If ever there was magic powder, it was that iridescent glow of the butterfly wings. It casts a spell on these eyes so that my soul is brought into the moment with a fullness. I feel as if my thoughts were more tuned in somehow, as if I were a radio that's found a frequency that is both more calm and more intense all at once. That instant of seeing those petal-wings brings a serenity that holds me as if in some universal camera flash.
I could feel my heart beat… every single pound in my chest. Not through my ears, that was occupied by the steady drum, pipe, and dark voice of the Celtic music; drowning it out in the ears. But I couldn't lay there. I had to but I couldn't. This great pounding, this great pressure; every beat. I couldn't hear it, but I could feel it. It remains now, even as I write, it remained through what little of the Great Gatsby I could shove down my throat. It remained when I stood and stumbled into the other room trying to relieve myself of the small dogs who wouldn't stop nagging. That dark beating remained, alone in this house with me. Every beat a turbulent push from within pushing as a giant placed within the chest; as a great wave against a minuscule dike. This pressure urges the words, this horrible pressure. I tried sleeping through it, drums beating along with the muscle; but the music lost, ran out of time. I don't know for what reason I have to be placing these words here. I started in an attempt at relief, from the beating; some trickle of words to relieve the flood. I can feel it still, beating, pulsing, thumping. It didn't work; why won't it stop.
Texting makes these fake relationships; the trouble is... my emotions are real. I start to bond to someone who could "ghost" me in a moment, hear the pains of my life and then simply never respond ever again. That's something that will never change in this electrickery world. So what I need is relationships in real life, real friends who laugh and hug and stand by you. Because otherwise I can't rise, I can't see through the fog of all these emotions, or break their chains. I need a bit more of that world my Grandparents knew, the one where talking to a friend was something so much more.
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.
A vast blanket of white hung heavy over the hills. It suffocated every building and every tree at their base, swallowing every distant object and vanishing around every corner. It crept round St. John's church, its silent footsteps tiptoeing around each gravestone in the churchyard, passing by Jane Thomson, Rupert Nicholson and many others, before finally coming to rest at the foot of a freshly covered grave. Scott stood in the still silence of the churchyard, his only comfort being that of the cold white blanket that hugged his shoulders and grabbed at his trouser legs.
The waves come as loving rascals, sun-warmed and sweet, to wash upon the sands. Perhaps that is why the children love to play in them so very much, the spirit of the sea and the children coming together in something we grown ups should have held on to.
The blossom opens as if each flower was a book - a book that was more sculpted than written, the ink infusing into the petals to give them their soft glow. It is a tale of eons passed, of the loving care of the soils, the rain and the sun, a tale of the insects, the soil bacteria and fungi. And yet, for all of that, it is a great love story told in its silent way, the brain reading such volumes in an instant of intuition, a fraction of a beautiful moment.
A royal crown sits upon his head like a boat stuck on a stream in one place. It's like it's entangled in the roots of his hair, like it's apart of him. In the shower, at work, in front of everyone. It's going to be there for ever and ever. But who cares? I like it that way.
My paradise is you. It's always been you. You made me breathe when I didn't want to, and you unlocked doors inside of me that I tried to keep shut. You haven't left my mind once since I first met you. All I know is that if heaven is real, heaven is you.
What she does is nothing short of supernatural, and it comes of the focus she has. Emma almost never cries, but that is because she cries in a different way. Her tears become her actions, her problem solving. She channels her love into helping in that wonderful obsessive way of hers. If you tell her you have a problem, either in words or in body language, or a combination of the two, she'll be in a level of discomfort until she has solved it for you... even when the benefit is solely yours. That's real love, that's truth. She'd protect anyone, help anyone, because that big heart of hers hears the hearts of everyone - not the mask or self deception, but the real self... and that is who she responds to, which can confuse those who don't have a strong connection with their true selves. So when she is emotionless she is most emotional, it's when she needs help the most. Perhaps think of it as a sort of overload reaction - there is too much emotion to process and so her brain edits it out, the same way her brain edits out fear when it has no purpose. And what you'll see if you are really looking is that despite shutting off the emotions for self preservation, she's still working on saving you, helping you, loving you... in a way that is enhanced by the lack of emotions. So call it autistic, or Aspergers, whatever stupid label you care for... but if you can't see her love, you are truly blind... she is absolutely astonishing.
In those streets he was the only beating heart, the only being of warm blood and flesh. The walls around him were doubtless home to many in the fairly recent past, yet now it was an unfamiliar maze to all. The light fell on the words that spoke to nobody, unaware that their audience had vanished, or that the streets lay silent beneath no boots at all, save his. It was as if God had stopped time, removed all the distractions so he could see it for real, see how it really was, what it really was. And in that moment all he wished for was another beating heart in this deserted city, another being of warm blood and flesh, one more pair of boots to walk next to his.