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.
She listened to storms, for it was natures way of conveying what was on her mind.
Looking at people, at the world, you can’t help but wonder if you’re really seeing it for what it is. Everyone wears a set of glasses; a pair of spectacles that paint the town for what they wish it was. There are those who wear the famous “rose-tinted” lenses, who see love in the atmosphere and see tiny fairies doing good deeds through the kindness of others. There are those with crisp mint lenses, who wish to better the world; they see everything needs fixing -even things that don’t need it- and think everything needs improved upon. There are those in a violet haze, who see the subtle changes in tones, the difference in body language; these are the interpreters of the world. There are those with deep ocean blue, and they see everything for its deceit; they see into the depths of things, they look beyond the good and only acknowledge the bad. They are honest, but often misguided by their view.
The harsh reality we live in, is that no one truly lives in a clear view. We all see an obstruction of an obstruction, and we color it how we want to see it. Sometimes the haze changes color; it may take years, or it may take hours. Truthfully though, if everyone saw through clear glass, it would make us less of an individual. So what if I see through rusty orange spectacles? I can see pain in all its magnetism, I can see the goodness where there is some, and I can find beauty where there is none. Those glasses allow me to be me, and to possibly switch pairs with someone someday, so they may see my side of things.
It doesn’t matter that we all can’t see clearly.
What matters, is which color we choose to see the world with.
She never knew true sadness, until she realized she was the creator of her own madness.