Abstract

176.

This is how you and I will go. Making a mistake, and living the days regretting such choices. I am a useless princess, a girl only able to watch the kingdom suffer. Why must I always be weak for glittering things? Stupid fool (not even your charming smile will save you now).

Humpty Dumpty, the sinister shell of a man sitting on the high wall. I’ve brought your lost sword, so why won’t you let my people go? You’ve cracked their minds and hearts, a mental affliction to madden my soul.

Once upon a time, this land is a place free from all harm. Even now, however, we both know that all the kings’ men and horses couldn’t put you together again. You, son of the depraved, first to destroy your mind and now with brute strength, have you broken others. My hands cannot keep my people’s minds from shattering.

How dare you come, how dare you say that you are only trying to make me understand. If being a monster is what it takes, I will turn away from your eyes (though they shine a bewitching green…).

I don’t believe that you’re innocent just because you’ve got a screw loose in your head.

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170.

This is where it begins: over the garden wall.

The red, faded brick wall, tall and mighty, an enclosure stretching far, astoundingly wide. Chipped, degenerate, bits and pieces floating upwards before cosying themselves at the corners. The layered wall measures four foot, but the solidifying particles increase the humble defense in stature, crawling in delayed time.

Grassy green runs around, spill roots onto uneven clumps and ends. The sweet scent of daisies, gentle petals swaying lightly even in still wind as they lie asleep on the ground. Glimpses of white float in the atmosphere, hung by invisible strings that only the angels can see, them bound to the tired trees. Soft like snow, beauty that melts upon a moment’s touch.

The circle of trees with its array of russet leaves, wizened and wise. A hollow in its heart deep, a possible access to the centre of the earth. Cold and unresponsive save for the lines its rough branches shed. Leaves, first shaky then still, colour of brown turning lighter and lighter into vermillion and sea green. Roots dipping loftily into the stream for a drink.

The tinkling, how lean, clear crystal even when the sky is feeling grey gloom. Where the stream widens, the water gushes with a threatening overflow upward to the narrower path. Fishes, red, blue, yellow and green in delight challenge the current. The occasional hop backwards, as though they are circus creatures putting up a show, their audience the disinterested earthworms and planktons. Goes on and on, a cycle of reverse.

A drenched silver pocket watch, dislodged with fury from the stream and into the nook between overgrown roots. The black seconds and hour hand point at the eight and four respectively. A sad face on the one who knows time best. Any attempt to interfere, turn its frown upside down (hands placed on ten and two) is futile. The whirring sound stirs its hands to where it should be, before a low, sombre hum fills the place. A subtle disharmony to the trickling of water and the occasional blow of the air. Leave it alone, slumbering in the dark, it has done no harm.

The tumble of an odd disposable plastic bag rolls from the stream to the wooden bench, one engraved with constellation marks. Aside from the plastic bag hooked on its arm, it stands alone, almost by the wall. Dedicated to the one who dreams to the stars and beyond, its Latin phrase per aspera ad astra perceivable on its centre. An imperfect frame, likely cut by a knife, slowly etches itself on the bench’s skin, bleeding to remember, bleeding to catch the fleeting.

A glass marble wobbly at the top of the wall, kaleidoscopic, reflecting both the wonder of visible light and its invisibility. Darkness and shadows encapsulated along in this gem. How can one thing hold on for so long before breaking up and apart.

Take it back. Take it in and keep it, only to find out that it’s lost through a pocket hole when it’s too late to turn around.

This is where it ends: over the garden wall.

157.

How are you feeling?

 

How

 

do you find yourself just the way you are, that you sit there with arms folded across a length comparable to the horizon

 

Are

 

you alright in the things you do, where you laugh and smile at the people around you, do you find yourself reaching

 

You

 

are a treasure but do you know that? Could you very well be a treasure hidden from yourself

 

Feeling

 

down and small, like you’re never quite anything at all, but you, my dear friend, is someone I would try for everyday to grow and love more, that you are someone I will continue to care for

 

Don’t you know…?

 

Your smile makes the flowers grow.

155.

Walls have eyes and I have nowhere to go. Man in the mirror, there you stay. Not what I willed, but stuck with you. Dust upon dust upon dust. How long will it take for a flightless bird to fall? One out from the cuckoo’s nest.

Align the stars. Do you see what I see? Do you see me?

Flower on the wall, please continue to stand tall. There’s a light I want to keep by. There is a thudding strange. Does my heart still beat.

You are the monster in the mirror, and it smiles at me. I have a thousand thoughts but none with a key. Where will all the other voices go?

Count with me. Let’s count in reverse: the removing of fingers, the seed-head of a dandelion broken like a blown-up head. Where will this pain lie?

Mankind proud, but small and insignificant in the light of eternity. There is a darkness that no man can hope to destroy.

Name the stars and see if they will do your bid. At the age of the Saturn turn something big is supposed to happen.

There was a post talking about someone being filled with sunshine, and I thought of you. Out of sight, out of mind, they say. But I beg to differ. In this vast digital space, I’m still searching for a ghost. I wish for you a thousand times. You are a sailor, lost in your wandering, and if my pieces could guide you back to the shore, I would do so continually.

Alone. Alone when a glass screen impressed itself between me and others. When thoughts cloud clarity and my mind turns everything into a blur. Who are you, and what have you done?

In dreams, my feet step where I’ve never been before. I am paralysed in the eye of the storm. I see flickering lights. This length reminds me.

145.

They refer to it as the call of the void.

It is the feeling that slips in while standing at the edge of a cliff, or driving a car. There goes the mind that wonders, what if this body stumbles over a loose root, what happens if the foot brake is faulty in its functioning. What if one day, standing by the tarmac pavement, there is a crazed vehicle steering dangerous and there is no want to move aside.

There is no desire to let go of life itself, yet the hand is not clutched tight to save it as well. The emptiness that the darkness of nothing tries to fill. Continue running, this mind.

What if the glass walkway shatters at the act of the maniac. How long will one fall?

Hold a knife innocent chopping the onions, when it could be elsewhere far more sinister.

So many ways to go, but only one determines the end.

Everyone bleeds in red.

125.

IMG_4859

A mental health awareness project much loved by yours truly, sufficient to include it on this paperless space.

Notice the circle, the perpetuation of repetition, madness and insanity, a downward spiral into unending ideas that would not satisfy.

In this city, its life thrives on prejudiced mentalities.

Crumple the list, a useless try at finding reason within these scattered words.

We and me, a constant battle of wills, the other invisible people in the mind are just as real.

Sea of hands clambering for control of the main body.

The crosshatched thought cloud, a small voice hoping for a heart that would love despite odds.

Yet words hurt like a knife and so, wilt from the inside.

The gun explodes against his head.

Strings desperate, give me a lead to reach the person who has gone.

It’s time to take off the rose-coloured glasses, won’t you open your eyes.

This origami crane I fold, a thousand I would to make a wish for you.

A collage made to gather voices, to speak up for mental illnesses as tangible.