackets we had spread between us and it. The ocean sang out from below, the sky overwhelmed us with its blanketing presence. I played guitar softly, unconsciously moving and flowing with the flow of conversation, shifting subtly from melancholy to staccato, uplifting to desperately, agonisingly sorrowful.

The stars were so bright that night. I was sure that we didn't need the three tealight candles she found in her bag, but we lit them anyway.
'They're mostly to set the mood, really.' She reasoned to herself.
'What sort of mood do you need to set that isn't already here?' I wondered.
She stayed silent, shrugging off the implied condemnation of my naturalist tendancies.
'Why did you have those candles in there, anyway?' I asked.
'I don't know. I think I just collect things that I feel attached to at the moment. I guess I just carry them around with me to make me feel more secure... Or maybe I'm just a terrible hoarder, afraid and unable to let go of anything' she joked, trying to cover the small amount of accidental truth with layers of self-deprecating jest.

I wondered how many more souls she would need to take before she could breathe freely.

I felt thin around her. Stretched. Like butter scraped over too much bread. I think to her I was so much, and in myself, became so little.

I lay facing the stars, and they facing me. My eyes were irresistably attracted to the brightest of them. Where was the moon? I wondered. The shallows of my mind stifled the thoughts that would one day break us apart. I resisted them with all of my being. Just for tonight, I reasoned. I'll deal with them in daylight.

But somewhere inside, a small voice wondered if I only looked so good to her because she was so lost in her own night.

And we dreamt through the Saturns of an unkempt night. She, content to be so close. And me, I wasn't so sure anymore. The guitar kept playing its own eternal song, unheeding to any thoughts of mine.

And soon enough, silence overtook our thoughts and words as we lay there, serenaded by nothing but eternity.

The universe is in your hands

Open. Black screen. Piano starts to play high notes, kind of similar to a child playing, key by key, uncertain, though slowly warming up.

Silence.

Off screen narrator (in a documentary style interview); 'So, tell me about her.'

Mid shot of him. Sitting on a dark khaki couch. The wall behind is beige, though at one time it was probably white. A framed illustration of a tall ship sits in the corner of the shot. Shirt off, tattoos on his shoulders and down his arms. He has dark brown, almost black, messy shoulder-length hair. There is pain in his eyes, and he avoids looking directly at the camera.

He lights a ciggarette, showing long, dirty fingers. His hands have writing over them, like he needed to remember too much. Or forget too much. He's on the defence, and he doesn't want to be here. He shifts in his seat.

Fade to black.

Full shot of her. Sitting on a cane chair in a clinically white room. Knees pulled up, one hand holding her ankle, the other playing with a loose strand of straw coloured hair, trousers cuffed at the hems. Cropped shirt, her mess of hair pulled loosely back from her face. To one side a window streams clean, white light in. On the outside of the window, herbs are growing in pot-plants.

'Tell me about him.'

Silence. She opens her mouth hesitantly to say something, but closes it.

Black.

Cut to him. Smoke from his ciggarette forms a hazy veil over his face.

'How did you meet?'
He answers in a thick british accent, like he grew up on the streets in the tougher parts of London.
Oh really? Yer want to know dat? Come on, I tought this was goin' ter be interesting stuff.

'So then tell me about her. What was she like?'
You know, just a regular gerl. Bit too sweet. Bit too soft, really. Kinder felt like if yer did anytheng too, yer know... intense, she'd just snap in two, like?

'What made you fall in love with her?'
Those eyes, man. Yer could fall into dem.

Piano starts to play softly. It sounds as if someone is playing in another room and the noise is just seeping through the walls. It is a melancholy tune, in a minor key. Beautiful, but heartbreaking at the same time.

He takes a drag. You can hear the sizzle of the tobbacco. He exhales to the side, midway through you see a glimpse of pain. By the time he looks back at the direction of the camera, it's hidden. He nods, as if to prompt the next question.

Cut to her. She picks up the mug of tea on the table next to her. It's still steaming.

'What's his character like?'

She looks at the camera, and its almost as if the whole world is contained in those eyes. She takes a shallow breath, and then a deeper one. Slowly she begins to speak. Her voice is frail, almost as if she has just woken up, but there is a strength hidden in those undertones. She's British, but her pronunciation is clear and almost international.
He doesn't seem like much, does he? He's like a rough diamond. But he won't be refined.

There's no bitterness in her voice, just remnants of a pain that has long since been numbed. She addresses behind the camera.
Have you taked to him yet?
Upon getting confirmation that they had indeed talked to him, she nods and begins to speak again.
He's not the.. most.. eloquent sort, is he? But I guess there was something there. When he looked at me, I felt like the most interesting person in the world. Like he saw something in my eyes that no one had ever bothered to look for before.
She scoffs to herself. It doesn't ring bitterness, rather disbelief at herself.
He talks like a sailor, doesn't he? I probably could have done better there, but when the boy sings, oh, how the angels weep.
She looks down at her bare feet. She shifts in her chair, like she may have just said too much.

Cut to black.

The piano slowly gets more intense. He shifts and sinks further into the couch.

'Why did it end?'
I don know. Life? I wish I knew, yer know? But yer jus' don' know those things. It jus' weren't meant to be, I reckon.

Cut to her. She's looking out the window, almost wishing herself to be caught in a daydream and swept away. When the question is asked from off screen, she jumps a little. She asks him to repeat the question, staring intently at what must be his mouth.

'Why did it end?'
Thinking for a while, she bites her lower lip.
It just got too hard, I guess. Too hard to keep up with him. With it all. With the way his mind works. I just... Couldn't do it anymore.

'Would you do anything different if you could do it all again?'
I guess... I'd just want us to be.. friends. It sounds cliche, but, we were always better off as friends. we were way too similar, yet way too different, all at the same time, all in the wrong ways.
She looks down for a second, and back up, with an unexpected courage.
I'd probably tell him that I don't want anything from him now, except to just be a part of his life. How big a part, how small a part, it doesn't really matter anymore. I guess... I want him to know that... I value his existance still. So, if it's not too hard, I'd like to go through life knowing him and whats going on in his life. I just want his friendship. But nothing else. I can't take anything else from him.

She looks away, out the window, at her feet. She's nervous, and you can see she's still hurting. The camera stays on her for slightly longer than what would be comfortable. She doesn't really know what to do.

The piano slowly trickles to silence.

Cut to black.

'Do you regret anything?'

He shifts a little in his seat. Tentatively looks off-screen at whoever is standing behind the camera. His ciggarette is now just a butt. Flicking it away, he looks directly at the camera for the first time.
'Vreyday, mate.
The piano starts again, with a sorrowful intensity.
'Vrey day I wish I done somefin differently. But wot can yer do? She's gone now, and a gerl like dat, dey don't come round twice in yer life. Dat's my tern gon. I messed it up. I let 'er go. And dat's it. I'm done. I wish I told 'er dat I 'preciated her. But I d'int.

'So did you love her?'
Yeh I lov'd 'er. I lov'd 'er since the mom'nt I first saw 'er. She's a bloody angel, how could you not love someun like dat?


Cut to her.

She looks away from the camera, out the window. Her hands pull her limbs closer to her core, trying to gain security from her frail build. A tear slowly creeps down her cheek, and she tries to hide it. She steels herself, willing everything to not cry. Swallows painfully. The lump in her throat is almost unbearable. She bites her bottom lip uncertainly.

Cut to black.

Piano softly fades to nothing.

Rant.

So, here is the thing.

The thing is.

The thing is.

The thing is.

The thing is.

Anyway.
Basically, I want to go places and take photos and have friends who are happy to be my friend for no other reason then just because. I don't want ulterior motives, I want love. Love that doesn't mind that you're vulnerable, that celebrates in it, because it's opening yourself up to help, to actually having people there for you, in that part of you that is so real, so raw, so you in all its unrefined glory. Love that doesn't mean grand gestures, or the expectations of anything in particular, but honesty. And in spite of that honesty, acceptance.

I want to be someone who does things, just because they are right, not because of someone else. I want to feel my heart break and look it straight in the face and be okay with that, because feeling things isn't weakness, it's just a sign that there's parts of me yet to be healed and that I'm human. I want to be able to drink a whole cup of tea by myself, to finish a book again. I want to be courageous enough to do things. I want to feel like my heart might explode with joy, that it might break with sorrow. I want to feel loved, and validated not because of anything I do, but because of who I am.

But at the same time, i'm scared to feel these things. I'm scared because of what might happen. What life might be like if I let myself feel these things, let myself make this all real. It's a lurking fear, that it will all be taken away from me the moment it becomes a reality. All I want is the opportuinty to make it real.





I should let you know that I do have this. I have friends who I can take photos with and laugh and drink tea and watch sunsets from rooftops and sit in gardens and roll down hills with and who love without love being earned. I'm blessed. There are parts of this that still ring true though. That's the thing. This isn't just me. This is a collective groan, a cry from people who feel this, every single day. And we walk on by. Like nothing we could do could change anything.

It can.

Love isn't something you earn. Love doesn't have to be the romantic sort of love. It doesn't have to scream and shout and make grand gestures and complete you and make you whole and healed and perfect in an instant. It can be a quiet show of appreciation, letting someone know that you value their existance for no other reason but because they fill a part of the world that no one else can. You don't have to read into a show of love. Just take it as it is.

Love is going out of your way, putting aside your own wants and desires and needs to help someone else. It is giving without expecting anything in return. It is accepting people as they are, imperfections and all. It is remembering how they have their tea, their coffee, and making it for them. It is being there for someone, even though it may be inconvenient for you. It is the willingness to open your life to someone to bring them up. Love is sharing. Sharing food, clothes, socks, hot beverages, cold beverages, life stories, funny things that happened in your day, night skies, beautiful things, your heart, your soul, your insides, what your like and un-like. What they like and un-like. The beauty of everyday moments. Love never tears people down. Love is wanting the best for someone, and doing eveything you can to help them achieve that. Love doesn't think about personal gain. Love is giving.

So try it.

Bit by bit.

Step

by

step.

It's okay if you fail. Just keep trying. Because we need more love in the world.

Don't you think?

Start From The Beginning

There was something about the mannerisms she had. Something in the way she walked the intrigued people. The first thing you'd notice was her stride; the long stepped gait, almost childish in its depths, as if she had never fully grown up. As you saw her more, you would notice her timid step, usually backwards in direction. You would know she was feeling uncomfortable when she walked like that, you could see how uncertain she could be about the reliability of her own feet, her doubt in the trustworthyness of her legs.
There was her meandering stroll, the most common of her steps. Looking up at the sky, at the celing, the trees. It was this walk that really revealed most about her personality. If some people have addictive personalities, she had a mesmerised personality. Everything around her would be taken in through those eyes, each moment she saw would leave her in awe, and thus could walk around in a daydream, surrounded by the wonderment she saw about her.
Then there was her insecure walk. Fast, head down, weaving past everyone, as if determined not to be noticed, not to be seen.
She was the sort of person who felt things more than most. Each experience she had was magnified, as if the passion beating through her veins was not merely satisfied with the regular emotions.
She felt joy as she saw it around her, as a living, breathing atmosphere, as bright as the sun, yet as brittle as a light bulb. To shatter this was a heartbreaking thing to witness. She felt things with every portion of her being, capable of the most extremes of temprament, yet she was stronger than one might presume.
There was something holding that girl together, something invisible. It was an unseen adhesive that never failed, even when her world would fall apart, even on the brink of her heart shattering, she held fast.

I guess that strength is what fascinates you. You could watch her for days and not pick it, but the moment you did you'd know. It quietly eminates from her, in the way she watches her world, the way that she walked through the chaos surrounding her. It was this that you'd see, and it was the reason you could never take your eyes off of her.

What you don't know

And neither one knows that the other is waiting.



And neither one knows that the other is .



And neither one knows that all the other wants to do is give them their heart.



And neither one knows.



And neither one knows.







And so they look around the room, hoping that the glimmer of hope doesn't shine too brightly from their eyes, in the fear that if the other saw, they wouldn't want them.





(End note (which I don't usually do, but I feel like this should be explained a little); Basically, this is about watching two people and how they interact with eachother. When they are both hyper-aware of eachother, without actually acknowledging anything. It's that time of uncertainty, and it is so fascinating to watch. Just thinking about the possibilities between two people, what could happen. So lovely.)

What you don't see

She spent her whole life trying to see outside herself. She was always trying to see what others saw, to know things from an experience that was not her own.

It could have been that she didn't trust her own mind. That she never dared to believe the things she saw, as if her own imagination could never give her the truth as she so wished to see it. Without partiality, without her own emotions tainting each experience.

It was more likely, however, to simply be the outcry of a lonely soul, craving anothers opinions, if not merely for the fact that it could give worth to and validate her own worldview.

Cold Tea and Melancholy

It’s getting late, the sunlight is fading. The shadows on the wall keep getting longer, stretching their souls to fit into this small room. The ceiling begins to dance in painted whites as I lie here. A cup of tea sits on the floor next to my elbow. It’s cold now. I’m broken. Not in the physical sense. It’s all in my chest. Like my heart has decided that there is no other choice but to break, continually. My lungs have turned to lead and I lie here, staring at the ceiling, in the naive hope that you will speak to me from it.


There was a time that we spoke, heart to heart. It was easy. You would know what I was about to say, even before I vocalised it. Now I’m not so sure. Moonlight Sonata is playing. My whole being groans in unformed words and desires. No, not desires. The unspeakable feeling you get, the wordless cry from within your soul. That’s what it is.

Some things are just too beautiful to handle. Like sunlight on a clear day. It’s almost too good. When I walk I get overwhelmed at the sky, at the air I breathe, at the little spores that fly off dandelions when I make a childish wish. So I lie here, on the floor in the middle of my living room, weighted down by everything I can’t seem to handle.

Sometimes I wish I was born blind, and in a moment was given sight. Just to see the reality of things, without the blinding veil of familiarity. To see faces I have long since taken for granted, to understand things as they are, not as I understand them to be.

I think about what life would be like without mystery. Without intrigue. Without the subtle chord progression into a minor key. Without that wrenching moment when you say goodbye to someone for what could be the last time, and you miss that last glimpse of their face. Without melancholy to soften the starkness of reality. Without the soft cloud of dreams that falls on each head, as pillowed in their own sub-conscious they achieve all that was once impossibility.

The keys strike chords in my heart, as if each emotion was a note, dimmed through my body, yet echoing around the cavity that once seemed so full. A dark place. You know, I’m often scared of these places. I think because I was once trapped there, with what seemed no way out. Faced with the possibility of history repeating itself, I flee from the dark, I choose to stay in the shallows.