Hold every bad memory in your left hand; every good memory in your right. Now hold every one of them in your brain at the same time, an awareness without words. Then realise how much we invent at the interface between the world of dreams and memory, how great we are at creating our own fictions to enable us to handle our emotions and navigate our world. In each hand the memories have been transformed into a fine and fertile earth, it rains to your feet, the richness from which all your future grows. You are your own best healer my love, it is right there in your brain, the power to transform yourself.
Waking up can be really harsh, especially if your dreams are better than reality. The saddest part of it is, though, that eventually even the memory of your dream will fade - if you are even lucky enough to remember it that is. Then you're left with this lonely feeling of detachment, left to explore in the empty void of emotions, the only proof that you ever had the dream to begin with.
There was a lane that traversed the far back. Every car terrified me, every headlight resembling a sprinting phantom coming for me, finally. Even when I had beseeched myself a thousand times or more that it was just a car, the luminescence still made me shudder. Watching them frolic in and amongst my periphery, feeling them grasp my coat and pull me off the wall atop which I had so delicately perched myself upon. Some squawk inevitably shattering the veil once and for all. Their bony hands making the ride throughout the intermingled dirt and stone path that bit more uncomfortable, as they dragged me off to some unknown, godforsaken place from which I had emerged all those years ago. Some hellhole I presume, buried beneath a sewer. A fitting burial site for a rat.
I try so damn hard for you to love me as much as you love yourself, but finally I've realized that I don't love you. I just love the idea of you and the thought of something good in a sea of something terrible. I love you so much, no, the idea of you, that I shove everything wrong with me, all my problems and flaws, everything I carry, deep in my pockets, just to be enough, and hope that I am good, and maybe you are good too. But I have to remind myself that's just a fantasy. Then I'm finally free, because I know that nothing will never be enough for you, under everything you are sad, and you cannot see anything that isn't you. You're selfish that way and I no longer blame myself for every time I wasn't good enough for you; I wasn't perfect enough, happy enough, every time I didn't praise you, or love you like stars love the moon. Now I am not yours anymore, you have lost me and, I swear, being lost has never felt so good.
When I open my eyes and gaze at the quivering light from beneath the heavy lust of trees I find myself lost again. All the footprints that could have lead home are now smudged in the mud. My feet can still sense the moist in the grass which seems to be now parched again.The sweet fragrance of wet soil provides utmost pleasure to my nostrils. It feels as if it was just yesterday when Anna and I use to come out here and play. The echoes of our childhood laughter still surround the forest like swarm of bees around their nest.
Sometimes it is healthier to think of a future relationship as with a "mystery man," rather than with anyone you currently know. For me, it helps as a coping mechanism with uncertainty. I can have hope that someone good will come without the complications of other anxieties.
On the nights when he was with her; when she would stay awake waiting for the inevitable. Just waiting for his terrified eyes to meet hers, waiting for him to mutter about guns and friends departed. She would trace the faint white lines lining his back - new stories that she would never gather the courage to ask of. He always looked so confident in his uniform, but when the clothes come off she would see the damage that lay in their wake.
Amelia adds a bee hotel to her garden. It is a simple act yet it is so her. She cannot help but be in love with nature and feel the need to nurture it as best she can. And so, when I see it there, that's what I see, her love for our Mother Earth. I guess that's part of what makes her so easy to love, that gentle and honest spirit shining out in so many ways.