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A Story

A Story

“When I look into his eyes I see a story, a story not similar in anyway to one I’ve seen or heard before”

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A Postcard

A Postcard

“Their eyes were the same colour as the sea in a postcard someone sends you when they love you, but not enough to stay.”
― Warsan Shire

I linked this to the sea, as the sea isnt always blue, sometimes its green,grey or a mix – at sunset it can be gold or red, and it reminded me how eyes are like the sea reflecting the sky 🙂

Ideas

Heres just a quick idea that popped into my head before- think Ill develop it 🙂 Feel free to comment ! 

When I was younger I got told 
Heaven was a place where you could be re-united 
with everyone who’d left
and everyone you loved 
So I thought Heaven was a beautiful place. 
But as I grew older 
I realized 
Just because someone had left 
doesn’t mean they had died 
and just because I loved someone 
doesn’t mean they loved me back

Dusk

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It is now that  the beauty of existing is most profound. 

The noise of the day
receding into silhouettes,
The sky returning to its global stage even though the audience
has already gone home.
And only the homeless and the insomniacs left to appreciate the spectacle. 
After all only the sleepless understand the true depth 
of time.
And only the sleepless get to see the real show 
Everyone else was sold fake tickets to one-night-only delusions
That will be forgotten when the sun violently wakes to blind them.  
After all, the sun isn’t as humble as the night. 

It is now the weights of the day are dissolved 
by the simple quiet of twilight 
Everything that makes us human 
becomes nurtured and eased,
At rest with the acceptance that we exist. 
That our skin is just for show 
and that the only time we actually feel is 
when we are touched. 
When our nerves lie still and yet the curtain of rain causes fresh 
drops to seep past the muscular barrier 
We all hide behind 

It is now the grace of calm holds us close
When the stars lapse the beaches of humanity like 
Glowing algae kissing the shying salt flats of Bolivia. 
Yet all we ever do is stare. 
Hoping for a Shakespearean-style tragedy 
So we can all wish upon a burning flame,
Reaching out to feel the pain of something very real. 
The mark  it left reminding us of all the hurt in reality. 
And how wishing wont make it any better. 
Because the burn 
The scar 
The memory
Became a story you could tell 
A story from the long nights where we didn’t need to wish. 
We just needed to dream,
Even if that meant having more drinks than usual. 
Because I’m not placing
My hopes,
My dreams,
My future 
Into something that’s adrift  in an emptiness far vaster than my soul. 

So please excuse me if I take solace in the shadow of the world reserved for the restless,
Knowing we only rest-less 
as no comfort 
has ever satisfied our curiosity.
I apologize if I disappear at dusk;
I am just escaping the lust
of what the world has become and
not what it is. Beautiful. Magical 
And ever so slightly 
lost 
And I’m sorry that during the day my body is present only as an actor 
Projecting what it is to survive and not to live
because honestly 
I belong to the night.
I belong to a solar system not a country,
A universe not a race 
I am an existence
and that is 
beautiful.