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Had Headly touched me months ago this fire would have been enough to burn brighter than any he'd ever known. With every passing day it grows stronger yet, and I wonder what will happen the day he lays his hand on my lower back and pulls me in tight. The thought alone consumes my mind, jolts my body with electricity. I want to taste him, feel the movement of his body, become one. It's still not time though, so we wait, caring for one another as our hidden inferno grows. Perhaps that is what others see when we look at one another, like that fire connects between us, igniting our smiles and laughter, changing our posture, inviting the most intimate of body language.
There are days my head just doesn't work. I try so hard to focus and it's like trying to run through water. My brain fogs up and thoughts go nowhere at all. Sometimes I think its natures anaesthesia, anything to numb the pain, to wipe out the trauma. Then there are the times of clarity, sudden moments when I can see every detail and feel every feeling. The trigger can be something like sports on TV, a turn of phrase, a smell. At the start I hoped it was a process to wipe out the bad memories, to stop me reliving them to well meaning askers. Now I know it's not so simple. It provides some protection, but the price is the flashbacks and the times of confusion; the stronger the blocks become the more intense the flashbacks are - as if the neurones are fighting for their lives, anything not to wither away.
Yet, as my love said one day on a train with the countryside flying by, "There will be a future, there will be a future." And so that keeps me living, breathing, loving. I walk, each day another step onward, always hoping to arrive in that future, in a meadow for our souls, at peace. Should I ever find the end of a rainbow, it'll be him sitting there with a cheeky grin. He's my gold; I'm his angel, always.
Selene ran, bare feet gliding through the cold grass. A swift wind blew her long, brown hair out behind her like a cape. The eerie glow of the half moon glanced off the silver necklace that adorned her neck. She glanced up, her feet never missing a step as she gazed at the night sky. The light of the stars was hidden by the shadows of the clouds. Adrenaline pushed its way into her veins filling her with the thrill of adventure.
Suddenly, to her left, a tree shook and a white ghostly bird swooped down to fly beside her. Selene ran so close to the bird’s moon glinting feathers she could almost touch them. She put her arms out like she did when she was young, and let the wind pull her after the fading image of the bird.
The Me I Want To Be
The me that I am cowers behind her broken interior,
Terrified to look at herself in the mirror.
For she is scared that what she might see,
Is not who she wants to be.
So she surrenders herself to the chains of her sorrow,
And lies down to weep for the pain of tomorrow.
The me I want be is not afraid to plant her foot down,
And stand her ground.
She isn’t afraid to look herself in the eye,
And say, “Quit believing this lie!”
She may have enemies, but at least she stood up for something.
Her presence gives people courage to rise up out of nothing.
She doesn’t care what people think,
She trusts in God, believing that he will work out every kink.
The me I want to be, is not so far away,
If I ask God for the courage to break out of my fear, and for the strength never to stray.
The world is aquiver.
Shaking. Blurring at the edges.
I can’t tell up from down.
I’m not sure if I’m breathing.
A claustrophobic, blinding light ensnares the universe.
I choke as I am pulled apart, as I slowly explode from the inside out…
The pain is unbearable, building, building, building --!
A scream is torn from my chest.
Quickly, shadow falls, washing away the blinding sharpness of the sky.
A moment of silence. Then everything shatters.
A sweet, smooth, mellifluous music flows gently through the glass.
The mirrored edge of the world has broken into a million pieces, too thick to ever see through, but still the music comes.
Relief floods my existence.
The dulcet golden melody washes over everything, leaving a sort of glow in its wake. Honeyed, sweetly mellow, liquid, rich, smooth, euphonious. Slowly, slowly-slowly, I emerge.
This feeling, I can’t capture it with words.
Standing, solitary, in the sweet golden glory, I remember.
Homesickness floods me.
I am longing for a place that never was, I realize.
Alone in the vanishing mist of harmony, I begin to cry.
I’m still crying when I wake.
The powerful longing feeling of the dream stays with me, lingering, unshakeable, in the air.
I have the same dream. Every night, without fail.
It is several moments before it clears. My eyes are really open. I can really see.
An economy without money. Just think about it.
No one is forced to work; people do their jobs out of the kindness of their heart, just for the wellbeing of themselves and others. Need some food? Just go to the shop, pick it up, and walk out. You're not stealing. It was made for you, and everyone else.
There would be little to no thefts. Why steal something when it's free? Besides, if something's been stolen from you, you can simply go and pick up another one from the shop. Sure, the shop might be far, or maybe you won't have any of the things you've stored in your device, if any, but it's not the end of the world. And stealing from a shop is impossible; everything's free anyway.
What about spoilt brats? You can't really be a spoilt brat if everyone else is equal, and can get exactly what you have.
But who will build our roads? Fly our planes? Plant and harvest our food?
Anyone could. If only there were enough good in this world. If only we weren't at risk of people simply being evil or greedy. Because how can you be greedy if there's no money?
If only we lived in an economy without money.
Her face wasn't anything extraordinary or significant, and yet, he felt somehow magically draw to those serious and silent features. Though she always avoided his gaze, he couldn't help but notice her clean skin and lack of makeup, along with her always messy hairstyles. Perhaps many would consider her homely, but he found her awe-striking.
Fire and You.
Fire is the most beautiful weapon of them all. It shines with all its glory; maybe that's why I'm so attracted to it? The warmth along with the welcoming feel it gives but as you slowly approach it snarls and bites. Everything you love could be gone in minutes, due to a single nip. That's why you're like fire. So warm, so beautiful, so welcoming. The human embodiment of fire. I turned my gaze for a minute and everything I loved was gone. All I loved. You.
Bottle in the Sea
To Whomever Receives This Bottle:
I never expected that I'd be lost and forgotten to the world. I suppose I write this hoping that perhaps you will remember this note sometime after you finish reading it, and in that way my memory lives on. Somehow that's enough. Now listen closely, if you've found this bottle it means that even though it has been tossed to and fro by the waves, perhaps pulled by the undertow and cracked against the rocky reef, it still found you. With that being said, life may break you, but know you are too strong to shatter. Your journey is your own. Do not be afraid if it's perilous. Take heart. Face your worries for they will be too afraid to face you. Ride the currents, do not let them control you. Listen to your heart for it is more than just a beat. The one you seek will find you when you least expect it, and they will give back what your journey has taken away. Your boat, your guide: you chart your course, not anyone else. Take responsibility for your faults, but do not apologize for them: they are what make you human. Dwell not on your mistakes, because your mistakes will sail you on the greatest adventures.
After a short while the mist, like a curtain in some melodrama, seemed to be lowering piecemeal and then all at once dropped ten or so metres exposing the top of the mountain. Moments later the mist became nothing more than a faint brume along the summit making way for the jagged outcrops that started to appear all around. Straight ahead, at the mountain’s highest point of 2218 metres, was a fierce looking muster of serrated rocks. These teeth-like outcrops are the peaks we could see from our camp, but being so close, gazing right into the maw, made them appear much more ferocious. Instinctively making our way towards them, we had to clamber and claw our way over a few metres of irascible and grouchy outcrops but came to a sudden stop when we ran out of mountain. Beyond a couple of austere boulders guarding the way like forbidding sentinels, was an unforgiving precipice with about a four-hundred metre fall into the black throat of a crevice, ‘oh, how fearful and dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low’.
I trace his lip lightly with the tip of my finger. It pouts slightly, and I have such an urge to bite it, to kiss it, to wrap us up in a quilt and listen to our gentle breathing, watching the cotton ripple like skipping stones and sharing crooked smiles. His lip feels slightly chapped under my feather light touches but I simply cannot bring myself to give a damn. I gaze so intently at each divot of that lip, as if it could map out ancient seas and college plans and tell me everything I don't know. And I don't want to look up. Because if I look up, I may find myself at the mercy of questioning eyes, pleading, begging to know what I was doing, and I'm not at liberty to say because I simply do not know. "Do I love you?" I cannot form an answer with my lips because I am so focused on yours.
Then the memory passes, my eyes seeing once more, my ears hearing the here and now. I wish I had known just how painful my fixation on your lip would be, because loving the rest of you was torture, and sometimes I look back and wonder if i could have even stopped myself, warned myself away from such elegant heartbreak. Would I have even listened?
Or would the slight tickle of your breath expelling from that goddamn lip cause my words to stick to my throat, plastering themselves to my trachea and refusing to dispel into the palpable air. And the silence would have carried on forever and ever, until we dispersed into dust and scattered ourselves between remains of atoms of an age long gone - until a time I might hear your voice echo through the nothing.
Words might just be blots of ink on a page, but they have power. They might be simple sounds carelessly uttered from a mouth, but they can crush confidence and provoke anger. Words might be soft and emotional, cried in the midst of war, but they have the power to arise courage in the hearts of men. Words might be sung from the bottom of a hurting heart with no one listening, but they have the power to reach the ear of a great God who can turn sorrow into dancing. Words might be little things written on a little square piece of paper, but they have the power to bind hearts or separate them. They have the power to start wars or end them.