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.

[Insert another one of those witty titles of yours here]

'Oh wow, Crystal. So you're actually going to do another one of those personal posts again, are you?'
'Yes. Yes I am. And do you know why?'
'I don't think I want to know, really.'
'Well, I'm going to tell you, and you're going to listen. Listen well.'
'Mmhmm.'
'Because, everything I write about is so melancholy and I feel like if there were actually people about the place who read this, I need to make them see that this is just my imagination, and my actual self is not so... sombre. Thoughtful. Something. '
'Do what you will. After all, I'm just a part of your consciousness. I inherently agree with everything you say of do in the end.'
'You raise a vaild point, friend.'
'Whoa, now. Watch out. If you keep agreeing like this you'll end up the sort of weird arrogant sort who hi-five themselves in public. You ever wonder why they have to hi-five themselves? They don't have anyone else to hi-five. It's a vicious cycle.'

So this is just another attempt at proacrastination. Terrible, really. Dreadful. Atrocious.
It will end in disaster.
And I know I need to do something about it.

Yesterday I stood up to do a presentation in front of my class.

Nothing written.

Got some images and skimmed over wikipedia.

Made everything up.

Almost went over time.

I'm sure this isn't good for my education. This 'having friends' business. But I'm not complaining. My grades probably will soon. But maybe they won't. They won't if I stop doing this and actually write something.

But I might just go do something else.


Like walk off the fairy bread and cholocate cake and bavarian and honey roasted macadamias that Millie and I spent most of last evening gorging ourselves on.

It was delicious though.


Okay, side note. When I was just typing into tags, I start to write 'Conversations with mind'. And it pops up already. Like I've done this before. Many times, for it to pop up so quickly.
Sign of insanity? Probably.

Tuesday

Sometimes you could see the whole universe through her eyes. He thought about that sometimes, that spark that he loved so much, that moment that time stood still and he could see his entire future in her.
She loved sitting in trees. She'd climb up, away from everything, and just sit, silently. Sometimes he wondered what went on inside her head, but most of the time he prefered not to think about it.

He could watch her fading away before his eyes. She still had moments where the light that shone from her shot right into the heavens, moments where they'd lie on the roof talking about the future, about the present, but never the past. She'd look at her hands instead of at him. It was almost as if she believed that by living in denial of his existance, it wouldn't hurt so much if he were to leave.

She would steal the jasmine that grew over a fence on the way to her cafe. That's how he remembered her. She would pin it in her hair so when she looked around the scent would follow her. Afer a whole springtime of this, the two- her and jasmine became inextricably linked in his mind.


Reality was a vague concept, really. In one moment she'd be there with you, in the next second you could lose her to the stars, the moon, the wind in the trees, the chord progression that would break your heart with each step. If regular people experienced life in a sort of progressional line, she lived hers in a haphazard dance. She felt things stronger than most, I think. The first time she let someone into her house she would retreat into herself, as if she had accidentally given a stranger too much information, and was expecting them to walk away in disgust. She would hide so she wouldn't have to see them walk away. She never could see them stay and wait, the wall was already up.


It's a love to rival that of Keats. She always said that writing about things romanticises them. You can take a bad thing, any flaw that would usually render a person unstable, or insecure, or in some way socially inhibited, and when you write about it, it becomes a personality quirk, something that suddenly doesn't seem so bad. He asked her if those sort of personality traits weren't so bad, whether they were just moments in someones life.
 
She would always fold things. Wrappers, paper, tissues, clothes, leaves. When she felt awkward about saying something she would fold something, looking down so she wouldn't see a reaction that could hurt her.
 
He came home to her, with jasmine that she would have put in her hair, and in books, and on the windowsill in mis-matched glasses, and the resolution that he wanted to stick this out, he wanted her to see that he wasn't going to walk away from her.
 
The laundry was folded. The wall was permanant. She was gone.