The first thing you'd see is a typical honors kid - large dark eyes behind blue rimmed glasses, holding all the bookish knowledge. The girl's curious eyes asking for more, conflicted with the tight smile silently begging to be left alone.
She'd wear her dark straight hair up in a ponytail, with a pink baseball hat. With the pink sports backpack, she'd deceive anyone. But her scrawny figure in an over-sized men's sweatshirt, underneath a denim shirt from Goodwill, with a pair of jeans ripped from overuse - told a different story. So did her punk boots picked from garage sale.
She hid her scars under thick spike bracelets, another piece that did not match with the silver heart locket hanging from an unusually long necklace.
Even with all the pieces roughly glued together, she had yet to find out which was her real face.
Tears rolled down, wetting every part of her cheek. Her eyes pleaded for Succor and help, albeit that she knew no one was coming. There was only darkness as her own demons haunted and strangled her. She was suffocating. In the pain of abandonment she almost forgot how to feel. She desired amnesia so that all this suffering could fade away, fade and allow memories of laughter to soothe her, to restore peace in her life.
"I don't know why I split myself open for someone who would never even bother to show me the thread."
Not quite the hot dark of embers, but a soft, hopeful dark. The dark that comes just before the sunrise, a kind of dark that helps the orange and gold blossom across the sky, like a small flower trembling open in spring. The dark that encourages you to fall asleep as you close your eyes, tossing and turning in a futile attempt to slip away into the depths of unconsciousness, blissfully unaware. The type of dark that occurs in a complete solar eclipse, blocking out the light, the noise, the feeling of being, leaving you in the silence of serenity, if only for a few seconds.
Amelia wondered if there really was "conferring" going on in a conference call, because that implied that there would be actual listening and consideration of various perspectives. Could they really integrate new information and "live edit" their own brains or would they leave with the same bias and static opinions they entered with?
In this pandemic we learn from our key workers, the ones the monetary system exploits most fiercely, more about the reality of our existence, of the truth the monetary system seeks to obscure.
Someone once told me I am strong. Sometimes, I really do think that I am. But on days like today, when my feelings overwhelm me, the word "strong" becomes insignificant, to the varying waves of emotion that engulf me. Today, I got lost in the tide and I caved, swept away by my own fears.
I am only human.
Fortunately, I am not defined by my moments of weakness and fear, but by the days when I muster the strength to rise above the tide. Then and only then, I consider myself to be... strong
Let the Christmas lights be the light in the eyes of the needy when they realise that longterm rescue has come.
When emotional pain comes, I let it sit at my kitchen table with me for a little while... just long enough to feel the emotion and gain new perspectives upon it. Then I open the front door and invite it to leave. This way I'm solid, real to myself and others, yet not wallowing but enabled to embrace my future free in a healthy way, reaching forwards with confidence.
There were no windows. Only--one, two--five seats; four lined up on the long side of the rectangular prism and one sitting opposite. The first noticeable thing was the utter lack of motion. It did not feel like any sort of future tech, it felt like the back of a truck. It was barren, smooth, it appeared as dirt brown walls in the lack of light, with sharp corners at the vertexes; but where was the motion? Those only objects within the box where the chairs, the only occupants were those sitting within them, and me; within the lonely chair.
The others were asleep. Three I knew: John, Dean, and Sam. The fourth I didn't, sitting to the far right. She was some young excitable girl, just kinda tagged along; I never knew her name. I sat there, harness pulled taught, in the groggy state that occurs after being woken from a deep sleep. I didn't have time to register any sort of fear or darker thoughts. I was still mystified at the lack of motion and the then growing presence of complete silence.
Racism and prejudices are the exhaust fumes of damaged egos.
Upon the wet rain-washed cement of the old pathway near the church is a small puzzle piece. It shows an image of the sky with a little puffed cloud, brilliant white in the sunshine. Although I see the cardboard already soaking in the water and curling upward at the very edge, I imagine it is a piece of the real sky that has fallen to Earth. I pick it up and hold it high, seeing how it is a perfect match for the blue and white above. I guess some puzzles really are that simple and one piece is enough.