Author: oneseptembernight

What are we but ghosts?

He said, you’re not like other children

The disappointment of a father evident

Hiding the tears of a sobbing wife

Shunning leers from prying neighbours

 

He said, you’re not like other children

Depending on the boy’s mood

He cries profusely into pillows

He makes mad crayon sketches across the wall

 

He said, you’re not like other children

Finding symbols in things unmeant

Hearing what others cannot

Seeing all the colours in invisible light

Feeling the cracks on the floor

 

He said, you’re not like other children

Insistently speaking to a twin who is not there

Drawing friends with no eyes

Watching trapped bugs melt in spider webs when others would choose to play with dogs and cats.

So much power in the act of writing, or so I choose to place my faith in. I have written letters for people with no faces and no names, crafting pieces for an unknown recipient. I do not think that I am foolish for trying something unreturned, for who knows if in these secret doings will someone find reason to hope again?

Leave a scattering on the car window, pages of old, table worn and other possible places. Run like the wind, don’t get caught or the magic spell may find itself undone.

In my timid heart I do fear that I may be playing with fire, but I will continue building and see if there is more than this fragile house of cards.

Pinpricks of light, wandering stars gravitating toward a force bigger than their own.

Though frequently perceived as shy and ordinary, small and obtuse, two individuals are running to chase a distant falling. Eyes that forget to keep to their feet, fists clenched are released and raised frantically. Darkness and tangled roots, damp grass and twisty trunks, feet that meet and trip.

I’m sorry, she says abashed, picking up the other’s glasses. I’m chasing a shooting star.

A hand stretches to take what is his, and a smile grows across the face.

So am I, he quietly admits. I can’t let something beautiful die without anyone ever knowing it. It would be a real waste.

Blink.

Would you catch it with me?

This is a love letter, and it was written for you.

Do not scoff or find it a gimmick, for love is indisputably one of the strongest forces in the universe, if not the most.

Just because there are no names and no descriptions of your face or physique, it does not mean that it is not relevant at all.

If the idea and existence of love in your life is a void now, then take heart.

This piece transcends both space and time, a traveller from the future.

It comes from a place of love deeper than the entire ocean.

Builder, healer, selfless, patiently enduring and gracious.

So many loves, all with their quiet power.

This is a love letter, and it was written for you.

I am caught up thinking about the future, though it is not something I do often. I do not see it as a feasible thing to do, to muse on multiple unknowns, and the way a possible moment ahead wilts simply because I had forgotten to water the seed once sown is frightening to consider.

Yet I am thinking of all of the people I have yet to meet, and might still. Who knows what stories will fill these blank pages, and will the ink bleed dry too early?

I wonder how are all of you. How do I speak and give attention to each without sounding lost or despicably biased? I do not know how, but I will try and try, over and over.

Are you lonely and hurting, whoever you are, having to hold your own mind to keep it altogether.

Are you happy and filled, perhaps after a meal satisfying and sweet, almost tripping over a piece of broken glass by the bin.

Are you angry and desperate, at the world that will not move the mountains to reach.

Are you sleepy and tired, a face on the other side of the world, a tinsel of stars outside the bedroom window.

Are you nervous and tingly, set for a path mysterious, one that may lead you to me.

I know how life can take a turn for the unexpected, for I will be changed for always due to my 2017. Maybe it is both thrilling and fearsome, the way I may continue to face more twists and strains. Maybe my spirit will find itself bending under the weight of these journeys.

Where am I going?

I may ask this from time to time, say it to the ocean whose stunning roars will drown my shallow doubts. I still do not know, but I will hold on to the broken seashell gifted to me in a land far away, where its cool waves have once capered among my feet.

She dreamt of a stranger, his fractional smile a mere flicker before he disappeared over the building’s edge.

This wakes her up, filling her with irrational tension. A haunting peculiar for it is a place never seen before, with a faint touch of the ethereal.

Who are you, she quietly asks with an arm outstretched, but her words are simply mixing with oxygen.

Weeks go by, and it remains a sequence that slips in uninvited from time to time. The same wakefulness will capture her utmost attention, but there is no clue. Until one day, in the most ordinary of ways, she sees him in a street full of people. And mad is she, certainly, to have glimpsed a cordial curl of the mouth?

His gaze averts, and she pursues. Though foolish to endure without reason, she will not be deterred. They arrive on the rooftop, a scene startling alike. His foot leaning by the end of all that is.

She walks slowly, terribly afraid to see that moment. When she is but two steps away, his voice breaks.

Do you trust me? are the words uttered.

Take a deep breath. Nod of the head.

Close your eyes, he murmurs with a faint smile, and she does.

Hands curve themselves and then, the lightness of being. A scream. They are falling into gravity’s coarse arms. There is no comfort in the aforementioned thought.

He whispers against her ear, believe.

And believe, believe in facing the unknown courageously and this is when they fly upwards by the spread of his wings. Her eyes widen.

You’ve always been too afraid to face the end of your dream, he says with a gentle smile. And now you finally know.