The people always talked about the weather...but never about the sky.

She looked at the lady in the mirror, the last bits of youth had fallen off her face now, she had stayed much too long again, but it was such a nice place, the people here had been so kind and always talked about the weather…but never about the sky. She had almost forgotten that she was looking for the sky people, it would soon be time to stop looking in mirrors.

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This one I tried to keep alive but the forget-me-not was dying

There is another sweet flower down the garden path and again I beg myself not to do it but the begging is no good and again I think of the sweet thing as love long gone, as if back to visit for a brief time and without words speak of all that could not be said, I will look on it with eyes full of wonder and admiration for it’s beauty and those same eyes will cry that such a thing should have to die. Whether I beg it to stay or not it never makes any difference, it will be gone all the same and again I will torture myself and will watch it die and bury it and grieve for it and pray that soon too I may be the brief flower on this earth so that I may be sweet and be gone so my mind and heart may stop feeling everything, the beauty of this world.


Awaiting room.

And again I found myself in the corridor. I had been walking this same corridor for many years now, walking away from something I had lost or trying to go back to find what I had lost I could no longer distinguish and could barely understand now why I still walked it. There were always pretty distractions along the way, kind people promising they knew which way to go but I was led away instead to dead end rooms where fancy dress parties were never-ending. Returning to my corridor always, on the walls sometimes would hang nice pictures and mirrors that were reflections of ‘possible worlds’ and I would stop for long periods and take rest indulging in them and imagining life without a corridor. I was so tired of walking and so one day I begun to imagine a little too deeply whereupon the corridor finally ended and turned into a room. An empty room all but for two open doors, on one door read the word ‘Stay’ and the other read ‘Disappear’ but I hadn’t been given directions for which door to enter and felt the choice was not mine to make, so no door I would enter until the directions were given to me. In the room, much like every generous waiting room appeared some blunt pencils and musty colouring books and so I kept busy and instead of colouring in some one else’s design, I made my own designs, drawings of what I had lost and as I coloured the designs in I found little traces of what was lost and wondered, is this all the corridor was meant for? somehow understanding that within this room it would be the closest I will ever come to ever finding what was lost. It’s a nice place to wait I suppose, I don’t mind the emptiness and if my directions ever come I shall be on my way but if they never do I will sit here and draw and keep busy and will continue to think it best that I never knew.