A girl sits cross-legged, her back pressed against the wall of a small closet space, her eyes trained on a medium-sized window which lay near the bottom of the opposite wall… the crust around the windowsill evidence to support her theory that the window hadn’t been opened since the house she was in was built. The window pane is dusted with what seems to be a mildew looking substance on the outside panel.. and there’s a small space between that piece of glass, and the one that she can touch with her own fingers, leaving an oily smudge across the dusty surface. 

The smell of her mother’s coats tickles her nose, and she lightly brushes her fingers across the fabric to her side.. hanging down from the bar spanning across the walk-in closet space. The door to the closet is a little ajar— though it doesn’t matter to the girl, because her parents aren’t home. She’s been watching the clouds drift through the pale sky through the window for close to forty minutes now… the sound of a band that she loves beating through her headphones into her ears… the words are a little sad.. a little angry… and she loves them. They make her feel like someone understands her, in a world where she doesn’t even understand herself. 

If she closes her eyes, she can picture herself singing these words.. moving her mouth open and closed, like she’s on a large stage in front of a lot of people, who finally hear what she’s saying. The spell is broken, of course, as soon as she opens her eyes… but she can pretend. 

A sigh passes her tired lips.. and she feels old, and young, and everything in between… she feels guilty and angry, and all because she knows she cannot lose herself in music forever. She cannot escape this existence no matter how much she wishes, she cannot become something that is not human… become something that is maybe sound, or a feeling. She cannot disappear. 

This makes her angry.

Of course, she doesn’t show it outright… on the contrary, when she goes downstairs to meet her sister… her brother, she has the most docile of expressions. Her eyes shifting, secretly aching to find someone who notices her indifference.. notices the pain underneath.. and throws her a rope. 

But she won’t find one so easily thrown… no, she has to wait. She’ll wait everyday, wondering why, why, why… until she makes her own rope. 

Until she trusts. 

She will pass through the day with anger, until it is replaced by a wisdom that can only come from yourself. 

That feeling of familiarity.. 

The crackle of a fire, like I’ve heard it thousands of time over.. the warmth seeping into my hands through pores I cannot see. I can feel it chilling me, as I get as cold as I can be, and without the flame I might fall away to freeze.

The sound of piano, calling soft in its namesake.. the way it peals out or drips down or comes around to nudge at memories you never knew you had. Are they there? Are they on your tongue? Or is it a different sense, of being far away, of loving something you don’t know exists. 

Why do I relate it to this? This, my moment of realisation? Do I remember who I am in the end… or is it lost, only to be felt in those odd moments.. in the salty tears on my face when I hear a new song— only to realise that I’d heard it before the edge of my time here.

Yet here.

The cold of snow the silence of air, up in the places I can’t reach. I glance up at the sky, turning with the Earth, and I’m a part of it. 

I’m a part of history of now. 

Of then. 

I can’t help but melt, but hell, it’s well enough not to move. I hear the whispering like they can’t sense me, or like I’ve become their own. The cold under me becoming warm as I watch the light melt away.. the sound of them, the sound of me… the sound. 

Is it a dream? Am I real in this moment, or am I just watching as the universe shifts? Why do I remember?

I don’t know. 

I don’t know.

But I don’t mind. 

To speak without pretense, this is a blog where I’d like to record thoughts.. stories… and memories. A place to put down what I remember, for the times when I forget.. a place to put down thoughts that seem to flit through my head at the oddest moments, and place to put stories and tales that— I hope— will both give you insight and touch you deeply. 

Come here to think, if need be.. come here to read, come here with the desire to understand. Come here for tales and poems and things which flow from the fingertips and lips like droplets off of a leaf in the sun. 

Make yourself comfortable… we have a long journey ahead.