Trina loved her radio almost as much as her cat. It was like the one she'd grown up with, wood around the outside with circular dials and speaker. In her otherwise department store home it was the only object she felt an emotional attachment to. It brought her music, comedy and old fashioned plays. It never demanded her attention but instead sat quiet and unassuming until called upon. Even if she changed her entire decor that radio would stay - regardless of whether it was the perfect accent piece or a horrible clash. She didn't care either way. One day she'd be an old woman with it by her bedside even if it broke. Then she'd just play the greatest hits from her youth from whatever new-fangled thing was available and just pretend it was from her beloved old radio.
The desk was a recycled wood upon strong iron legs, each at a jaunty angle as if it was stretching before a pleasant jog. The wood was upcycled, I think they say, and I wondered if had once been a door. In the grain were flecks of colours that many front doors in this neighbourhood are, so many vibrant hues in every season, like rainbow freckles. I wondered how many smiles it had seen, how the many had seen it and felt the relief of coming home. Yet for now the desk was my doorway into adventures of words and imagination, the tip toes of each emotion I write in pixelated ink.
Like a charred bone the lamppost stands black against the snow. The light at the top has long been broken. Wherever those shards of glass fell had been long covered by leaf litter and stones. Its paint has been chipped by shrapnel and there are a few bullet holes. It stands as a monument to what life used to be and what it became. No more reassuring glow guiding you home, no more friendly orange-yellow glow. Just cold metal to the touch, rough to the finger tips and a symbol of our sorrows. When we make it out of these dark times I'm going to paint it bright colors and hang a basket of flowers from the top. I wouldn't want to tear it down. I will transform it to show how we transformed from these terrible times back to joy. I know it will come. I have faith.
I had for so long been the only source of positivity, of warmth and emotional comfort. I had for so long taken the brunt of cruel outbursts designed to bring my self esteem to zero, to shatter my sense of self worth. After that I was expected to rebuild all the relationships from all sides, to make any sacrifices necessary and then recreate the positive atmosphere... still against that critical and cynical wall of sneering superiority that has become a woven part of who you are. So that I had a breakdown, that I shattered into a person barely capable of surviving is on you, and the credit for rebuilding myself belongs to me. And now I move onwards fully able to choose to be with positive and giving people, with those that are truly good for me.
A drop of rain, carrying years of shattered hopes and promises, streaked on her pale skin to her quivering lips where it struggled to drip down onto the gravel. Today, three years after he had said goodbye, she still remembered how he first held her hand as the morning sun spilled its faint glow over the city and also, how he walked away holding hands with another woman in the pouring rain. The time her face was spattered with raindrops again, almost drenching her hair, was when she realized how the water clenched to her skin for it knew what she'd been through.
In morning there is more joy in the part of me that peeks through the windows of my eyes. In the morning there is more love awaiting a chance to jump into the air in that silent crackle we sense with our soul. In the morning there is more deep sweetness that resonates within and finds a way to express this energy that is me.
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.
There is no animal in the world, other than the gentle human, who is so dominated that they are asked to labour while hungry for even the smallest amount of food that is poor in nutrition. The free animal when hungry seeks food, focuses only on food. Yet babies, young children onwards in great numbers are often hungry and eating food that is nutritionally unsuitable. This leads to increased disease and early death, in extreme cases it leads to risky illegal immigration or even mass migrations to avoid starvation and the swathes of disease that comes with it. When our monetary system was born, it was said that the surplus population would increase in good times and die when their labour was not required. Those folks long ago cared not if the poor starved or died in disease or war - that was simply getting rid of unwanted population. Yet we now live in a world that can produce enough food for all and distribute it freely to all, thus preventing hunger, death and disease and bringing peace worldwide. Is this not the heaven we seek? Is that not how we end the hell of all this suffering to so many? It is as simple as making a new system that treasures and respects every citizen and rather than treating them with no more respect than an extra hammer.
And from that rain soaked ground came such life, the plants that grew so strong in the bountiful rays. The water was liquid magic and the Earth was the richness and nurture for the flower-given seeds. Without the rain it is only mud, without the earth it is only water; together they are a sort of cozy joy, a tingle of hope and of good things to come.
The bridesmaid held the flowers as if they were joy fashioned into delicate petals, as if love had been transformed into their fine aromatic perfume. She peeked around the church, at the hats and the dresses and the suits... but mostly she was soaking in the atmosphere, an energy that made her giggle and her little body keep on moving even if her feet were still.
His focus was scattered, so filled with nervous anticipation was he, so excited, even giddy. He couldn't hold a conversation or sit still while his thoughts danced in infinite directions. Yet he had to get through the day in one piece. He met Mairead last Tuesday at a wedding and this, he hoped, was their first date. He could picture it already - holding hands, a tingling feeling spreading throughout his entire body. He would take her for a walk through the park and count the ducks; it seemed the most natural thing in all the world. And she, his special girl.
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.