They were more like shadows than physical beings - lightly resembling humans-shape wise, but only black smoke. Each form rippled whenever it moved like disturbed water. The only way I knew they were looking at me was the white eyes with a slight blue hue that stood out against the darkness.
I can't live without you, anymore. Without you, what is the purpose of my existence? If I will embrace you, I'll embrace my soulless self.
Because it is you. Only you. You are my life. You're my pain- you're my relief. You are my love.
What is your relationship with me, that I can't afford to stay a moment away from you? I live for you everyday, my time is devoted to you. No moment is a moment without you. Your name is etched on each breath of mine.
I have lived only for you; I am prepared to die for you. Your thoughts gave me the emotional support I needed in your absence. They took out the grief which presided in my heart, but now the melancholy has returned with thrice the effect.
You are my lucky-clover. I am content with you.
But all these years, that I've tried to stay away, tried to keep you safe from my evil clutches- they are heart wrenching. I can't endure the pain anymore!
Perhaps it would be a fitting tribute to the life work of Sir David Attenborough, as well as a much needed step to save our own souls, to ban the sale of all furniture made from new wood. Such a step would be positive shift in the economy and the way we live. Jobs in refurbishment and the antique industry would flourish - we'd gain more carpenters and artists who can work from home. As we move into more plant based diets the stems of wheat and other plant materials could be used in furniture production. We can amend the way we live, taking inspiration from other cultures. Many eat sitting on the floor, thus doing away with dinning tables and dining chairs. How about sleeping more Japanese style with a mattress that rolls up during the day - no wooden frame. We use recycled and reclaimed materials too - perhaps the harvesting of plastic from the oceans for reuse will gain financial viability as well as being the right thing to do.
The words I compose come from my heart. My stories define who I am and my poems tell of how I feel. My pencil is my paint brush and this blank page is my canvas; when I start painting it is a masterpiece because it holds my ambitions, my passions and my dreams.
At first glance the diver only saw pink coral. She took out a camera and began to take photos for the magazine. After she had enough shots she drew closer to feel it. Something moved. Frozen in place she observed for a few minutes, then like one of those fancy trick 3D pictures she began to see something else. There was a pygmy seahorse with it's tail wrapped around the coral, its camouflage was so much like it's surroundings that just melted from view the second she stopped focusing on where it was. Its body was a soft pink was the exact shade of the main stems but it had darker pink lumps on it just like its home.
These legs keep asking me to rest, to find somewhere warm and cozy, to simply enjoy the sunshine and stay right there. This brain feels as if it's been on a treadmill and it wants so much to press stop. This body needs to feel another body, to cuddle, to feel safe, to feel the warmth of a lover. Everything about me, from the muscular aches to the emotional pull toward lethargy, this fatigue, overwhelms - yet this is a world that has no empathy for such matters. All that appears to count is how much we got paid more than the actual work done or feats achieved. If you got a lot of money clearly you worked hard, if not, no matter how much work you did, clearly you're lazy. My body, my brain, my tired tired soul, can testify that I've worked at full tilt for so very very long. The truth is, in this state, in terms of my biological capacity and energy stores, I can't afford to care about all the things I have been caring so very deeply about. It isn't kind to run a horse into the ground and it isn't kind to do it to a human either.
Thanksgiving baking was our time machine and our homegrown comedian improv stage. There was a lot of love in that laughter, after all, it ain't what you do it's they way that you do it, eh? Home is a place of safety in so many ways, or at least it should be.
A derelict house stood before me, repugnant and mouldy. Only fear anchored my feet in the darkness. An immense storm could be heard in the distance, echoing through the silent night. Lighting ripped the inky sky. The silver hues of clouds became as molten silver, swirling, ripples radiating. I crept to the paint-crumbling door amid low struggling trees.
I twisted the handle of the door, it creaked, the sound becoming whispers that filled the room, urging me to run lest I end up as lost and lonely as they. One moment I was outside, the next I was within, despite never taking a step. The door slammed. There was no exit. The floorboards moaned with age. Suddenly something tugged at me, something with a icy grip...