I open my eyes. It feels like I've had enough sleep last night. I try to recall what I dreamed of last night. Well, dreams are actually important to me. I like to think of them as little stories that my head make up in my sleep. Sometimes they make me feel better, sometimes they make me feel worse, but regardless, their still a part of me. You know how memories are memories and no matter good or bad, they form you? Sure, some pieces may be bad, but it's like a puzzle really. Imagine you have a puzzle of a rainbow and you just happen to hate the color blue. You take out all the blue puzzle pieces. Sure, at the end you may have an almost complete rainbow but remember the keyword here: Almost. Your puzzle pieces will never be complete. I remember watching in a drama somewhere that memories are like a person's history. Without knowledge of your history, you will not be able to understand yourself well. How does one move on this way? With a missing piece in their life.
every night when i look up at the sky, my eyes jumping from star to star, i imagine your skin against mine, i think about our souls intertwining as i whisper my every thought into your ear, then im pulled back into reality and i remember you're a million miles away alone in a different bed and as my eyes fill with tears and my heart starts to hurt, i look up knowing that although i cant touch you, at least we're still under the same sky and thats what keeps me going.
Rushing through the trees, gliding over streams, rustling through my hair, the morning breeze roams through the world freely changing the stillness. pushing a girls hair into her eyes, it causes her to avoid the violent man she would've otherwise fallen for. a bumble bee is swept away from the swift claws of a curious kitten. A red leaf sways to the ground signifying the beginning of autumn. dandelion seeds float gently around a toddler as her sticky fingers grab at the mystery. the steam rising from my cup of tea is slated to the left as a slight breeze hits my neck
gathered around the living room, all of our friends were lounging around watching Netflix, eating pizza and chatting amongst themselves. Sat with my legs crossed on one of the sofas, Ryan put his arm around my waist and threw a grey blanket over us so that no one could see, his hands were warm and he drew small circles on my stomach. as i looked over at him, i could feel a kick in my stomach and i watched his smile broaden and his eyes fill with tears. I wiped his eyes and fell into his embrace his arms wrapped around our little creation protectively, although we were young then, the second i saw the strip turn pink, i became an adult, a mum and the moment he felt that kick, he became an adult, a dad
Yellow sky. Boy running down a hill. Smog world. City exhaust. Arm-pit air. Green grass for contrast. Green grass, treated to kill weeds (and anything wild, for that matter). Green grass like outdoor carpeting. Green grass to help us lie to ourselves that nature still lives in our midst. Green grass to help us deny we are killing the earth. To distract us from the reality that we are running out of wild space. We are running out of elephants. We are running out of glaciers. Yellow sky. Green grass. Boy running down a hill and out of time. Prophets condemn the profits of industry. Profits silence the prophets of God's kingdom. Yellow skies turning red. Green grass is dead. Small elves in business suits and paint brushes rub their brush along each dead leaf of grass. Boy running by. Running out of time.