All of the noise disappeared in an instant. It was like being stuck between two realities: one that was imperfect, but doable. The other the vision where she pictured herself in, the one she longed herself to be a part of. Was is a possibility to make that world into reality? The only thing that separated her from achieving the dream was herself.
These spectacles bring all into focus, the things I want to see and the things the heart would rather not.
A widowed wife. A mother of two. Living in a country of chaos. She lives in a scattered pile of concrete held together by fractured planks of wood. Trying to survive in a country that wants everyone dead. Seeking refuge in any broken, run-down house that is still standing. Living every moment of her life in constant fear of death for herself and her children.
The on-shore breeze brings mild air rather than our usual winter chill. The puddles remain stubbornly free of ice and our breath remains quite invisible, as if the warmer seasons both stayed longer and arrived sooner.
No matter how much I screamed for help, no voice would come out ... or so I thought. In truth there was simply no-one left to hear, or rather no-one with the capacity to respond.
The clouds are puffs of white magic in acres of blue. They are the brilliance of a new page upon a sky canvas of such consistent hue.
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.
Waking up can be really harsh, especially if your dreams are better than reality. The saddest part of it is, though, that eventually even the memory of your dream will fade - if you are even lucky enough to remember it that is. Then you're left with this lonely feeling of detachment, left to explore in the empty void of emotions, the only proof that you ever had the dream to begin with.
The notice board sat there on the grey paving stones, its white letters so vibrant in the summer sun. I read it everyday, and it brought a smile to my soul every day that showed ever so slightly in my smile.
We are every colour in the trees, my friends and I. We are the gold and reds that carpet the grass. In every breath the autumn is in us too, this feeling of nature flowing back and forth. It is a time for the dancing of spirits as we walk through the cozy hearth that is the park, that energising earthiness that somehow anchors yet propels.
I sigh, closing my leather journal and setting it (along with my pen) aside in my small, light cerulean blue satchel. The satchel has been my best friend ever since I first found it in the antique store five and a half years ago when mom and dad had given this to me as a kind of early birthday gift. It was the last thing both my parents had given to me before passing.
The leather used to be new, polished, smooth even. Now after five years of having this satchel it's finally starting to look timeworn, but it's that kind of oldish, worn out look makes it all the more appealing for me.
