Alice walked along the rough cobbled streets that caused her feet to ache. The buildings were tight together and loomed over her, like a forest of stone. When she looked up the roofs were so close together that she could only make out a sliver of the blue sky that was mirrored by the tiny stream of light that trickled along the cold stone ground. The alleyway twisted and turned back on itself, first going to the right, then to the left. From where Alice stood, whether she look in front or behind, she saw nothing but stone.
They call me antisocial, but we live in an unfriendly culture. If you look at the average person walking down the street, they look miserable. Then they meet someone else and suddenly their happy mask is on, they become animated like some garish zombie corpse, smile and laugh. I believe that if we lived in an honest world, where we could show our real emotions and for that to be okay, perhaps we'd find ways to make culture a truly supportive and emotionally warm place. Yet for now, we observant and sensitive people, we keep our distance for self protection. You can be so-called "antisocial" and still be pro-society; it's just a form of realism and a search for truth.
Moss-laden bricks of grey-orange, fitting as guards on the threshold. Behind the fool’s-ancient wrought-iron gates. Where rows upon rows of crumbling mounds stood in various interpretations of upright, their pores bathing in light from an ill moon, ailing. Porous trees hunched over most of the void spared by the sickening light’s expanse, plunging the rest in healthy shadow. The place echoed.
To enter, I must skirt around a pile of wet leaves. Today there is no weather; there is no wind, just howling. The temperature is of a mild apparition and so I hear the winds company more so. The leaf barbs that bar nefarious entrance are of little consequence to my apt overage and the grey-orange guards do little but deposit their dust upon me and my cloth.
That morning, the woods were filled with an ominous brittle silence. There was a shriek from the trees that Henry said was a branch twisting under the sheer weight of ice. I had opened the curtain to the blue dawn, but I hastily closed it against the cold diffusing across the window glass. In our unheated room, our breath was vapor, and the floorboards cold to the pads of our feet. Henry's nose was red, and the tip of mine was numb.
Sleepless nights. Beat up conversation. Movie marathons - sci-fi, crime dramas, action. Chaotic good, bad - hell, just chaos. Five cups of tea in a morning. Leather jackets, ripped acid-wash jeans, dusty Bon Jovi tank tops. Wishing you you didn't care as much as you do. Corner store raids at 2am. Loud music in your ear buds, in your car, in your house - loud music in general. The sound and smell of a crackling bonfire. One too many drinks on the beach. Daddy's girl. Judging people who judge people. Tumblr trash. Fifty percent anxiety, fifty percent sadness. Rebels with big hearts. Guys that are awesome with kids. Confidence bordering on arrogance. Starry nights in the dead of winter. Tattoos that are like artwork - who am I kidding? Tattoos are artwork. Pastel hair, dark clothes. Dark hair, still, dark clothes. Greasy food in the middle of the night. Real music - that shit isn't on the radio. Fairy lights over your bed, posters lining the walls and ceiling. You and me against the world.
I never experienced grief this bad before. It all started when I lost my mother, my world and my hero. It sneaked up on me quietly and took me under its arms in an instant. Every memory played like a song in my head, repeating itself for what seemed like forever. I was lost mostly because I had lost a big part of me. I couldn't get that part back and I wanted it so bad as my life depended on it but it was all gone, vanished in thin air. I can't say it got better but it did get easier. At first, I thought grief was something bad that takes you ten feet under but soon I learned that it was just the price we had to pay for loving someone.
You can write into the air; you can speak upon a page. A painting can be a novel and a story can paint the perfect picture. Dance can express such emotion and emotions can stir deep movements within even a chance observer. We dream in deep metaphors and visual puns, then weave them into stories that speak to every level of our consciousness. We artists speak with words and without; we artists are nature's soul-restoration crew.
Between the paving stones comes blooms so bold and tall, giving of their aroma to the summer-infused breeze. For these seeds of humble size and hue are the ninjas of the botanical world, born to shout loud of their graffiti-petaled beauty.