36

Why do we shroud ourselves in anonymity?
Because we wish for no one in real life, to see the things we hide in the darkest corners of our minds.
The things we wish never to utter, however need so badly to drawl upon some hollow place.

This.

This little spec in an ocean of like minded anonymous raw individuals, alike every other, and personal to each.
This; is the ultimate safety, found in words written alone.

Hello there, stranger.
And welcome to my mind.
Utter my name, and it becomes barred from your eyes, never know my face, and my deepest thoughts are yours.

35

Thud. Thud. Thud.
As each day goes by, you've made my heart race just a beat quicker, and each time your skin touches mine, I swear it stops, for just one second.
You terrify me.
Fucking hell, I'm petrified of you, and yet, I continue to grow closer to you, my defenses for once obsolete and futile.
I am defenseless.
I am fucking defenseless.
And, the funny thing is; I know.
I know that this, this fragile imperfect vulnerability, this trust, this uncontrollable indecipherable magnetism, is just what I've been protecting myself from, all this time.
I know that.
I know I've succeeded in the past.
I've succeeded to such extents, that I've earned the title of "Emotionally Dead Inside," "The Ice Queen."
I can hear the words, I've heard the words:
"Her... Her? Ah. Yes. Her. One day, you'll meet a wall, a wall of which you'll never get past."
"...Never."
"Never ever."
And yet... you did it.
I know you have.
You got past that wall.
Fucking hell, By now you've broken through so many, I've come to a point in which I willingly give you the key, knowing I've surrendered.
Knowing I've surrendered to the magnetism, to the chemistry, to the pure indecipherable desire to just... be next to you.
To just... tell you things.
To just... be vulnerable with you.
And not only that, but that pure unadulterated bliss of knowing, that you do the same.
That you're terrified. That you freak out. That you, just like me, are battling with defenses.
I like knowing that.
And I like how we both just squeeze the others hand, that little bit more, when we know the other begins to grow scared.

You scare me. And I scare you. In fact, you and I?
We petrify each other, push each other to panic attacks, and crumbling defenses, shaking hands and underlying insecurities, and yet, in the end, it's each other we turn to, to dispel that fear.

For that... For that... I just.. Plain and simply... Submit.
I submit.
Terrify me. Petrify me.
I still submit.
Simply because you make me so very happy.

And you're very, very, wonderfully so, you.

34

Knowing what is going to be destroyed is a scary thing.

Moving forward in spite of it; That's even scarier.

33

I wonder what strangers think of at night.
I wonder whether they wonder what a stranger to them thinks of, as they write.

32

Where is the balance scales, for I can feel the measure, and yet lack in substantial concrete value.
I have one side, weighing down upon metal, raising it's counter part to the sky, but the other side?
The heavy other half?
It's poignancy is not evident yet.
It's presence is certainly known, it's ominous inevitability is certainly existent, however, as of yet, it itself is not existent.
And yet, again, where is the balance scales?
For while I know one value, the other I do not, and yet I'm sure, the poignancy of one far outweighs the other.
Perhaps because I know of it's measure, or perhaps I merely know of it's strength.
It's weight against a darker other half, I feel sure, Is worth the risk.

31

Ignorance is bliss.
Have truer words been spoke? I fear not.
That then begs the question; Why so do we seek out the answers to all, when our blissful ignorance is what broadens our dazed smiles, and alights colours a shade brighter?
Do we fear ignorance, for knowledge only of it's potential detriment, it's underlying threat; the harsh abrupt truth; lying in wait?
But is that to say, we should not relish in ignorance?
I may have believed so, once, but my lessons in life have brought me here.
To a place where ignorance is appreciated, rare, and gently guarded.
It is not wallowed in, nor is it eradicated.
It is appreciated for what it is' the bittersweet moments before inevitability strikes, and life intervenes.
It is to say... Appreciate knowledge, for it is your saviour in the dark.
Appreciate ignorance, for it is your moment in the light.
Appreciate those brief moments in which knowledge exists in stark white light; in a rather optimistic grounding, far removed from the pessimistic label applied to realism.
Appreciate those golden moments of clarity, and see them, as all things, for what they are;
A good truth, among few.
Ignorance is bliss; Indeed.
However, as is knowledge, if perceived correctly.
To find bliss; It is only a matter of knowing which mentality to choose, and when.
Knowledge and Ignorance; the bountiful foundations of unadulterated bliss.

30

I want to write to you.
Actually, I want to write a letter for you, that I will never send.
I want to... I want to say it out loud, what you've been brave enough to say.
I... You're so much braver than I am. Even though this scares you just as much as it does me.
You... Even though sometimes your hands shake, even though sometimes you go quiet, even though sometimes when were pulled close together, you whisper to me that you're scared, that you're fucking terrified... You still...
You're still brave enough to tell me how you feel.
You're still brave enough to reach for my hand, rather than me reaching for yours.
You're still brave enough, even though this scares you, to speak in the moments of silence I hide in.
I... I've lost all choice in this.
I can't push you away, I can't go cold, I can't detach.
You're in my life now. You're... You actually matter.
You mean something.
And that scares me.
You scare me sometimes... Fuck. You fucking terrify me sometimes.
You really, really fucking terrify me.
And only because you mean so much. Only because I know, I fucking know that we're gonna hurt each other one day, and right now, we've both lost the capability to prevent that.
We've both tried, and failed to detach.
And now we're here.
And I actually miss you.
Fucking hell, I miss you.
And... that's saying something, Because... me? I don't miss anyone.
I don't need anyone.
People matter but... I can be without them.
But, I miss you.
I find myself smiling at you when you talk, when you're arm reaches across my waist, when you say so brazenly;
"I was going to kiss her. Thanks for ruining the moment."
I find myself wondering where you are. I feel... happier when you're there.
And... I feel a little bit more unsteady when you're there, only because I actually give a damn that you're there.
I feel safe with you.
I feel... secure, and happy, and... you make me smile so fucking much.

You're my closest friend, and I trust you with everything.
Fuck... You're more than my closest friend, and I trust you enough to say that.
I trust you enough, to be so complete and utterly vulnerable with you.
I trust you enough to give you that power, to crush me.
I trust you, and adore you oh so much, for just how you, you are.
Thank you, for being so fucking terrifyingly you, and being the person that I could be so terrifyingly me with.
Thank you, for making me see the world I'd eradicated with all defenses, all promises, all vows of protection.
Thank you, for being so fucking terrifyingly wonderful.

29

I'm at a lost as to what to type. Not for lack of words, but for lack of beginnings.
So much to say, and not a sentence can come to mind to begin a tale.
Electricity.
Magnetism.
Chemistry.
The ultimate, uncontrollable, indecipherable force of which overpowers every shred of your skin.
Consumes every vein, alights every breath, quickens every pulse, burns every minuscule piece of your cold body, drawing your hands from fists, and reaching them for another's.
The raw, uncontrollable release of palm upon palm, breath upon breath, lips upon lips, as you find yourself surrendering to passion.
Surrendering to lust, vulnerability, and trust.
Surrendering to someone else, giving them the ability to crush you, with just one flinch.
With just one word unspoken, one word spoken too harshly, one glare too icy, one decision too raw.
Surrendering all that is vulnerable, all that is real of you, and to another.
Surrendering, just... surrendering to the magnetism that grows to control you.
Surrendering, simply... to someone else.
Choice is evaded.
In fact, there comes a point, in which there is no choice.
There comes a point, when you realize, cutting this person from your life has become an impossibility.
A greater hurt than to be vulnerable with them, and a difficulty not met before.
You try once.
You try again.
Your defenses fight against inevitability, and fail.
Eventually, you find yourself lying on your back, head raised to the ceiling, music pumping through your ears, as your eyes trace each and every single crack, each and every cemented piece upon your walls, and all you can think is how much this scares you, and how much of a choice you do not have.
All you have is this:
You've finally found someone, that is worth enough, that is worth so fucking much, that you are helpless to push them away.
You've finally found someone worth trusting, someone worth the inevitability of pain, someone worth being vulnerable to.
You've finally met your bittersweet downfall.

28

Woven. The intricacies of relationships, the complexities of lies, defenses, insecurities, and the raw vulnerable revealing of self.
Woven; My current, beautifully complex, beautifully woven; life.

27

However.
The word of which begins, or ends all.
“I love you, however…”
“This can’t happen…. However…”
The word that switches everything, and squeezes your ribs for just one second, as you wait in agonizing anticipation for the closing statement.
For the words you wish to hear to, or wish you’d never even have thought.
The words that, for just one second, one tiny moment, change everything.

26

Sitting in the sun, with music pumping so sweetly into your ears, you fail to hear the creak of the rocking chair, as it balances under your sleeping weight.
The wind gently caresses your neck, intertwining it's force within your hair, pulling it softly across your cheeks.
Your legs slowly pull up, as you tilt your head back, pressing it against the wooden backed chair.
You lift your head to the sky, face the sun, and simply smile.
Everything is gonna be OK.

25

I like seeing that some individual from Canada keeps going back over a blog post, and another from America seems to check on the same story, each day.
I like seeing that some stranger from Singapore has inadvertently clicked a link.
I like seeing that 20% are Google chrome users, and another 70%; Mozilla Firefox.
I like seeing that blue strike running upwards, just ahead of the creation date.
I like the fact four Americans will have read post 12, and another three have read 07.
I like to think, rather than that, that one person just keeps going back to the same story.
I like the fact a stranger loves my music, and decides to subscribe to me for it.
I like the fact strangers have liked it on Facebook, and I can never find out their names.
I like the phrase "Perfect." when left on it's own.
When it's meant.
When no smiley faces adorn it, and it stands alone.
I like the poignance of some words.
I like how, even though they are abused, even though they are overused, their meaning can be found once again, with just the  right string of words.
I like how a stranger doesn't lie.
How they don't need to waste time, pretending they like your work.
How they'll tell you if they do, and they won't if they don't.
I like the way strangers eyes are so magnetic, so indecipherable.
I like the way they have no demands, no expectations, no constricting opinions, and care so little.
I like that.
I like how you do not rely on strangers, and they in turn do not rely on you.
There is that trust. That rust not to trust each other.
I like that, it's certainty and it's solidity.
I like how a stranger doesn't know how you laugh when you're lying, how your hands fumble, how your words fall when you grow introverted.
I like how a stranger has nothing but to take you, for all that you are, rather than expect more, rather than place you in that hideous place of pedestal and grandeur.
I like how the stranger desires nothing from you of mind, only of body.
I like how they lean forward when you tell them you've loved this band forever.
I like their reaction when they realize you're not as dull as they're expectations had prepared them for.
I like the strangers that maintain that mystery, and yet intrigue with each select word they utter.
I like how a stranger will momentarily cease to conceal their identiy.
How their smile will falter as you smile in return, and tell them that movie you adore, that song you grew up to, that night you'll never forget.
I like how they stop looking at you like they had, in that second of understanding, and see a person behind the facade of mysterious stranger.
I like how their face changes, and soon you begin to speak to a human, rather than an idea.
I like how the mystery still enstilled within them, and in you, perfects the line of opinions.
How the intrigue of this person merges with the removal of their defense, and for a brief moment; you have met the most exciting person on earth.
The fact that you do not in fact know them, is the preservation of their perfection.
They could be anything now. Anyone.
Maybe they have other movies in common too?
Maybe they love that song aswell?
Maybe they think similarly?
Maybe, just maybe, this is the perfect stranger, who will grow to be the perfect person you were fortunate enough to meet.
I love how this is never true.
I like how you'll catch them sneering at a passer by, flinching for something you said, grinding their teeth in an anxious manner of distress, confessing an all too raw truth, breaking the lines of the perfect stranger with one hand gesture too close, one smile too sly, one word too cold.
I like how this happens, each time.
I like how the perfect strangers exist, but the perfect people do not.
I like the imperfect people.
No. I love the imperfect people.
I love the fact they become part of life, rather than immaculately constructed opinion of a strangers first words.

I like the strangers that never spoke, most of all.
The ones that you crossed paths with once, and remembered because of a muddy shoe, a bright bag, a nondescript tattoo.
I like them most because they seem the most human, and the most painless.
They are the ones of which you complete and utterly can let "be."
These are the people you will never know, and who will never know you.
These are the perfect strangers.
The ones who could haunt you, with just one lingering glance.

24

I hate the sound of church bells in the dark.
When you can hear nothing else, not even the beat of rain against rooftops, nor the footsteps of a stranger.
Just silence, interrupted by the ominous call of metal on metal, as it echoes through dark streets, and forgotten doorways.

23

Maybe music does more than alter or instigate a mood.
Maybe it convinces you more than that.
Maybe music convinces you; This is who you are.
Maybe music is wrong.

22

http://8tracks.com/vanessawur/screw-california
Writing to music.
It's almost as if each note, each chord pulls at your finger tips, and induces greater language than you thought you had possessed.
Simply put: The voices of others, the raw emotion of music, and the vulnerability of self expression...
It only inspires more.

21

Whole.
To feel whole, is it not the greatest desire?
To feel the security, the safety, so often found in another’s arms, a favourite song, a warm coffee cup.Or the sense of whole, found in freedom.

I used to own a golden cage, that could fit within my palm.
It hung from a golden chain, and swung from my ceiling; the moon's light lining it's rounded form.
I used to lie in bed, and watch it swing back and forth; a little blue bird trapped inside, rocking gently on it's perch.
I adored it.
I would lie awake, my hands wrapped in white sheets, my neck wrapped in curls of hair, my legs curved up against my body, and I would just watch, as light seeped through it's cracks, and lined the blue birds back.
One day, I took the cage from my ceiling, and placed it in my pocket.
As I walked, my fingers fumbled against the metal each time they grazed my leg, each time the cage shook, and the bird hit metal bars.
The cages form started to grow warped, as the metal ridges began to bend, and I watched the bird become encased.
No longer able to swing back and forth upon it's perch, but now frozen in place, the bird's beak pressed up against it's trap, until, as the cage twisted and pulled; it finally snapped apart, setting the blue bird free.
It's home was now torn, it's protector, and savior now parted, as it swung, back and forth upon it's golden perch.It's head facing the sun, it's wings enclosed by no thing, restricted by no bar, held in by no cage.

And so now the golden cage hangs from my ceiling, it's doors parted, as sunlight encases a free blue bird's form.

20

Facebook; a word synonymous with the young technological socially advancing generation of this 21^st Century, 500 million users, and all the time expanding, this site has become more than a social networking ground.
Facebook, it seems is no longer an escape from the stresses of reality, but has in fact become the reality for millions of teens worldwide.
The infusion of cyber space and reality has long been discussed, and as this technological era continues to grow, we are beginning to see the effects of this dangerous merging.
No longer is the internet merely an accessory to life, but in cases such as Facebook, it influences and has the potential to shape social life.
It is whether this growing social control of this site is beneficial or detrimental to this generation that must be called into question.
While potentially controlling, and socially influential, Facebook is not without its positives.
It connects people of whom would not otherwise pursue friendships, connecting family members abroad, such as in the case of myself and my sister, communicating to each other on the other side of the world, all from the comfort of home.
However, the overall social control, rather than alleviation of this site, generates a tool of which has more control of its user, than the user has of it.
The loss of privacy, the overwhelming addictive nature and the social pressures and requirements of Facebook lead to a raw personal message board, publically accessible to all, and permanently existent on the internet.
To be honest or even vindictive behind the shield of a screen is far easier than to speak in face, and in such terms of social liberation, younger more inexperienced users become manipulated.
On Facebook, one secret, if inadvertently posted by a friend, remarked on by a user, can instantly become the property and knowledge of every Facebook friend, within seconds.
It is this rapid distribution of personal data, the addictive and easily vindictive nature of the site, and the permanent existence and lack of control within the site’s settings and history that bring a simple networking site into unsteady ground.
The moment in which the escape from reality becomes reality itself, is the moment in which these sites go from fantastic, to futile.

19

Shape. I love the shape of things, the robust texture, the strong smooth exterior.
Like a porcelain cup.
Reshaping coffee to it’s own form, molding it to it’s own, just like a perfect puzzle piece.
I love the way hands encase that cup, how fingers will lightly press against each other, reaching half way across the sculpted lines of porcelain.
I love the way the froth gently lines your lips, filling in the bitten cracks of soft skin.
I love how heat emanates so calmly from cup to hand, from hand to wrist, from wrist to arm, from arm to chest, from chest to heart.
I love the silence that ensues, as thoughts quietly bop along the surface, hidden behind blank grey blue eyes.
How those eyes will trace those fingers, taking in each wrinkle, watching as they move to fit across moving knuckles, as skin upon skin pulls a cup slowly to dry lips.
I love how simple this is.
How real this is, how void of drama, frivolity and futility this is. I love how this, just this, is detached from life.
It's the split seconds you sit in silence, and contemplate all that is around you.
The seconds in which you watch the sun crawl across the sky, dragging it's light along the pavement, lining the dark corners of your home, of your hands, of your eyes, and you just smile, and watch the world grow old before your eyes.

18

I'm sitting here, right leg rested across left, my feet pressed against cold tile flooring, and I'm just... swaying to music.
With no intention, no desire, no need, no cause... Merely content.. to be content.
I love days like these. Because.. They don't feel like days.
They feel like I'm trapped.. No... They feel like this uncontrolled freedom within one second of time. A second of time that is frozen still, that lives outside of light and dark, emotions and memories, consequences and worries. This second.. this silent explosion of freedom within time... It feels as if it will never end.
I sit here, white light from the computer screen lining my face, curving against my nose, reaching points in my eyes it chooses to reflect upon, and I just.. stay here.
I'm so free.
I'm so free, in this second of euphoria and music.
I'm free of pain, and of worry. I'm free of tomorrow, and I'm free of yesterday.
I'm free of the future. There is nothing but this second.
And I can never give this mood a name. It has nothing, happily. It is... it is a mood in which removes the entire outside world, wraps you in a cocoon of pleasant freedom, and just allows you for a few hours, to feel: "This is it."
And this is it.
This feeling of electricity in my lungs, running along my veins, circling across my ribs, bubbling in my throat, resting against my heavy eyelids... It's the realization that for one second that lives across hours, Everything is going to be OK.
Everything is going to be OK.

17

Today... Today it was finally sunny, and I felt so distant that even I could notice it.
But... it was OK. Just... standing outside, digging my toes into pebbles, feeling the sun on my chest and my forehead, and it was OK that I didn't feel like as if I was there.
It was OK to feel like I'd left this world for longer than I'd thought I could.
It was OK that... this time, It didn't hurt, it didn't end anything, nor did it inflict upon my thoughts.
I just... I just haven't been here in a while.
My feet are removed from the ground until a smile or a chord brings me home. The only thing that seems to hurt me lately is when people demand I come back home, when they tell me this isn't who I am, even though... I would surely know myself best.
I'm tired.
I'm tired of being told I amn't good enough, I'm tired of being told that I must be who I was, not who I grow to be.
And ... The people who worry, take that as a sign of too much, so ... I merely need to filter myself, take time, and space, and ... leave earth for a while.
Today... When do you define a day as being complete?
Mine tend to drift off into 4am of the next day..
I had a few odd thoughts today... From what I can remember?
One) I seem to miss few things, if ever.
Two) I am becoming my father.
Three) The difference is, I choose not to be.
Four) My mother is lonely.
Five) My sister is lonely.
Six) 6 billion people in the world so often feel lonely, despite the fact there are so many of us. They say the lonely are awake at night, and I've found, that is when most people are online. Is that to say that among 6 billion, because we are not forced to communicate, we wish to do so more? But we are crippled by rejection or judgement we refrain from taking that extra step?
Is it to say that we trust so few, that we find loneliness the easier option rather than a "Hello?"
Do we push away others, not because we don't trust them, not because we dislike them, But because we're afraid of needing them so much? We're afraid of trusting someone completely, and letting someone in, that before we no longer have a choice, we push them out?
I think too many of us choose loneliness before a broken heart.
I think we make the wrong choice.

Today didn't feel real.
Today, I don't feel real.

16

I wish for people not to leave, and only tell pieces of paper, rather than the person.
"Please don't leave. Don't change like the rest of them. Don't leave me."
That's all I could do. I wrote that into my journal, accepting that I'd one day I'd have to let that person go, and all I'd have to tell about it would be a piece of paper.
Is that lonely?
Is that passive?
Do I just not fight?
Enough questions. I've asked twenty pages worth in hours, and I still find no answers.

15

Today, will not be remembered.
Today can be yours to imagine.
Today can be the day in which you piece all the memories of your teen-hood into a few hours, and believe that is what happened.
Believe that it happened with such electricity as your mind wishes to portray, believe the memories your mind wishes to paint and exacerbate.

14

There seems to be two things of late;
One: When I have no troubles, I appear not to write much. When I have none at all, I do not write, However, that is not to say that day was good,and, it is also not to say that day was bad.
It is to say, that day could not be put into words, simplified, nor could it reach a conclusive end.
Two: They say the lonely people are awake at night.
I don't know what this means for me.

13

To feel content, happy, at peace. Where does it derive from?
Where does contentment grow from? And equally, contempt?
Is it the limits and requirements we set out desires upon, or is it the continuation or destruction of the surroundings we now find ourselves in?
I am, at this moment, sitting in an Ag Science Class, not caring about "identifying different silage quality" to such extremities even I wonder what generates such distaste.
In short, legs crossed under a lab table, hands pressed against cold surface, listening to a pen scratch across a white board; I am not content.
"Step 7: Leave for a period of time."
What is it that fuels the drive within to feel contempt, content, happiness, insecurity, and claustrophobia?
Why do we grow to feel these? Why do we act on these, consciously or sub-consciously?
Why do we allow minute glitches to end all forms of content, however briefly?
Why am I no longer content?
Is it preparation for a fall? Distance before a hit?
Or is it merely the reasoning, "With great things come even worse things."
Or perhaps it is merely just innate. Instinctual. Compulsive.
Push away. Distance. Detach.
Perhaps I am still too unwilling to face governing factors of both protection, and hindrance.
The matter at hand is that my governing glitches, are hindrances not only to myself, but to others.
It is a continuous strain to appease myself and others, all the while struggling against governing instinctual calls.
"Sensitive, but may present a tough exterior."
My happiness, or, contentment does not appear to necessarily rely on things, but oddly, it seems to thrive upon the moments I relinquish all control.
Hence, when instincts and unignorable ones at that, resurface and govern, I am left silent, "Distanced", "Heartless," "Emotionally dead"... On the exterior of course.
I am incapable of doing so in honesty.
I am merely a good liar, to both others, and myself.
Is that to say I "emotionally lie" for instinctual protective means? Or to merely detach from individuals, and the possibility of losing something, rather than letting it go.
Do I distance for fear of how much something means to me, before it can mean more?
Do I merely need someone to be forceful and stubborn enough to insist upon connection? Someone who is ignorant of "ice"?
Do I distance for belief than no one cares enough to trek the space generated, to pull me back, rather than suffocate and leave me restricted?
Or perhaps I am just not allowed distance.
Or, perhaps my social nature, flaws or faults may be hindrances to all others, and contrast to far.
Too many questions, not enough answers.

12

She was wild with anticipation. Her heart tore against her ribs, slamming against each crevice of skin, the beats roaring in her ears.
Her toes hung across the cliff face, pebbles digging into her soles, the wind ripping against her neck.
Raising her hands out to the horizon, she roared.
As loud as she could, pushing her chest forward so each miniscule piece of voice was expelled from her lungs. She closed her eyes, and screamed to nothing.
Her scream broke to laughter, wild unashamed bellows of joy, catching in the wind, running through the strands of her hair being torn in the air, dragging towards the horizon.
The deep blue below slammed against rocks, white foam lashing forwards, climbing for her feet before falling below, to whence it came, and as she lowered her head to watch, her eyes caught each spray of water, each escaping droplet from the vastness of its home, before returning in ripples of silent defiance.
She pulled her feet across the ground, leaning her shoulders back, the wind dragging against her shirt, whipping it across her waist, pulling it up against her stomach.
Her skin prickled with the cold, with the strength, with the freedom.
Like an invisible hand, the wind ran against her neck, running along her spine, touching each bump, each bone, each muscle, each pore, each mark, each and every piece of her shaking, laughing body.
She dove.
In aggression the wind tore against her throat, forcing it’s way through her teeth, lashing against her tongue and drowning in her lungs, her voice bellowed through the air, echoing to the horizon, as a mere blip in each sound of the earth.
Her hands reached the tip of the ocean as it began to encase her form. Running along her skin it swallowed her whole, and then, all was silent.
There was nothing to be heard.
This was another world, a world of deep blue and mystery, and in these few seconds that she sunk gently under the earth’s surface, her own breath escaping in bubbles of light above her head, she relished in the silence, in the stillness, in the peace.
As her last remaining bubbles of air escaped her mouth, a smile drew across her lips as she dragged her hands through blue, clawing her way towards the surface.
The tip of her forehead tipped the surface, the weight of her hair suddenly pulling against her face, sticking to her cheeks.
Droplets of water hung to her eyelashes, lining that glassy stare into the horizon.
Her neck rose, lifting her lips to air as she inhaled that salty fresh breath, her lungs throbbing gently from the purity.
Her clothes clung to her body, her shaking legs, still recovering from her leap, her strong arms, resting against the still blue ocean, her chest heaving in elation.
And as she grinned, as her eyes spoke words her lips never could, she would never notice the ripples emanating from her body, with each breath she took.
Ripples, like the droplets of water, in silent defiance of the horizon, in silent defiance of all.

11

Long ago, before Earth, before light, and before dark, a heartbeat began to thud, eons away from the blue planet’s birth place.
Lifetimes away, a cold hand pressed against fiery ground. Nails dug into volcanic ash. Fingers drowned gently in roasted soil.
This place of cold heart, and warm land, was called Io.
A fiery beast of passion, Io prowled, stalked and watched over Jupiter. The fire within it’s’ core driving it towards insanity as it watched it’s beloved planet rotate in isolation.
Io could touch no thing, and no one. It was a beast of passion, cursed and left in solitude by its own flames.
To touch Jupiter, to even come close to it, would render the peaceful gas giant to nothing.
And so Io lived alone.
A lonely star among billions, until the fateful day a heartbeat began, and touched the ground of Io.
This ice white hand and frozen heart, belonged to no thing of name, it was a creature of silence, of beauty, and derived itself from Io’s fires. It took it’s breath from Saturn’s rings, it’s eyes from burning nebula’s, it’s soul from stars.
Its’ skin, made of fire, could feel no heat. It could walk Io’s land and remain unscathed. Its heart, made of light, could see no end.
It stood. Grand upon Io’s highest peak and raised its slender neck, straining one ice white hand towards Jupiter. The distance rendering the planet so small, the creature could grasp it in its hand, and a smile ever so slightly lined its porcelain lips.
It called out, and Io heard it’s cry.
Io turned, and in horror, saw the white flesh of this creature as it stood proudly on Io’s molten rock surface, flames circulating it’s slender form.
Io watched this creature’s sickly sweet smile; it’s dead sparkling eyes, as Jupiter rested in its palm, from so far away.
“Name yourself!” Roared Io, trembling in fury as it’s mountains began to crumble, it’s volcanoes beginning to erupt white flames of passionate aggression.
The creature just stood. It’s cold but beautiful eyes rested on Io’s as it tilted it’s head gently, and watched this explosion of emotion.
Emotion. The creature could not name it, it could not feel it, for while it’s heart beat, it beat for nothing.
It turned it’s head towards Jupiter again, and began to walk towards it, it’s cold feet dragging against Io’s back as he roared in agony and in fear for his beloved planet.
The creature walked faster as Io roared. It’s feet moved quicker and kicked red ash. It’s silver hair pulled back against it’s neck as it’s legs began to bend, and the creature began to run.
It’s lungs filled with fire as Io bellowed in anger, it’s eyes gently watered as it ran through smoke and dust. But it still ran.
It slammed its heels into molten ground, traced it’s hands through fiery air, as it came closer and closer to Io’s love.
Io began to plead, the fires of its fear and passion turning blue and red under sparkling stars.
The creature could not understand his words. It could not begin to contemplate the pain in Io’s soul as he watched this figure run towards Jupiter, helpless to defend.
A peak jutted out from Io’s surface, facing Jupiter, and the creature had begun to leap and dart through the fiery cracks of this beast to reach this jagged fragile rock.
Io roared once more.
The creature froze and met his burning eyes. Saw the pain that lined them, and merely watched in confusion.
It pointed to Jupiter again, it’s eyes never leaving Io’s.
Io spoke again, imploring the creature to cease. The white figure of icy heart merely smiled, it’s black starry eyes void of emotion, void of empathy.
It took a step forward, onto the jagged cliff of Io’s surface.
The fear within Io shook his core, and it burned brighter and brighter as he contemplated losing his own purpose in life; his silent lonely planet.
The fire grew and grew until Io’s ribs, Io’s earth surface, could no longer withstand the flames of his heart. Io’s heart, had begun to tear apart, and as it did, it tore at Io’s surface, ripping apart rock, thrusting mountains aside, heaving land forward with lava and fury.
The lonely star of passion had begun to destroy itself, to destroy the creature void of life.
In one final, desperate attempt, Io roared once more as the creature traced its feet against this harsh ground, lifting one foot out over the cliff face.
Both watched each other, In silence, in misunderstanding and confusion.
Lifting itself up, the creature rested on one toe, gravity raising its form higher, and it was in this moment, as its hand reached for Jupiter that Io’s heart broke.
The flame and passion of Io tore at the creature’s cold heart, as the star’s core imploded, and the two beasts collided.
An inferno of ice white and burning red circulated one another, faster and faster they spun as a star collapsed within itself, and tore the white creature within.
Taking light, and stars, nebulas and two souls, the inferno of passion and ice spun.
Falling into itself quicker and quicker, tearing life into a black abyss of molten rock, and sparkling black, Io remained silent, and watched as darkness grew, and his lonely planet fell from view.
In fear and in death, Io and the white creature reached out for one another, both so unaware of each other’s intentions, each others plight, and failing to care in these final moments of certain end.
The white creature could do nothing but part its icy lips, for it had no voice, no language of tongue.
In the mass of dark, light, stars and souls, its eyes bore into Io’s, and Io, in agony stared back.
In this moment of raw emotion, raw fear and certainty, all froze.
Two beasts in silence, each watched the other’s soul reach its final moment, all the while, the lonely gas giant of Jupiter spun, again, and again, and again.
Dancing over destruction.
And in one spark of unity, one final glance, the creature of white, and the beast of heart, were gone.
And the lonely planet forever spun, without it’s beast of love, and it’s creature of soul.

10

Clap. Clap. Clap.
Her hands lightly hit each palm, her fingertips lingering in the beat, her chest rising each time she heard it.
Her toes curled gently, her neck loosening to such extent she could feel its weight as her eyes shut, and she felt her senses drown.
She was gone.
Her lips failed to resist the tingle. That promise of a smile that lined her skin as her hands began to beat harder against each other.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Raising one hand she ran it through her hair, dropping it to her waist as her body moved, a voice calling out in notes, driving her to dance, clasping her heart in beats, in rhythm, in soul, and controlling it.
She spun in circles, feeling notes travel across her neck and through her ribs, that fire, that drive, it began to course through each crevice of her skin as her feet dragged across wooden ground, her cold toes pulling up against gravity.
She was lost in this voice. She smiled, she closed her eyes tightly, tilted her head back and breathed deeply, taking in each crevice of soul and passion in the song, surrendering herself to each and every hit, every bit, every guitar strum, every drum, and she just spun.
She was gone, from the world, from this room, from the floor beneath her, and the roof above her. To her, she had nothing, she was nothing, she was lost in everything, and through it all, she smiled so unashamedly, so blissfully, in this freedom.
The fire within her ribs rose and rose, penetrating through her skin, her fingers flexing with each beat, her wrists becoming loose, her arms no longer her own. Music pulled at her legs, her waist, her stomach, her neck, like a puppet, each note pulled each string.
Her heart beat in time, she swore it. She swore her pulse ended with each break, her heart freezing with each emotion as she spun and spun, smiling broader with each move.
Her voice rose, she could resist no words as her chest rung out beats of feeling, as her teeth clicked against her tongue, her head raised to the sky as she sung, and her words fighting with that smile.
In that moment, as her body left her, as all her senses shut down, as she drowned, each crevice of her vanishing, she could think of no better feeling. She could remember no greater freedom, no greater strength nor satisfaction.
Her feet spun faster and faster, skipping across one another, her legs twisting quicker and quicker, her hands ringing in each beat, tearing each crevice of reality with each claw through the air, and she just sung, and smiled. Until the songs final beat.

09

She is nothing and no one, among nothing.

She has face, a smile, and a voice.

She has thoughts. She has secrets. She dreams.

She wishes.

She sees, and wishes not to. She relishes in sight however.

She dwells on touch.

She takes it as solace. She is lost.

She is lost.

She is lost.

She is lost.

She wishes for no end. But understands not why there is a beginning. Why she is built to survive.

She understands not why she can feel touch, why her body freezes in silence, her instincts rise in moments of fear.

She is bitter.

She has no faith in earth, she accepts its shadow.

The image of a mother mourning over the death of her child, lost in a tsunami, haunts her.

She wishes to never in life feel that pain. She fails to understand how love can exist, how people can faun over such joyous emotions when such moments of devastation occur each second. That every day, more people are unhappy than happy, that statistically, humans are more likely to kill themselves, than someone else.

She believes that, when she heard it, she believed it, without question.

She sees no point. At one time, having no point was enough, to do something simply because she could, simply because she wanted to, was enough.

She knows she will reach that moment again.

She knows she will read this again, and scoff. She will scrunch up her face in disgust and in embarrassment.

But she knows she will return here.

She strives to be something, to create herself.

She thought she knew who she was. She did not.

She is restrained.

She has had a good life. She has in helplessness watched others suffer.

She is bitter. She is very bitter.

She expects nothing from the world; she feels neither owes the other something. They merely co-exist.

She plans to run. She doesn’t know what she’s running from.

She attempts to understand her motives, and others, for everything.

She is confused about her own.

She dwells on everything.

She does not know what she wants; only what she doesn’t want.

She is tired.

She is emotionless.

She is lost, and she is bitter.

She is scared.

She is tired. She is very tired.

She is scared of what will become of her, who she will become, not what will happen to her.

She does things because she is supposed to, because she believes it is what she wants.

As she grows older, she realizes, this is wrong.

She doesn’t know who she is anymore.

But as she grows, she realizes who she truly is, better with each day.

08

She breathed deeply. Her hands rested against her stomach, the heat emanating from her fingertips as she lay under soft sheets, and watched her dark ceiling.

Closing her eyes, she tilted her body on its side, rolling across until she lay curled up, one hand curved against her neck, the other, wrapped around her waist.

Her nose lay gently pressed against the translucent curtain of blue she hung above her bed, as sparkling butterflies drew across it, tied nimbly to its peak.

A minute blue bird sat in a golden cage, suspended by a chain from her lightless ceiling.

The moon’s rays dimly fell across it’s back, before retreating behind her curtains, failing to return.

She inhaled deeply, smelling the heat off her pillow, the smell of her shampoo lingering on her sheets, trapped in her hair that wrapped securely around her throat, strands resting against her cheeks.

Tracing her fingertips gently against her bed surface, warm breath passed against her lips as she pulled her stomach in further, her arm wrapped softly around it, holding her in.

She could feel no greater desire than for that of sleep. She relished in such simplicity. Her eye darted briefly to her notebook, leaning against her bookshelf, a pen tossed against it.

She refrained.

Some emotions, some nights, some days, and some memories, could hold no words.

They could fit no page, be felt with no prose.

They were… timeless.

They were moments in which she lay in silence, and could feel no pain, no future, no past, and no present.

They were times, in which she was alone, and could wish for nothing, and feel for nothing, but that of content.

She lay that night, her eyes shut as a smile lingered, her arm warmly pressed against her neck, her nose gently pressed against blue curtains, and in that night, she could feel… not elation, nor sadness, but merely, contentment with all.

As she rested silently, she could think of tomorrow and feel no worry, think of yesterday and feel no remorse, think of today and feel no strain.

She could feel no person, see no face, nor hear any voice.

In this moment, she was not there. She was happy, and she was free.

07

Pulling down on the string latch, the light bulbs of Roxanne’s dressing mirror flickered briefly, before steadying and building up to a dull shade of white light. Dull shadows cast along the back walls of her room, as she puckered her lips and leaned closer to the mirror, pulling the cigarette gripped between her long slender fingers closer to her mouth.

With her free hand she pulled at the edges of her lips in distaste, taking a drag from her cigarette and leaning it atop a black ashtray at the edge of the table.

Reaching for her lipstick she held it to her face, tracing the outline of her lips gingerly with her fingertips, frowning at the slight lines developing on her upper lip. Dabbing the lipstick on her lower lip and with a quick “smack” of her lips, she dragged the deep classic shade across her mouth, pursing her lips together and pulling in closer to the mirror.

Her now light grey eyes were powdered with smoky grey and black shades of eye shadow with layers of mascara generously applied to her lashes, a black netted head piece was drawn across half her oval shaped face, touching the white fur shoulder piece wrapped snugly around her upper half.

Her legs were pulled in tight together by her slim fitting black dress, pressing her hand against her stomach she attempted to breathe in deeply, struggling with the restraint her dress was putting on her lungs.

Slipping on her black high heels she grasped for her cigarette again and drew it to her face, resting it on her crimson red lips, and inhaling deeply, releasing the puff of smoke moments later, allowing it to pass through her netted head piece as the smoke twirled upwards.

Leaning back against her chair, her cigarette lolling carelessly in her hand over the side of the armrest, she tried to listen to what was going on outside her dressing room.

The deep hum of a hundred voices ran through the corridor, the constant sound of thousands of footsteps vibrated through the wooden floorboards, as exclamations of excitement and anticipation echoed through the hall as spectators made their way to their positions, she heard the excited squeal of a young girl echo through the long hallways.

Roxanne retreated her focus back to her room, at this point wary of her screaming fans and criticising new comers, wary of her monotonous existence, wary of her disappointment.

Roxanne, from a young age had dreamt of being famous and successful. Strong, independent, under strong spotlights with a Hollywood smile, loved and cherished by all who knew her; she had wanted to be a star.

This, Roxanne managed to achieve. She was beautiful; the face of Chanel’s new line of perfumes, while selling Millions of her sultry jazz records worldwide.

 At the start she had had that Hollywood smile she soon became known and loved for, its sincerity however died, as her career and fame progressed, and the colours in her life began to fade.

While the lives of others existed in a world of colour, Roxanne’s consisted of shades of black, white and grey, the colours vanishing from view as the years of her life had drawn by without fulfillment, finding only empty shallow satisfaction in what she had come to, in what she had become.

It was a small poster in the local grocery store that had spurred Roxanne’s desire to, as she felt it, “Become something.”

It was a small piece of paper, almost lost among the other, much larger advertisements surrounding it.

A smiling beauty seemed to shine through the dull parchment, one eye shut in a cheeky wink. This beauty was surrounded by cheesy slogans and outdated advertisements, attempting to sell last season’s shoes, or “Mamma Maria’s Cheese bake”, But this, this star shone out like the sun peering out behind a foggy sky. This star lit something in Roxanne’s heart, as she stood there so young, clutching her tattered teddy bear close to her chest, her eyes lit up in admiration and curiosity.

“That’s Cassie! She’s great isn’t she?”

Roxanne’s blue eyes looked up, craning her neck as far as she could to see the dark figure above her, stuffing green “Refreshers” into his mouth, his jaw lolled lazily to the side.

 The sun pierced through the curls of his hair, raising one hand to her forehead Roxanne narrowed her eyes in an attempt to make out his features.

Sitting now in her lonely dressing room all Roxanne could remember about him were the dark curls of his hair, the way the sunlight piercing through them blinded her, and his brown eyes.

Roxanne, too shy to ask who this goddess “Cassie” was, stared up at the chuckling young boy in silence, with a smile he understood,

“Do you know her?”

Roxanne lowered her head and shook it vigorously, her pigtails hitting her cheeks as she did so.

“She sang that song, you know? You know the one…” Humming to himself and tapping two fingers to his thigh he nodded his head and smiled, “You know that one?”

Roxanne drooped her head and focused her blue eyes on her red buckle shoes. Her mother had polished them that morning, spitting furiously on a paper napkin and rubbing vigorously at the dirt,

“Why do you do this Roxy?!” She had spat angrily, “So many stains, Always stains with you.”

“Do you know that song?”

Roxanne’s focus was drawn back to sunshine, dark curls and smiles. She shook her head in response.

The curly haired boy knelt down, his head now level with her shoulders, and looking up at her he smiled,

“I don’t hum it too well, do I?” he grinned.

Roxanne couldn’t help but smile and buried her head into her chest, her small chin resting on her collarbone. Her pigtails flopped down and hit the sleeves of her dress, delicately fitting into the cream creases.

With a mumble resembling the word “No” she shook her head again.

From the corner of her eye she saw him focus on her, his smile faltering at the edges slightly, his brow furrowing,

“Are you all right?” Craning his neck upwards he attempted to catch a glimpse of her face, she flinched and attempted to move her head away, however his own followed, smiling teasingly as his eyes tried to find hers.

Seemingly giving up he rummaged in his dungarees pocket and revealed a small green refresher, wrapped in blue and yellow with white sherbet seeping out the edges of the ripped paper.

Holding the sweet under her nose he nodded towards it,

“Want one?”

Her blue eyes shot up instantly, scanning his face for a shred of insincerity, briefly stopping at his own brown eyes before they crinkled at the edges as he smiled in triumph and she realised he had won, he had seen her face.

Gingerly taking the powdery sweet from his hand she nodded, and proceeded to strip the refresher of its wrapping, placing it into her mouth at record speed.

“Tanksh.” She mumbled through the gooey mess sticking to her teeth.

He nodded obligingly and proceeded to pop another into his mouth, “You like her?  Cassie?”

Licking her lips gleefully and inspecting the tips of her fingers, Roxanne’s eyes returned to the red haired girl in the poster.

A fat silver microphone in one hand, the other pointing behind her where a crowd of fans screamed in adoration, she smiled gleefully through the parchment, a laugh frozen on her face,

“She’s so pretty, and so happy. And look at all those people, they love her so much.”

She stared at the almost psychotically besotted people, their arms raised in pure elation, their smiles big enough to burst.

The boy’s eyes flickered to hers while she stared at the crinkled poster, resting on her for longer than she was comfortable, looking back at him he blinked furiously and refocused his gaze on the poster,

“What’s your name?” he asked, standing up, now a head taller than her, his arms resting uselessly by his side.

“Roxanne.”

“I’m Noah,” turning to her he smiled, “And you know what Roxanne? Someday you’re going to be like her, you’ll be pretty and happy just like her, with loads of crazy fans.”

Roxanne’s eyes lit up, “With a smile like hers?”

“Better, A smile like yours, and a big fat microphone to boot!”

“Thanks Noah.” She smiled, staring at the poster in a new light, the spark in her heart lit by the mere sight of this poster, now bursting into flame.

“No problem, you just owe me a refresher when you’re famous.”

With violent urgency Roxanne’s dressing room door was thrust open, and she was pulled from her daydream. Standing there breathlessly was her grey haired assistant, “10 minutes ‘til you’re on stage Rox’.”

“Jesus Kyle, Knock next time, yeah?” Like piercing daggers her glare shot across the room, her nails instantly clinging to the wooden surface of her dressing table as the black polish glinted harshly under the white light.

With a nod and a mumble he retreated back to the corridor, pulling the door closed rapidly behind him.

With a sigh Roxanne slunk back into her chair, gripping her forehead in her hand, reaching for her cigarette with the other. With a drag and a puff of grey smoke she shut her eyes, resting her gently shaking hand on her stomach, the heat emanating from it warming the tips of her fingers as her thoughts drifted.

Noah. She hadn’t permitted herself to think about him in years, guilt and remorse making even the mention of his name painful; his face, now a blur, forcefully pushed out of her mind, his brown eyes stubbornly remaining imprinted in her brain.

She had been seventeen the last time she had seen him, 20 years ago.

The pair had stood there in the rain, screaming at each other through the thick mass of water pellets beating against their backs, almost pulsating in time with their racing hearts.

Roxanne could feel the rain hit her head harshly, over and over again, building up in droplets at the ends of her hair, as it hung lazily across her forehead, before splashing to her cheeks, blurring the lines of freshly formed salty tears.

“What do you want from me?!” she had screamed, her chin quivering so hard her words were almost lost in the fury of the storm.

He had just stood there, staring at her with cloudy eyes, his brow furrowed in almost the same way as the first day they had met.

The day when he had offered her a green refresher, when she had clutched her tattered teddy bear under her tiny arms and he had promised her a million dollar smile, happiness, and a silver microphone; the day she had felt a heart’s spark burst into flames.

“What do you want?” Roxanne wailed again, her voice finally cracking; reduced to a whisper she edged closer to him. She watched as his face scrunched up in disgust and he dragged his feet backwards, hard against the gravel, his sneakers pulling at the rocks as he pushed back. The sound made her jaw unconsciously click.

“You know what I want. Just wait a bit longer! Wait a year!” His voice ripped through the howling wind, harsh through his gritted teeth, his Knuckles turning white while his arms hung seemingly helplessly by his side.

“I have to get out of this god damned town Noah!” Roxanne pleaded, her hands raised to the skies, raindrops cascading through the spaces between her shaking fingers, she glanced behind her shoulder, the taxi cabs’ engine still gently purring by the curb, “I’ll lose my mind if I stay here! There’s a life out there for me Noah, a real one, a future! It’s fine for you to stay and bartend for another god damned year but that’s not me! I can’t wait anymore!”

“Why? I just don’t understand. ” His eyes bore pleadingly into hers, “This never bothered you before, I just…I just don’t understand.”

His words hung uncomfortably in the air, the wind’s force momentarily picked up, pulling aggressively against Roxanne’s hair, whipping it tightly across her neck, like a noose. And he just stood there, unmoving, unflinching in the wind’s force.

“I have to get out…” Roxanne began, her drenched hands pulling at the hem of her shirt uncomfortably, swiveling her foot on the spot she turned to face the taxi cab, swaying slightly on the spot, doubt seeping uncomfortably into her stomach.

“I don’t understand. What are you running from?”

Roxanne felt her shoulders become tense and flinch up towards her neck; she permitted herself to turn back around.

His curly hair was now matted to his young face, carrying droplets of water that proceeded to hit the tips of his lashes and collide with his jutting, sharp nose.

Lowering her head she proceeded to push through the wind towards him, her hair thrashing furiously across her cheeks, leaving them with a harshly heated sensation through her skin, placing a hand on his shoulder and pulling him towards her she smiled and mumbled,

“I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too but…” His face was so wrought with emotion, Roxanne forced herself to look over his shoulder, unable to cope with his confusion and hurt,

“Shut up Noah.” She laughed weakly, patting him on the back and releasing her grip. Her smile faltering only when she looked away from him,

“You’re just making mountains out of molehills…”

“It doesn’t seem that way…” He argued, less aggressively this time however, uncertainty causing him to doubt himself, “Am I…?”

“Yeah.” She smiled, “Now can I get into that bloody taxi before I catch Pneumonia? And for the love of god..!” She exclaimed, staring in horror at his soaked and now almost black jeans, “Get inside, you lunatic!”

With a weak shrug he nodded and smiled, “Yeah yeah ok,” with a tight warm hug, he laughed, “See you soon then?”

Squeezing Noah back, her arms locked around his chest, her fists balled up tightly while her jaw clenched, “Yeah, soon as possible right?”

“Right.”

With a brief and uncomfortable pat on the back she let go, turning quickly to face the taxi cab, refraining from running towards it, attempting to make a dignified and gracious exit.

Her shaking hands lost their grip on the door handle, with a grasp she reached for it again, tore it open, and shut the door behind her, the pounding raindrops now numbed, its rhythmic beats now gently thudding against the car roof, as the engine’s gentle purr revved up to a deafening roar.

“Roxanne!”

Kyle stood breathlessly at the door of her dressing room, beads of sweat clinging desperately to his forehead, his eyes wide in panic,

“On stage! Now!”

With a resigned sigh, Roxanne pressed her hands against the arms of her chair, lifting herself up, releasing the cigarette between her fingers into the black ashtray and made her way to her dressing room door, her mind slowly regaining its focus on the present.

As she made her way through the corridor the screams of her fans grew louder, echoing towards her, the chants of hundreds crying her name hit her as weakly as a rain drop falls. She had become desensitized to what should have set her heart racing, her knees buckling, and her legs shaking.

She could remember the first time she had performed professionally, it being one of the greatest memories of her life, it was hardly glamorous.

Minutes before going on-stage she had thrown up behind the back of a trailer, a makeshift dressing room filled with second hand clothing, due to her racking nerves. On finally making it to the stage she had been greeted by a flock of skeptical viewers, waiting eagerly to judge, she had tripped on one of the black cables running along the stage floor on making her entrance, fell to the floor before picking herself up and nervously laughing into the microphone, “Hello New Jersey!”

Her first performance was, in fact, in Wisconsin.

In the end she burst out laughing, not sure what was attributing to her unbreakable good mood, with her being either petrified or in shock, she burst into song, grasping the microphone tightly in her hands, pulling it right up to her lips and belting out notes of pure elation.

Luckily for Roxanne the venue was small, situated in the upper floor of a local bar, and most of her spectators were considerably intoxicated, by the end of the night they were screaming for an encore, however it came out in the barely decipherable and memorable words, “Acorn! Acorn!”

By the end of the night the exhilaration running through Roxanne’s body was like electricity coursing through her veins, she felt, not that she was floating, but that she was rooted firmly to the ground, a sense of belonging leaving a smile on her flushed face as she finally experienced the feeling of having found her home, the experience of pure, indestructible joy and accomplishment, she had become something, someone.

And now, she was walking down this dark corridor, thirty seven, living with the regrets and mistakes that brought her to this moment, her black high heels clicking against the linoleum flooring, surrounded by her body guards, a cage of black moving suits. She elegantly made her way closer to the screams, numb and emotionless, a mask of insincere happiness printed on her face, concealing the truth, of Roxanne Barish.

Roxanne, the woman adored and revered by her fans, for her class and elegance, her beauty and talent, for her compassion, for the happiness she had bestowed on so many, for her music.

Roxanne Barish was not the strong independent sultry woman her image portrayed, she was not the brassy individual singing those songs of love, betrayal and victory.

She was fragile, broken down, torn apart, she was regrets, and she was mistakes, she was a longing for acceptance, she was a longing for love, she was the remnants of a seventeen year old girl, irrevocably in love with her best friend.

That warm fleeting hug was the last time she had been close to him, heard him, even seen him.

Digging her heels into the podium steps she pulled herself up the stairs, her manicured nails clinging to the silver rail, the crowd burst into uproar at the sight of her.

Ill fate resulted in numerous cancellations each time Noah and Roxanne attempted to visit each other, all the while, her feelings grew, slowly consuming her, governing her.

Finally, in late January she sent him tickets to her next gig, and he had sworn to come. She remembered standing at the centre of that stage, her microphone clutched desperately in her shaking hands, craning her neck to see over the numerous smiling figures, searching, desperately trying to find him in the crowd.

Stepping out onto the wide stage, she was forced to raise one hand to her eyes, squinting under the harsh lights, like stars peering out from a black mass, she reached blindly for the microphone, the crowd hushed in anticipation, the tension almost tangible in the hot hair, she was unable to see to the end of the crowd.

On January 21^st 1990 a two car collision occurred just out of Missouri, involving a female driver and two other passengers, and a single male driver.

In a deep confident voice she smiled, her red lips projected behind her on colossal flat screens bigger than her childhood home,

“Hello New York.”

 The crowd screamed in unison, their ferocity, like waves violently beating off a cliff face, seemed to go on forever. Hundreds of banners were held up, and swayed gently above the heated, intense crowd.

From where she stood, Roxanne could see a young girl, sitting on her father’s shoulders.

Her small hands wrapped tightly around his forehead, while her fingers seeped into his hair. A red balloon was intertwined with her fingers and hung lazily over her head as she smiled uncontrollably, and her father swayed under her weight.

“Thank you all so much for coming here tonight.” She smiled politely again and nodded towards the crowd, maintaining her composed posture.

The crowd cried out again in ecstasy, a teenager near the front of the stage was reaching out wildly, her hands flailing above her head,

“I love you!” She screamed, as Roxanne’s eyes flickered in her direction, her voice almost lost amongst the thousands of screaming spectators, its sheer manic pitch just barely making it audible over the uproar.

While the female driver survived she suffered serious injuries, multiple contusions, fracturing multiple ribs which then resulted in a punctured lung, ambulances on the scene were able to assure her survival

With a turn of her head, she nodded to her drummer near the back end of the stage, lifting up one of the drumming sticks he signaled he was ready, mouthing silently through his lips “One, two, and a one two..”

The beat began, rhythmically beating through the crowd, the base guitarist chimed in with a heavy melancholy chord,

“This,” she smiled angelically, “Goes out to all my fans.” The screams reached further heights, as she began to tap gently against her thigh tuning in to the beat, humming it silently to herself.

The backseat passengers had to be cut out of the car by the fire brigade on scene, and while suffering from near fatal injuries they survived, having to undergo counseling due to post traumatic stress after the incident.

 “All of my fans that have stuck with me, through so much!” Roxanne smiled, as the main guitarist picked up the beat.

The male driver involved in the crash suffered serious head injuries, various contusions and upon being taken to Missouri University hospital underwent numerous and extensive surgeries in an attempt to save his life.

 “This is my cover of ‘Strings’,” Roxanne smiled towards her audience, “I hope you enjoy it.”

Pulling the microphone towards her, Roxanne shut her eyes, and inhaled deeply, the crowd roared, the ground beneath her feet quaked gently.

At 8:32 in the morning, January 22^nd Noah Madison of Missouri was pronounced dead.

Dr. Anthony Dawson, Missouri University Hospital’s chief neurologist, on being questioned in relation to Noah Madison’s tragic death stated,

“We did all we could. Unfortunately Mr. Madison’s extensive injuries were not compatible with life. We wish to express our sincere regret and condolences to his family and friends. ”

Any further questioning was prohibited due to the ongoing investigations into Mr. Madison’s death.

Roxanne, oblivious to these tragic events, had called his house phone that January morning, leaving numerous disgruntled voicemails, followed with the demand to call her back.

 Putting down the phone in an exasperated sigh she had switched on the television, resting her feet on the stained coffee table and leaning back in her couch. And that was when she saw it, blurred images of silver shrapnel, footage of torn up and twisted car frames, a blonde pristine presenter solemnly reading out the day’s news,

“…further questioning was prohibited due to the ongoing investigations into Mr. Madison’s death.” She continued, as Roxanne’s silent tears dropped into her coffee, her white knuckled hands gripping the mug, those Doctor’s words spinning in horror in her head as through her lips she found herself whispering over and over,

“No, No, No.”

Flicking back a hand to her hair she swayed gently to the music as the crowd roared, closing her eyes, the cold metal ribs of the microphone pressing against her crimson red lips,

“From the wrinkles on my forehead, to the mud upon my shoes, everything’s a memory…”

Her voice echoed through the crowd angelically, as her fans began to sing with her, their hands raised in unison, swaying slowly,

“…With strings that tie to you.”

06

Thrusting her hand deep into the bag of sand, her expression remained frozen. Tiny white particles encased her shaking skin, catching between her nails, gnawing into the cuts of her fingers.

She could feel nothing.

Only the sand running along her wrist. She dug deeper. She felt it rise to her elbow, press tenderly against her veins, its cold touch reminiscent of childhood memories.

She was taken back to simpler times, when skimming stones with a smiling face was enough, when counting the pebbles marks on the water were suffice to make a heart beam.

She clenched the sand within her palm. The particles pressed against the lines in her hand, filled every crevice, line every wrinkle.

She grazed her thumb against her index finger, crushing sand within her grasp, her jaw grating in strain.

She could still feel nothing.

She could remember walking the edge of a beach with her father, her toes tenderly pressed in against the damp sand, water lightly circling her ankles.

She remembered the feeling it gave her. She remembered how secure, how strong, how real she felt.

She remembered thinking that this, this moment, was what it meant to be alive.

Her eyes widened in fear. She raised her hand from the bag and thrust it in again, let the sand drag against her skin like rock, let it cut her knuckles she thrust so deeply, let it dig between her nails she pressed so harshly against her palm.

Still, she felt nothing.

Only fear.

She ran through her head every reason to feel, dwelled on every crevice of heart, every exposed piece of emotion.

She wished to exploit it. She wished to drag her still mind into the chaos of feeling; she wished to escape this cocoon of silence, of nothing.

She saw everything.

Everything in her world, she saw how her world was, and how she had seen it.

She could see each world was different, and she only wished to have different eyes with which to see her own.

She wished to see the world the way in which others she had seen did. They could see one of joy, one of hope, of destiny, of fate and of love, one of inevitability, one void of loneliness, and filled with emotion.

Her world, among billions, she could not see with these eyes.

She could see no destiny. No point. She could see nothing that existed. There was nothing.

Only the feel of sand against her skin, only the feel of cold white particles drag against her knuckles, fill the lines of her clenched fist.

She could feel nothing. And so she drew her hand through sand, to feel in physicality, if not in heart.

She told herself, in a world where nothing existed, where nothing was real, to feel was enough.

You could not hold a feeling. You could not touch it, or even see it.  It was as real as all else.

She lifted her hand from the bag, pulling grains of sand upwards as she did, and her eyes traced the marks in which the particles had left, raw red lines, indents of white; of feeling.

She could only watch and wonder, why it was that she could only express herself, when she felt nothing.

Why she remained silent when she felt everything, and saw the world with eyes that were not her own.

She felt no one would ever see her heart.

She did not care.

She only wished someday, to see it as she once did, not as a machine, as an instrument of living, a cause of living, but as a red beating beast of emotion, a reason for life.

05

With my laptop tucked between my knees, and my spine gently curved against the couch, I sat, and thought.  Watching miniscule snowflakes silently drop, and melt upon the ground.

With my fingers nimbly pressed against the keyboard, my lips were pursed, as words failed to come, and grand poetic gestures of depth failed to surface, failed to pool at my fingertips.

The snowflakes kept falling.

I thought, of how much you meant to me, to my mother. How much, by you just being you had changed our lives beautifully. My thoughts travelled to my mother. The woman of whom, alongside you and your family’s influence, has developed the person I continue to grow into, and to be.

I thought of who my mother was. Who she had cocooned herself into, and I remembered dark nights in silent rooms, watching the moon crawl across the sky, as I watched my mother sit in solemn contemplation.

I remembered hearing your name for the first time, the smile that lined my mother’s lips, as she told me of the woman who worked in Spillar’s Lane.

I remembered hearing the laughs and murmurs inside that gallery, the first time I walked by and you were there. How my mother, with a smile so fantastically grand, strolled in, and began to talk again, to the infamous Antoinette, of whom I had heard so much.

As my mind drew back into memories, snowflakes continued to drift lazily along the wind, and rest against cold ground, my fingers still lay against black pads of letters, my lips still pursed.

I remembered the force and confidence in which you knew my mother, how you could decipher each and every facial expression, know her lies and her truths, and tear her from her cocoon, with such love and strength.

I remembered how much I loved you, even before I knew you, for just how happy you made her, how strong you made her, your friendship easing the transition in which my mother became, Ann.

Explosive, roaring and wild Ann, with unashamed roars of laughter, uncontrolled bouts of fantastic insanity, and smiles of incontrollable euphoria, no longer a silent suppressed soul, now free to fly, with the wings you gave her.

Time continued to speed on, as my eyes glazed over, and I gently relived memories, specs of white frozen raindrops skimming past my window, as I traversed to the depth of you.

I thought of the traits in which I admire in you, the traits of which I wish to possess, and treasure in any individual; your strength, your defiance, and your loyalty, your passionate character and fiery self. Your loving nature, your honesty as an individual, your depth, and equally; your simplicity, in that, you are who you are, and you see the world, as it is, and take it for no more, and no less.

I thought of the utter warmth you have brought into both my life, and my mother’s, and I am sure, countless others.

As my eyes drifted from the snow, and watched the flickering lights of my Christmas tree, it only reminded me of the emotion in which linked itself to this sparkling piece of metal.

I thought of what Christmas had used to mean, of the loneliness and hatred it seemed to represent, and I could only smile at how starkly this contrasted with the life of which I now possess. The life of which, its emotions, have formed from the warmth of you, and your family, and the family of which you have generated for me.

I thought of the gifts of which you possess, and the influence of you, on my own character, life, and choices, in the way you made me feel, the self worth you made me see, and the love in which you accepted me into your life, with such utter warmth of which I had never to that extent experienced.

I thought of how much, how truly phenomenally you had inspired me. A spark of absolute purity and unashamed euphoria of inspiration, and I knew in my head, you were my greatest inspiration.

Your existence and the life you have lived thus far an honest inspiration in the way I think, feel, and view the world around me, the world of which you have changed, and truly for the better.

As I blankly stared, the snow ceased to fall, silence ensued, and I gently returned to the present.

To the feeling of the pads of my feet pressed together, the heat of my wrists against my stomach, the gentle weight of my fingers against these black keys.

To the feeling of my back, curved against the throw in which you bought for my mother, on the couch of which you helped her pick, in the room you helped create into that of a haven, in the house of which you helped create a home.

To the feeling of electricity in my veins, the deep emotion of silent happiness, security, and strength, spinning in my chest, coursing along my bones, as I thought of all you’d done, and all that you are.

And no poetry could come. No metaphor of such linguistic grandeur as to make a soul cry, no expression strong enough, deep enough, to express that of which I feel, and many others, for who you are, all that you’ve done, and all that you continue to do, and be.

And so I sat. And I wrote. I wrote all that I could, the raw truth, void of naivety, poetic metaphors, emotive language and linguistic grandeur.

Just… the plain, honest, truth.