Surface.

I could feel the waves of emotion lapping at my feet again, trying to drag me away but I could not (would not) let them. But they kept on trying, using the smallest memory of how I had once been to try and pull me under, into their cold embrace.

Two letters from forever ago: ‘love forever, Mum xx’, and ‘You will not listen to your conscience anymore. Understood?’

Two books: How To Feel and How To Be Happy.

The guilt:

“Do you remember when we went on a bike ride, back in year six or something, and I was crying?”
“Yeah, you were like “I hate life” and I was like geez, you’re only in year six.”

Lying underneath the waves looking up at the sky, the water seemed to have an almost tangible skin to it, a silver layer that made me feel apart from the rest of the world. It was like I was part of a whole other world beneath the water.

To break the surface was a difficult thing, but it was necessary as we all need to breathe sometimes.

This is my entry to this lovely blog created by the lovely Sanchez.

And my bones will only weigh me down

In this world that we call home.

Picture here

Heart's A Mess.

This photo is one of mine.

Drown.

And they closed the beaches

When that little boy drowned.

And they searched and they searched

But he couldn’t be found.

He left behind a father, a sister and mother

But the saddest of all, he left a twin brother.

They were almost alike in every way

He cried when he didn’t come back and play.

They stopped his crying with just a ‘shush’

He knew (they could tell) when the beach fell a hush.

They carried him up, and onto the sand

That boy that will never become a man.

The father cried, the mother screamed

Things were as bad as they had seemed.

Silence quickly fell among the crowd

His voice; it wasn’t very loud

‘Wake up,’ he said. ‘Wake up Tim,

There’s places that we haven’t been

I’ll grow up, and you will to

There’s many things we planned to do.’

All was quiet, all but one sound

His mother falling to the ground.

Because a piece of her heart broke

With every word her young son spoke.

They took him, placed him in a bag

The father sobbed, his shoulders sagged.

‘Mum, they’re taking him away!’

Stop. Their father tried to say

But all that came out was a silent cry

As they lifted his son’s body high.

 



Different.

You stream in
a patch of sunlight
in my morning room.
I stand in you
my face warms
but my feet stay cold.
How can I tell you
why I don't know myself?
Everyone expects me
to be different
than I am.
I am different.
But I wish I was the same.

I'm thinking too much about the future and the past
When really all that matters is the here and the now
I've got to see that somehow

If I were a kind of weather

I'd be the start of a rainstorm as you lie in bed
and
the kind of rainstorm that makes you run around until you become soaked and happy
and
the sort of rainstorm that makes you curl up for comfort in a warm blanket with a book or movie
and
the type of rainstorm that leaves the smell I like after it evaporates.

I was reminded of something - an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words...But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was incommunicable forever.
- F. Scott Fitzgerald.

"Cal says that humans are made from the nuclear ash of dead stars. He says that when I die, I'll return to dust, glitter,rain. If thats true, I want to be buried right here under this tree. Its roots will reach into the soft mess of my body and suck me dry. I'll be re-formed as apple blossom. I'll drift down in the spring like confetti and cling to my family's shoes. They'll carry me in their pockets to help them sleep. What dreams will they have then?"

— Jenny Downham (Before I Die)

Something between regret and relief.

I'm sorry.
For what?
For being shy.
You don't have to be sorry, that's why I like you.

Things that hurt.

You idiot, you should have gone with him.

I don't care.

I haven't changed though, have I?

I'm fine.

I don't know.

It's not your fault.

Are you okay?

Dear you (and by you I mean all of you)

Please don't do that again.
You have no idea how it affected me.
That when you say those things, I keep it inside of me and it waits, grows, festers.
Don't you know I am insecure and unsure enough all ready, and am always doubting myself?
That what you said wouldn't and couldn't be easily shrugged off and forgotten like maybe you thought it would?
My sister's boyfriend was right when he said "They had no right to say that to you."
You didn't have any right to.