I don’t want us to be strangers again.
Insomnia.
Insomnia.
My best friend.
It lasts a lifetime
And yet,
Seems to want
To last for endless
More.
I move,
You follow.
I’m bothered,
You bother.
Is this love?
Or are we
Destined
To fight and
Make up,
For eternity?
Sleepless.
Sleepless nights,
Endless thoughts,
I can’t stop thinking
About how this
Life
Is like the last.
How I can’t fall
Into serene slumber,
The kind that
Sweeps you off
Your feet.
I can’t seem to find
The dream that
I crave,
The rest that
I need.
Where did it go?
It was here
Just
A few seconds ago.
Sociopath
The first time she saw it, it was just a glimpse, a glimmer of something that was hidden deep within. Something that she did not quite understand, and did not want to understand, because then she would have to admit it.
If she admitted it, and people knew, what would they do to her? Would they put her on medication? Would they put her away into an asylum? Would they be scared of her?
What would they do if they knew of how empty and cold she was inside?
How unfeeling and uncaring?
If they knew how hard it was for her to be able to feel sympathy and empathy towards those that around her; especially if they were hurt. How it seemed to her, that people she knew could simply fall dead around her, and she would be somewhat annoyed at the need to show fear and compassion. How would they react if they knew that she did not care about others’ emotions, only able to care about feelings when her own managed to be stirred.
But then how deeply did she feel for those that managed to enter her sphere of interest? How much she would do for them and how far she would go for them? Would people be scared if they knew that if she cared for them, she could easily destroy somebody that hurt them, unable to get up, without the bat of an eyelash or a second thought?
She had asked her mother once if there was something wrong with her, and had received the reply that it was normal, that everybody was selfish at their core. Some people were just better at hiding it than others.
But then, sometimes the mother mentions about how when the girl was a child, she had to be taught the emotions she currently projects. It makes the girl wonder, if perhaps all of the emotions she currently shows others are ones that she simply learnt from imitation. Perhaps that is why she constantly feels empty and outside of herself while interacting, as if her body is just following a routine and her mind is somewhere else.
But then sometimes, she has explosions of real emotions; typically, in the form of raw anger.
It was put down to her disorder when she was younger, before she learnt the appropriate way to behave: how to subconsciously block the actual wiring of her brain and pretend to work like a regular person.
But now?
Now that she has trained herself to act properly, what is the excuse now? Why does it often feel like she’s hiding something dark and frightening from everyone, even that loving mother. The mother that sometimes makes the girl wonder, “ Do I even feel love? Am I actually capable of love, or is it just that I’m fooling myself along with everyone else?”.
The girl’s eyes flickered to the mirror. And she saw it there again, that cold emptiness that filled her eyes. She simply stared, accepting and acknowledging she would continue to hide herself from the world.
- Sarah A. Robertson
Dearly Beloved
The hands that flicked through the paint swatches strangely did not match the young face that squinted slightly at each patch of colour. The fingers were thin and elongated with the knuckles bulging almost painfully, the wrinkles harshly defined throughout the entirety of the skin.
“Maybe if you remember the last time you saw it, you’ll be able to find it” the worker offered and the man looked up from the paint swatches he was fiercely concentrating on. The man frowned for a moment, hunting through his memory for a recollection of what he was missing.
The first time he had seen it, it was the scarf that had caught the attention of his fleeting eyes. The scarf that covered the slender neck of the woman that captured his gaze completely. It was her dress, that twirled around her body as he spun her and licked his legs as the soft silk latched onto him only to slip away; almost nonexistent, like a whisper. Then it was the bookmark ribbon that dangled over the brown leather cover of the journal, the ink fresh as she quietly read it back to herself, her lips slightly mumbling and muddling the words. It was the bead that swung at the end of her long earrings, like a pendulum, slowly hypnotizing him until he was forever entranced into ardour. It was his soft slippers that he wore when he carefully nudged her, bringing her out of sweet dreams while each hand carefully held a steaming mug of the same shade. Most importantly, it was the three words that she gently whispered to him, the three words that he had only then realized he had wanted to hear the most in the whole world. It was the next two words that she had gasped when she answered his most important question.
It was what he had lost when the preacher-man dared to declare the words “dearly beloved”.
“I’ll be back,” the man told the worker simply, dropping the paint swatches that he had especially ordered into the store, having paid three times the regular price to do so, onto the counter. The man quickly rushed from the store, his brain racing so quickly that his memory seemed to skip the journey back home, until he was bursting into his apartment. Until he was ripping open the boxes that he had cast aside in the living room, unable to even glance at them for what felt like an eternity. He was unable to move slowly enough to treat the contents tenderly, instead tossing aside the scarf, the dress, the box that stored earrings, and the old weathered journal. He did not stop until he reached the small box tucked into the corner at the bottom. The man tore the box open, tossing the hundreds of photographs onto the floor, spreading them with his worn-out hands until he could finally take a breath. He stared at the single photograph, tucked ever so caringly between his fingers that barely dared to touch it. The man’s fingers affectionately brushed over the close up of the woman’s eyes. Almost immediately after the last time he had seen those eyes, he had already begun to crave to see them again.
The man wondered, when it was that his favourite colour had changed from deep royal blue to this rich hazel green. Why had it taken so long, for him to remember the colour that he loved more than any other?
The colour he had promised never to forget.
- Sarah A. Robertson
Ambiguous Giants
The last time I saw them, I recognized them for what they truly were.
They are everywhere. They make up everything, and everyone.
On the fallen giant they travel throughout, though the main ones, go out in large rings; noting down the decades that have already passed.
They make up the hands that slowly caress the new-born’s face, the third generation freshly delivered. And shape the skin of the slowly smiling face that looks down at the purity of the baby’s pale flesh. They fill the eyes that are old and weary. That have become clouded, over the time that have passed before them. After the loved ones lost and gained. After the fights, and love that they have partaken in. After too much fun in one evening, and not enough time to do accomplish anything. They make up the silver cloud that surrounds the head, but not enough to hide the scalp. They make up more than one giant. Though this one not quite yet fallen.
They make up the body of the small gift made of flight. Each feather nothing more than a whisper, until the crack of the wings and even that seems to fade into them. Even the small tongue, that carefully darts into the flower’s center, is made up of a single one. Until you look closely, and you see it is made up of them too. They make another large giant too, though they are so clearly visible perhaps they should be called another name. These wise trumpeting giants, that would never notice the small life of flight; though it is a giant in its own way.
Each and every being, is neither made nor complete without them.
Such a strange and curious thing these fine lines are.
- Sarah A. Robertson
Follow this chica for some hella fine writing :P
