It’s an emptiness.
But is it really?
There’s an ache that exists, and you can be surrounded by amazing organisms and still feel it.
That terrible, awful, remembering ache.
It feel like you’re drowning in the midst of an oxygen bubble.
Which doesn’t make sense; is the water imaginary? Is it all in my head?
No, couldn’t be.
Because even if I’m not drowning, no one’s popped the bubble just to see.
– Back to the writing wheel, yet again. ~ M
She had this look on her face. I had tried for hours to convince her to open her mouth and let go of the shock that remained paled in her skin, “Allahna, what is it that you saw? What scared you in the garden?” Yet again her dark brown eyes met mine. Something was different; they glimmered now where they never had before.
A back and forth pitter-patter of trying to get her to speak, with no response, I took it upon myself to drag her back to the garden. She stood at its entrance. No hesitation; no shaking in her boots. She opened her hand and appeared to have her eyes closed. In that exact moment, a flower was plucked from the foliage grasping the trellis entrance, and was placed into her hand. No one had touched it, and she hadn’t done it; it appeared the wind had grasped it tight and laid it in her hand.
She opened her eyes when she felt the petals plop on her skin. She stared at it, in awe of its bright pink hue. Yet she still was just as pale as before. I knelt at her side, “Allahna, what scared you in the garden?” She looked back at me with once again, glimmered eyes. She clutched the flower in her hand, and finally spoke, “The placement of the flower or garden doesn’t scare me.. Its who handed me the flower that frightens me.” She gives it a will? A person of substance? Yet all I saw was a flower floating to her hand.
“Allahna, who handed you this flower?” She smiled, and then lost her train of thought and paled again. She let go of the flower, “Eden. Eden handed it to me.”
The pink petals hit the ground before her last word came out; the muddled petal colors now reflected how this instance felt. This was Edens garden.
(Would like to say that this is just a play on “The Garden of Eden”, and was not written in a religious way. But read at your own leisure)
Things hurt; that is forever a given. That seems to be the piece of knowledge no one can escape.
Scars act as a reminder of those givens; a piece, of a fragment, of a morsel of the pain. There was a instance in his life, where no scars were bare on him. He was blank as a white piece of paper; no rough edges, no lines scribbled. Yet a day approached him in his adolescence where he suffered the worst scar he’ll ever come to experience. He was on the phone with her, listening to her silence, hoping what was playing in his head wouldn’t sing out of her mouth; he guessed wrong. The words didn’t hit him like bricks or knives; rather they were an earthquake that shattered a crevice into his being. He hit the red button, ending not only a conversation but a time in his life. And the only reminder he will have is the divide, caused by an earthquake, manipulated by a woman.
(I’m back ladies and gents.. time to write some emotions)
She read romance novels, for they fed her heart the love she needed.
Trees have leaves; obviously. Though have you ever noticed that sometimes it’s just as hard, if not harder to pull a dead leaf off than a fresh one?
This is sort of how life works; newer things in your life are easier to separate yourself from, whereas something that’s been in your life for awhile is harder to detach from. I thought to myself that all these leaves, are attached to trees that give the leaves life; even still, leaves die. It reminded me, that not all things that appear to benefit you, truly do or will in the long haul. As far as people go, we sometimes cling to what we want or what we need; in the most harsh of cases we lose our morals, our minds, our hearts, or our life. Sometimes it’s not even our choice to be a leaf on a certain tree.
There is an upside though.. While leaves die, and crunch under your feet during the Fall, don’t they also come back in the Spring? You may lose your color and be a detached leaf on the ground, but there’s a new bloom just around the corner. Maybe you’re meant to be knocked down to be picked up.
Truth be told, you can crumble like a leaf many times attached to your tree of life. You just have to decide whether or not to bloom again.
She listened to storms, for it was natures way of conveying what was on her mind.
It is an odd feeling, to be the one who remembers the most.
I remember people I only spent a day with; they cling to my brain with a tight grip, refusing to let go. It’s a mortifying thing to remember all, yet also a gift when you use it correctly. Memory serves us in a way, that we choose the moments we wish to dwell on. I always find myself riddled with remembering people. I’ll never forget people I spent a few measly hours with. I don’t forget the tone someone used to talk to another, and it will haunt me till morning. I dwell on a memory of a person, because I feel some people should be remembered. Maybe I don’t know them, and perhaps I will never see them again; but I’d rather have a great moment captured in time with an acquaintance, then have never had the moment at all. It is also quiet fascinating how one moment from one person will stick in your head; that moment had such an impact, it never leaves you. I always remember being at a family friends birthday party, and one boy came up -who had been very reserved most of the night- and just introduced himself. We didn’t talk later that night, nor did we talk after it; though I remember his confidence, and the subtle intrigue he had to know who I was. I remember a neighbor who I only saw for three days, before they stopped coming to my house; they taught me how to whistle on a leaf of grass. I remember they were reserved, but filled with knowledge of little things. Neither of these people might even remember me, but both memories serve me very well.
The boy who introduced himself taught me that it is worth that one moment in time, to just have no fear; even if the only words spoken between two people is their name.
The neighbor taught me that not all knowledge should be shared; some mysteries shouldn’t be solved till the person gives you the clues.
People are fascinating, and the only way to preserve them is through memory, however tiny. Don’t be afraid to be the only one that remembers, be afraid of being the one who forgets.
Each tiny moment in time is significant, if you let it be.