What was is no longer and so never was.

Three.
What was. What is. What must be.


Some can live all.

I can only live one.
What is.

Don't make what was more than it is.

What was is is, but if it is no longer, then now it never was.

Don't make me a monster. The one who spews poison and fire at your very soul.

A monster can love. Just cannot feel the love it felt once upon a time.

It is a vague memory, bitter to reminiscence.

Bitter to the once precious gold, now decayed and mouldy.

It was a one way with only one destination. One does not regret a path they journeyed with joy and happiness.



I must go at once. Or be engulfed in this coming storm.

But be assured, I have yet to say all. But know this:
I am just a monster.
What is left behind on the contrary, is what it wanted to give to the world.

It's over.

Been thinking,

Now you're gone,

You won't be there to hold my hand.

I don't know,

How I'll come,

Without you there to help me stand.

When I'm forced to feel this pain,

I hope you know who is to blame.

When you left me all alone,

I learnt to make it on my own.

Know it's true,

When I say:

Thank you for everything you do.

But now you

Have hurt me

I'll hate you like you hate me too.

Celestial Blue that shineth from within.

She wore rose pink jeans. Rose pink jeans are not unusual. Many people wear rose pink jeans.

But her rose pink jeans were different. They were rose pink from within.

They shone with a rose pink so pure, it could have conquered all other colours.

For in those rose pink jeans, every colour could be found.

She wore a mustard yellow cardigan. Mustard yellow cardigans are not unusual. Many people wear mustard yellow cardigans.

But her mustard yellow cardigan was different. It was mustard yellow from within.

It shone with a mustard yellow so pure, it could have conquered all other colours.

For in that mustard yellow cardigan, every colour could be found.

In her rose pink jeans and mustard yellow cardigan, people saw the colours.

So they sucked them out and made her rose pink jeans and mustard yellow cardigan the colour of nothing.

But even in nothingness, every colour can be found.

Dreamers

Together, we were Dreamers. Together, we could have closed our eyes against the current of human ignorance, and stood, alone and aloof, watching as they suffocated under their own stupidity. We dreamed that we, and we alone, could make the world a better place, that under our rule, it could rise up and be strong once more. We were going to be the beacon that shone through the galaxies, lighting the way for passing stars, we were going to be the hope that kept the universe going. We were going to be greater than God himself.

Popcorn

"Pardon?"

And she repeats the question. I open my mouth to answer just as I had practised hundreds of times the night before. But no thoughts are forming.

I can feel my body almost radiating the desperation of my ballooning panic. I'm a minuscule clay man figure inside my own huge, useless brain, mindlessly trying to grasp at something. At anything. I nearly snigger.

This reminds me of something actually. Popcorn. A tiny little secretly brooding corn was triggered to explosion and the insubstantial puff dominated every corner of my brain, squashing all coherent thoughts into indecipherably compressed, perhaps into the equivalent of computer zip files.

And she repeats the question. Again.

Fighting the impending doom of crushing failure, I try again. No, I am suddenly fixated on the previously envisioned fluffy white puff. I never did like popcorn.

One word presents itself clamorously, defying the dense puff.
"Canard".
Duck.



Duck.


Duck.

It's too late by the time I've realised I've just murmured the word out aloud.

Now it's her turn to ask,
"Pardon?"

Untouched by Time.

The old man was proud of his wrinkles. He would have been so even if it hadn't been his philosophy to make the most of what he had. To him, his wrinkled and pitted face was not a hindrance, not a thing to be ashamed of, but a record of his life. He wore his past like a map on his face, a map that all could see and follow. Each line marked a moment, of happiness or sadness, joy or worry. Each line was a sentence, on a face that could be read like a book. The crinkles at the corners of the mouth, the light in those eyes, remnants of a long ago youth, when the fire in his blood had burned bright and strong, chasing him away from his childhood haunts and responding to the siren call of faraway lands, people and places. That fire had driven him recklessly through life, motoring him down long and winding paths, barely heeding the damage it suffered, and caused. His travels could be seen on his face, his hurt, pain, and anger read in the depths of those bottomless eyes, that truly were, in his case, a window to the soul. But, nonetheless, he was proud of his face. And he was proud of his life.

Few are able to claim as much.

Dad.

Could today be the day she doesn't upset her dad?I think not.

She makes sure her morning does not involve her dad in any way possible.

No dad means no problems and this day has to be perfect.

So with everything sorted to her dad's liking she waits in the car for him.

Hoping nothing could ruin this perfect morning, he starts the engine.

She sits and hopes. Nothing is said and the radio is turned on.

The journey begins and so far so good.

Gentle banter is exchanged until he pulls up into the car park.

She gets off, takes her bags, shuts the door and turns to wave. He smiles.

Morning over and all seems well.

Today could be the day.

School.

Friends.

Bloody assemblies.

Teachers.

Bus.

Jokes.

Train.

Home.

She gets dressed for her party. She's happy. Today could go well after all.

She gets in the car and talks with her dad, tells him excitedly about this party !

He laughs at her enthusiasm. Today is going to be great she says to herself.

She gets out of the car, kisses her dad, says thank you and goodbye.

She shuts the door and turns to wave and gets another smile!

Today is going be very good she says to herself!

Party.

Joke.

Laugh.

Chat.

Rave.

Party over.

She calls her dad, giddy with how good this day has gone.

He pulls up and she sees him.

She starts to walk towards the car as she waves and he smiles.

This day has gone very well she thinks.

But then, she is stopped, right in front of the car, in full view of her dad.

Aaron says she forgot her phone, she takes the phone and thanks him dearly.

She looks at her dad hoping he hasn't realised she nearly lost her phone,

because that would mean this day would end in disaster.

It looks hopeful yet doubtful, she nearly lost her phone, what awaits her in the car?

She turns to get in the car and Aaron says, not even a hug in thanks then?

And.

Without thinking she hugs him. Briefly that is.

And as her hands touch his body in the friendliest way possible she remembers her father is watching, and she thinks:

Shit. So close..

All in a touch.

One small moment can mean so much.

The girl had spent years waiting for that one moment, the brush of the hand or the accidental touch of a foot that meant she could convince herself he cared. Every year she would wait and wonder whether it would happen but it never did. She would always say, maybe next year or maybe the year after but soon, she realised, she would have to give up. She couldn’t spend her whole life waiting for him. Then one year it happened. As the clock struck 12 he reached out and held her hand. Her life was now complete.

A man would sit by her bedside for hours just holding her hand. He would hope for the one squeeze that would mean everything to him. Then, one day, as he was about to leave, he felt it. The old woman’s fingers twitched, such a small movement, but such a momentous occasion.

As she sat there crying she realised he was behind her. After storming out of the house he had returned. Cold and dripping from the rain, but it was him. She felt his fingers touch her shoulder and she turned to face him. In a few moments her life, smashed to pieces, had re-built itself. All in a touch.

Why?

Why do we learn, when in the end we'll forget?
Why do we avenge, if we deserve what we get?
Why am I forced to hate you, when I'm surrounded by friends?
And why upon this moment, does so much depend?

If we had not met, would I feel a hole in my heart?
Do I love you or just the sound of your laugh?
Why do I love you, when you will never be mine?
And why- without you- does the sun never shine?

Connection.

Two girls shared a connection. Everyone they knew did not value the connection as it seemed to them to be silly and unfounded. But to the girls it meant everything. At first they had found it a hindrance, a pain. But soon they came to find that it made them special. With the connection they always felt that they were never alone.
One day, one of the girls felt the connection stronger than ever. It pulsed through her whole body and made her somehow anxious. She felt drawn to the other girl and followed the pull. But it was too late. She arrived just in time to see the other girl cross the street, and to feel the connection break. It felt like the smashing of a glass or the ripping of a page in a book. She knew then, it was all over.

The Dimple.

Once, there was a dimple, on the face of a beautiful young girl. The dimple lived a happy life, perched on the face of this girl, and was able to feel relatively content about his situation. Although his position did mean that he was unable to explore the world for himself, the girl took pity on him, and always tried to angle her face so as to give him the most interesting views. And at night, once she had gone to sleep, he lay there in the darkness, and imagined himself one day, breaking free from the face that was all he knew, and exploring new territories, perhaps moving on to dimple the face of another girl, or simply dimpling the surface of a rock, or beach.

A certain conception.

She generally sailed through life. Not at all because she was any more advantaged than most, but because she had realised early on that she had everything she needed, though not necessarily what she wanted. When things could be better, all she needed to do was to remind herself of this, and feel fortunate and comforted. When things could be worse, all she needed to do was remind herself of this, and feel overcome with gratitude.

Nevertheless, it was at times a burden, for she knew that she was given all possibilities, and it was now entirely her own responsibility to make it happen.

You're Every Woman in the World to Me.

She wanted to be able to touch hearts, inspire, and be inspired, bring light to the darkness, and replace despair with happiness. She wanted to change the world, fill it with wonder, and to see it grow, and prosper. But most of all, she wanted to lay bare her soul, reveal herself in all honesty to the world, and to have them falter, step back and marvel at so bright a star.

And yet she could not find the words to do so.

Without a doubt.

The man lay on his deathbed.

He felt as if his body had finally failed him and disintegrated, falling around him in pieces, so that his soul lay bare on the hospital-like looking hospital bed. If he could grumble about it, he would happily go on about it for hours. You know, in that way only the elderly are capable of.

He knew his time was close. He felt a growing pressure suffocate him to do what he presumed dying people were obliged to do in their last moments.

Reflect on one's life maybe. He thought that sounded silly because he considered himself a simple man. Internally, he sighed a defeated sigh, and began his train of thoughts and pondered what the big question of life was. How would he calculate how well he'd lived his life?

Maybe, what would remain of him after he was gone?
Not much, really. He had been no significant figure in his life, who'd greatly influenced this damn twisted world, he snorted in his mind. Everything he had once considered important, were no longer so. Even his beautiful Harley motorcycle he'd loved du profond de son coeur and looked after with tender loving care was meaningless. So were his extremely great efforts to woo that girl when he was nineteen, come to think of it. That was a few years ago now, he chuckled.

He searched the stiff drawers of his mind for some inspiration. The big question...

He tugged and yanked and kicked them in frustration, for they would simply not open.






After a long while, an answer in the form of a cumulus cloud floated toward his being.





The big and only question was: How much happiness have you caused people in your life?
The corners of his lips curled upward slowly into a beatific smile. That was not a tricky question at all.
He had been a postman. He had delivered the joy of opening letters to people, whether it be long, handwritten letters from a loved one, birthday cards, electricity bills, ones that warned of house repossession.

Yes. That was it. He could die with a confident answer to that big and only question.

Reflection.

I moved left and right, dodging around her. But she was just as quick and kept up with my every movement. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t attack. She was so close but she wouldn’t come forward. It was as if she was defending herself. But I was no threat. Tentatively, I took a step forward. The same thought seemed to have crossed her mind as she came forwards too. Summoning up all my courage I lunged at her.

The next thing I knew was a plain white ceiling and a smell of aesthetic. I looked around to see the hospital surrounding me. On the table to my left was a piece of paper. It stated my name and date of birth.

 It then had one sentence:

‘ran into a mirror’

Oh, Brave New World.

All of humanity stood on a mountain top, gazing down at the world below. They looked left and right, down and even up, but found it hard to see. Having spent so many years living in sunlight, it was difficult for them to adjust to the darkness, and as one, they squinted, screwing up their eyes to peer through the darkening sky. As it got darker, a young girl sat down on the mountain top and wondered why her world, that she had known for so very long, was darkening. She wondered where the sunlight had gone. And the rest of humanity wondered with her.

Eventually, it came to pass that humankind, having allowed themselves to become accustomed to living their lives in the sunlight, had no option but to reconcile themselves to this different, darkened world and grow to love it. They searched for any last dregs of sunlight, but finding none, settled down on the mountain top, that was to them, a final remembrance of the way things had been, but could never be again. And the young girl lifted her head, and began, shakily, to sing, the notes penetrating the darkest of the darkness, resonating, and reaching the minds of even the most unreachable of humankind.

Humanity sang with her, and welcomed this brave new world, a world founded on hope, and love, and the voice of a young girl. A world, one could say, with the power to conquer all.

The Fruit Bowl.

I inched further and further towards the edge. The climax was too much to bear. I went faster. With speed came less control.  The sky around me was getting lighter. Soon I would freeze again. This made me move even faster pulling my weight along the shiny surface I had to stare at all day. It took such effort to pull, but I was certain this was not going to be one of the times I gave up. That would be wrong. I was about to get there. As I reached the edge I began to look down. As I peered over I felt all the momentum I had been working up leave me.

I woke up this morning to find the fruit bowl on the floor.

The World is hidden by a Blanket.

Once, an oak and a birch tree stood side by side, each sharing in the other's shade, and of course, each enjoying the company of the other. The oak, having lived through many decades, perhaps even centuries, was tiring of the world, and mainly wished only for release from the nuisance that, to him, was life. The birch, a good many years younger, looked at his life's companion and felt nothing but pity. He found himself unable to sympathise with the plight of his partner, so alive and youthful was he that he could not begin to contemplate what it must be like to take no joy in the wonder of the world around them.

As summer turned to autumn, and autumn turned to winter, the oak tree, looking out at a world hidden beneath a blanket of despair, quietly, and yet with a befitting dignity, gave up. He grew wrinkled, shrunk into himself, and the once majestic tree was soon but a shadow of his former self. And the birch tree looked on as his companion, beyond any help he could possibly have given to him, wasted away.

And the sight killed him to watch.

Take a few steps back.

The little boy examined the little dark spot on the wall. A faded blemish that blended uninterestingly into the white paint. He took a substantial step backwards. Then another. And then another, until he could no longer see that little spot.

He cocked his head to the right (it was always to the right, wasn't it?) and pursed his little red lips. It would have been silly to think that he was surprised at the apparent disappearance of the object under his scrutiny, because he truly was not. And yet, the idea suddenly struck him as incredibly odd, for he knew that if he took just one step forward, it would appear once again.

Eventually, after some considerable pondering over this minuscule epiphany, he did just that, and could not help the sigh of satisfaction and also relief that escaped his nose.

Amen (as in name, as opposed to "Amen to that.")