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.