The Secrets of Trees
"Away from the fog, away from the mist,
away from the cry of what you most miss.
Away from temptation, away from the wall,
away from the senseless desire to fall.
Tread carefully, my child, walk away from the shore,
stay here, with me, think of yonder nevermore."
---------
Elijah chokes on his dreams. He thrashes upright, eyes flashing open as he wakes, blinking until the shadows clear and light enters his vision. The front of his thin shirt is soaked through with sweat.
The limbs of a honey locust tree hush in the wind above his head, pale green sunlight filtering down to dapple the backs of Elijah’s hands, the bare length of his legs, the tanned skin over his arms.
It’s disorienting — the breeze, the cry of birds, the sun on his face — until he remembers. He had collapsed here last night, sheltered under the curve of this tree. He had run from the cries of his mother, the curses of his father, the tightened fists and harsh words and empty beer bottles in the sink.
As his breathing slows down, as his chest stops rising and falling with a rapid desperateness, Elijah reaches for the dregs of the nightmare that had woken him.
He had been running. Running across soft ground unlike the hardness beneath him, soft ground that gave way so easily beneath his feet, making each stride a battle. It had been dark, and cold, the sun missing from the sky, the wind howling in his ears like a wounded animal. Whatever had been chasing him had caught up. Elijah had become one of the shadows, swallowed and buried until he had forgotten who he was.
Elijah shivers despite the heat. He remembers the very end of his dream, the lilting rhyme he knew so well that had filled up the empty spaces of himself, that had made the darkness seem that much more real as it had crept into his lungs and heart and mind.
"Tread carefully, my child, walk away from the shore…"
The same rhyme that the younger children sing on the playground as they jump rope. The same rhyme that his mother hums on good days when she’s got the windows open and her hair up, stroking the piano keys she loves so much. The same rhyme that is inscribed anywhere it is necessary — in the hospital, at the beginning of every book, hanging in a friend’s kitchen on a custom-made plaque.
Elijah swallows past the terrible dryness of his throat. Around him a forest of honey locusts and white oaks and red maples sway and dance, their branches tangling together above him like fingers interlocking over bowed heads during Sanctuary.
"Sanctuary."
The thought hits him suddenly, panic shooting straight and true through his heart. He scrambles to his feet. Today is Sanctuary and he can’t be late, no matter the cost.
Elijah begins to run, his sneakers finding hard, unforgiving soil this time as he flies through the trees.
---------
Elijah’s mother is a porcelain doll beside him. Her face is powder smooth, her lips a beautiful red, her golden hair coiled and piled on her head with practiced ease, a few curls escaping and framing the elegant lines of her face.
To anyone sitting around them, Elijah thinks, she must look like a queen.
To him, her son, she looks like a woman who’s been dragged from her throne, locked up in a tower surrounded by chains and thorns and hard fists. A queen without her crown, enshrouded in lies and pretense as she covers her bruises and cuts with makeup, as she keeps her frail shoulders straight even though Elijah sees the flinch in her eyes every time his father shifts beside her.
Elijah bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood, hates himself for how perfectly still he has become over the years, a prince of silence. He’s still just the little boy cowering behind his mother’s legs, running to the trees for comfort while his mother braves the storm on her own.
"Coward," his brain whispers. "You deserve this life."
Elijah jerks himself away from the poison of his thoughts as the crowd around them rustles and shifts, a low murmur going through the room like the sigh of the wind in the treetops. The Provider has arrived right on time, her crimson skirts rustling around her ankles as she moves to the front of the room, turning until she is facing the rest of the village. The sunlight streaming in from the windows behind her throws her features into shadow, casts a reddish glow at her feet.
Elijah is reminded of his nightmare, of the shadows curling inky fingers around his throat.
His mother turns to him slightly, as if she can feel it, the sudden renewal of fear in his bloodstream. But Elijah doesn’t meet her eyes. She bears enough weight on her shoulders and Elijah can smell the faint scent of rum on her breath.
She only ever smells like that when the pain is too much, when it needs to be dulled.
Instead Elijah stands with the others on shaking knees as the Provider raises her gloved hands.
"Away from the fog, away from the mist…" The voice of the crowd rises up to the rafters — solid, firm, unwavering. From here Elijah imagines he can see the lips of the Provider curve with satisfaction, pleased with her children and their obedience.
The words of their ancestors ring up to the high ceilings. They are the truth they all live by. They are the key to the ongoing success and happiness of this village, of the towns and villages and cities that surround it, of the small nation they all belong to. Every child is raised with this truth, spoon-fed the stories that are there to warn and protect them.
There are monsters out there, past the rolling fog that encompasses the edges of The Boundary. The crash and roar of them is forever present if you dare to go close enough to the towering, ivory wall of swirling mist to listen.
There are people out there too, Elijah has been told. People who are unlike others, who are different and wrong and frightening. People who try to send their mothers and children across The Boundary with the pretense of needing aid when they are really just trying to encroach and feed off of the livelihood this village has worked so hard to build. Dangerous people who would not hesitate to murder.
Elijah believes in monsters. One of them sleeps under his roof. One of them lives side-by-side with him. One of them leaves empty glass bottles of whiskey and rum in his wake, leaves blood and blooms of bruises in his fury, leaves intimidation and fear and persuasion sitting guard at their doorstep.
His Provider preaches of the freedom they are all so lucky to have, here within their walls of smoke. But Elijah knows only of the entrapment of his father, of the shackles that he wraps around his mother’s wrists, of the sticky-sweet alcohol on his breath when his eyes are wild and crazy and filled with a fury that Elijah doesn’t know how to put out.
And how is he supposed to escape? How is his mother supposed to seek help when the Provider and their neighbors expect his family to plaster on plastic smiles and cover wounds with blush and nod and act as if everything is perfect?
"… stay here, with me, think of yonder nevermore."
Elijah sits back down. The Provider begins to talk. He doesn’t hear the words.
If him and his mother tried to ask for help — if they threw away all pretense of being perfect and put together the way a proper, obedient family like theirs should be — what would happen? He has lied awake and stared at the cracks in his ceiling for hours before, trying to find a way out.
Would his father be held accountable or would the Court find his mother responsible, a woman inciting the rightful wrath of her husband, bringing it on herself?
Elijah has seen it happen before, when he had been too young to fully understand. He knows what would happen if they failed in their pleas. If they lost, Elijah’s mother would be sent to the other side of The Boundary, exiled to live with the monsters and with the crippling fear of the unknown. Elijah would be left with his father and his punches.
Cool fingers wrap around Elijah’s, breaking him from his thoughts. The soft voice of the Provider filters back into his ears. His mother’s hand is strong and steady around his own.
Elijah holds tight.
He thinks he can hear the rage of monsters from here and their growls match the tempo of his heart.
---------
The boy and woman hidden in the shadows of the white oak do not see Elijah.
He stops dead in his tracks, a palm still cradling the bruised and swollen skin of his jaw as if his fingers can hold in all of the pain in his bones — as if they can hold back all of the fury and shamefulness that burn through his bloodstream and bloom in his stomach, growing up and up and up until he chokes on it all.
Elijah recognizes both figures immediately, despite the shadows thrown by the trees in the late-night, muggy air.
Adrian and Adalie Baldred, adopted son and adopting mother.
Adrian, the boy who had lost both of his parents so young. Adalie, who had immediately stepped forward to take in the orphan even though her hair had turned white long ago, even though time had begun taking its toll on her body.
Adrian, the boy who loves his books. Adalie, who could almost always be found out in her garden at the back of her house — back near where her two stillborn children were buried.
Adrian, the boy who has always been… different. The boy who had used to wear pretty skirts and dresses around the village. The boy who had grown his raven-colored hair out before the Provider and the others had forced him to cut it — before they had turned him into a public humiliation and had burned the clothes he clutched so close.
He had been too young to be exiled, but he hadn’t been enough of a child in the eyes of the law to avoid the shackles in the center square, or the days of being chained up out in the open — exposed to the rain and the biting wind and the harsher, sharper words and sneers of the people who passed him by.
Adalie had watched on in silence, had let Adrian suffer the consequences without a trace of regret on her wrinkled face, hand-in-hand with the Provider.
But now… Elijah inhales quietly at the sight before him.
Adalie sits with her back to the oak tree, a book in her hands, reading with a content smile on her face. And Adrian…
Adrian lies sprawled out in the grass at her feet, gazing up at the burning, star-filled sky, a beautiful yellow dress pooling around his figure.
They’ve both aged over the four years that have passed since those days of torture, the days that Elijah has tried to forget because his heart had ached strangely back then for the bowed head in the center square, for the broken lines of Adrian’s shoulders that had looked so much like the broken eyes of Elijah’s mother.
Adrian is now eighteen, just like Elijah. He performs his duties like the rest of them, goes to school, keeps his eyes downturned. Elijah hasn’t seen him in any pretty silks or patterned cloths in years. Ever since those days four years ago Adrian has seemed watered down, muted, a boy built of shadows and paper and the quiet hush of raindrops.
And yet here he is now, suddenly much clearer in Elijah’s eyes, more vivid and alive than he’s ever been.
Elijah holds his breath, heart racing in his chest. He watches, unsure of what else to do, watches as Adrian says something to Adalie that Elijah can’t make out, watches as she lowers her book to tip her head back to look at the spot in the sky that Adrian is raising a hand to point to. Elijah watches her smile widen, watches her laugh and say something and then watches as she turns a look of such blatant adoration and love and kindness onto the child before her that Elijah’s heart wrenches almost agonizingly in the cage of his ribs.
Gone is the woman who had watched in silence. Gone is the woman who had listened to Adrian’s pleas without mercy. Here is the woman who had maybe been protecting the child she loved like her own in the only way she could.
Elijah clutches his battered face in the shadows and can’t help but think that Adrian is free out here in the trees, shielded away from the cruelty of his own people and surrounded by nothing but the ancient silence of the oaks and maples and honey locusts, exposed to nothing but love and kindness, a step towards an acceptance of differences.
Elijah steps back, melting away into the shadows. He steps back towards the imprisonment of his father and his hatred.
And he wonders how free any of them truly are, trapped here in their walls of fog.
---------
Elijah has bitten his nails down until his fingers bleed. His hands, dug into the hard soil to break his fall, are stained at the fingertips with the same color of the Provider’s robes.
The Provider with her ruby-red lips and cold gray eyes and a voice that scares Elijah more than the crash and roar of the monsters beyond The Boundary.
The Provider who had cost Elijah his mother.
Elijah had tried — and he had lost. His mother had been exiled. His father’s fists had tightened. And now, a year later, Elijah runs.
He wrenches himself up from the ground from where he had tripped and fallen over a tree root, the air in his lungs burning with the saltiness of the wind this close to the edge of the line none of them are ever supposed to cross. This close, Elijah can hear the gigantic rumble of what lies beyond, can see the wall of mist and smoke rising before him through the gaps in the trees.
He throws himself forward with the echoes of a poem in his ears.
"Away from the fog, away from the mist…"
The ground is growing softer beneath his shoes, giving way. Elijah remembers a nightmare from before, of shadows swallowing him up until he faded away — but the darkness does not reach for him here. Instead the sky above him is turning pale gold, lightening as the sun rises from the horizon.
"Away from the cry of what you most miss…"
"Mother," Elijah thinks, stumbling again and righting himself, pushing forward.
"Away from temptation, away from the wall…"
The trees begin to thin out, growing farther and farther apart. Elijah’s breath runs ragged in his throat, his battered ribs ache. For some reason Adrian and Adalie’s faces flash before his eyes as bright yellow sunlight begins to spread its rays across the ground.
"Away from the senseless desire to fall…"
Soil no longer meets Elijah’s footfalls. He’s running across something lighter and looser, something that threatens to give way beneath him and leave him falling forever. He pays it no heed, not now — now when the wall is right before him, rising and rising, curling and coiling into the pale blue air.
"Tread carefully, my child, walk away from the shore,
stay here, with me, think of yonder nevermore."
Elijah skids to a stop right before it, his chest heaving. His dark hair curls in the mist, in the odd, salty, muggy air. His shoes sink through the ground. His ribs ache with the weight of his father’s blows and his heart throbs for his mother’s face.
The wall is forever moving, changing, shifting and Elijah looks at it with something akin to wonder instead of fear.
He doesn’t know what lies beyond. He doesn’t know if there are monsters with their sharp teeth bared or people who are just as dangerous. He doesn’t know a lot of things — whether his mother is still alive, if his father will ever look for him, if the Provider will send out a team to bring him back.
Elijah doesn’t even know if Adrian will ever find the three words he had carved into the trunk of a honey locust in the forest a few weeks ago — his farewell parting to a boy who also asked the trees to protect his secrets.
But Elijah knows he has to leave.
He reaches out, threads his fingers through the coils of fog, watches his skin disappear behind it and holds tight to himself.
As the mist encompasses him, as the strange air fills his lungs and dampens the anger in his stomach, the poem in Elijah’s head fades away, sucked back into the darkness of the tree line behind him.
Three words take its place. Three words that he had left for Adrian and all of the others who would need them.
Freedom is kindness.
Elijah steps forward.
Igazi (excerpt)
27
6:00 AM, 28th June, 2116
And Kuwafa was never to be seen again.
Or was he?
THE END?
1
6:00 AM, 20th June, 2116
I woke up frightened. I just had a dream about me being face to face with Kuwafa, the most evil soul that ever walked the universe. Standing in the middle of the street, on top of the gushing and splashing water, was Kuwafa, with his facial features so contorted, with a smile so evil as never seen before, staring with his unforgiving eyes’ piercing gaze at me, taking revenge just by staring at me. The only thing I could say for the next 10 minutes was “He’s back”
‘No, it can’t be…’ I said, fear engulfing me like a bog in the jungle. ‘This can’t be true’, I said. I always had a fear of bad dreams, because one of them had come true. The mishap had occurred when I was 11. I had a dream that the next day, a man in our neighborhood would be hanged to death for sitting on the road. Yes, this came true. It could only come true in a place like Stentoria, where people were tortured for paying 20 Stents instead of the due 19 to the shopkeeper and hanged to death for parking in a no-parking zone…
What I had just seen was blowing the wits out of me. Today was my 12th birthday, when I had envisioned that I would be selected to be the next participant of the Igazi. The Igazi was an annual event, almost as competitive as the Olympics, which used to take place a 100 years ago. The last ones happened in 2016, in which a country named U.S.A had had the highest tally of medals.
Now, we live in a country called Stentoria, which stands on the ground on which once upon a time, an island called Atlantis used to stand. Here, every year, an event called the Igazi is held. It consists of participants from all the zones in the country, locked up in a horrible place they don’t know, and are tested for survival skills in conditions extreme to the extreme extent.
I woke up. It was the Day of the Selection. I was so terrified about the dream that I almost forgot to fill up my bag for school (as it was called a hundred years ago. Now, it was known as Preparation Organization). When I finally did, my dog, Czar, just barked, his signal to give me a reminder to come back early from PO for the Selection. The selection was held in the Town Square. The Selection was a compulsory event for everyone in the zone to attend, and those who didn’t, well, God Forbid.
*
I came back from the PO early. Well, not just me, everyone in PO was sent home early. As soon as I reached home, I dressed up in a casuals, being sure of my safety. I still had memories of my mom. I was an orphan, but I could almost hear her as she said “Oh, look at you, my sweetie, cuddly little darling… I wish you all the very best for the Igazi Selection.” Okay. To be true, I felt that my mother was with me. But now I was too busy with remembering my trapdoor number.
For the Igazi selections, all the people in the age group of 14 to 50 had to stand in rows of 100, and out of each row, there was one, and only one, the unlucky one, who was to be selected. The worst, you couldn’t volunteer for someone else. People had lost their loved once in seconds, and had seen their horrible deaths. A grid of a 100 rows and 5 was made in the middle of the country, and each person had to stand on a block, which was actually a trapdoor. As soon as the machine-government’s machine operated announcement started, the numbers of the trapdoors were announced. Those who were unlucky, in they fell, year after year, into their fates. Moreover, those who died were buried right at the spot of their death, in the warzone of the Igazi. A competition between the 5 unlucky people, and well, there hardly was any year when one person won. It was far from seldom for there to emerge no winner, all being killed.
I had been very fascinated by the way machines operated, and had always known that there was some pattern to everything. I had at last been able to deduce the pattern of the trapdoors, over the years. And now, I stood on the trapdoor which was not a sequence of the pattern. And I was confident enough.
There came the clanking of machinery and the announcement started. I was standing in the fifth row, trapdoor number 17 in it. Each row’s trapdoor number was being called out. “Row one, trapdoor 95” In fell the Man, aged around 35, strongly built, and aggression convulsing his face. But wait. I had expected no. 19, but this was 5 times what I expected! Wait. Did my calculations go wrong? No. It can’t possibly be. I had spent days and days and days for this? No.
But then I relaxed. If all the numbers would be 5 times what I thought, I couldn’t possibly be chosen, because 17 doesn’t appear when you count by fives, does it? A huge sigh of relief escaped my mouth. “Row two, trapdoor 74” What? My mind was going haywire. I couldn’t understand anything. I didn’t see the woman, around 20 years of age, hefty enough to be equal the volumes of three mes, fall down into who knew what terrible fate. But I went calm once again, as I thought about my odds of being selected. One in a hundred said I to myself. “Row three, trapdoor 54” I had always been good at patterns at the PO. And now I knew it. A hand colder than an iceberg clasped my heart. Starting with row 5, trapdoor 17, they kept adding 18, and then 19, and 20, and finally 21 to the resultant, the answers being 17, 35, 54, 74 and 95, from row 5 to row 1. And I was standing on trapdoor 17, row 5. No. This can’t be happening. “Row four, trapdoor 35” I panicked as my fate approached me like a predator approaching its prey which it has cornered. My head felt heavy, my knees buckled under my weight. I was about to faint, when I heard it. The decisive announcement. “Row 5, trapdoor 17” My dream had come true.
The last thing I knew before I woke up was that I was falling into blackness, into infinity, into nothingness. I woke up dazed. In front of me I had 5 doors in which I could enter, and I guessed that I had to choose one. I looked around, and perceived that I was sitting on a patch of grass, with two others. They looked like a couple to me, happily married, with no downs in their life, just the terrible fate of the Igazi. The man, around 25 or so, and the woman, about the same age, were neatly dressed in formals. I noticed their facial features, the man’s square face, with green eyes, a bent nose, and thin lips. The woman, on the other hand, had a thick coil of hair down her right side, with black eyes and a certain charm of nature. They asked me if I would ally with them, and I was taken aback. Alliance was near to suicide. But I took my chance, and shook hands with them. Right then I realized that there was something black and shiny sticking out of the man’s back pocket. Oh no. Not that. I said to myself. I knew that projection of the butt end of a gun well. It was the very thing which had caused my parents’ deaths 7 years ago, and I was not to be mistaken about the gun. I believed that it was with them for their safety, but my fate soon seemed to be the opposite. We went into the fourth door, which looked a little un-trodden as compared to the rest. In we went, and kept on walking for around half an hour, with no other living soul in sight. It was a melancholy walk up to the two-third point, and I was frustrated. They hadn’t said anything to be before that, leave the only question related to alliance. Not even their names.
I finally decided to break the rock-hard silence. “What are your names?” I asked. Within the time I could blink my eyes, I was pinned to the ground by the man and was staring into the barrel of the gun. I saw his forefinger close around the trigger, and stiffen. “Oh, wouldn’t it be good to finish off an opponent even before the competition starts?” he said. “Oh, sure, honey, why not?” she replied. My wits were scared out of me, and I couldn’t get the cloud of blankness out of my mind. Adrenaline soaked my nerves. I closed my eyes, and payed my respects to my parents. The few seconds’ road to death seemed to stretch for hours, and my eyes remained shut.
And suddenly there was a loud bang that filled my ears, the bang of the release of a bullet. The bang of a gunshot.
The bang of my death.
2
3:00 PM, 20th June, 2116
A shrill scream forced me to open my eyes. I first thought that the scream may have been my own, but when I opened my eyes, I saw her, towering over him, and he, limp as anything, lying sprawled in front of me. She had shot him in cold blood, and looking at me being a witness of the crime, made a dash. In she ran, and I was too terrified to follow. I sat there, leaning against the wall, with adrenaline coursing through my veins. I looked around me, as to expect some form of help, but all I saw was hopelessness.
I gathered my courage, and went on. The few minutes’ walk seemed to stretch to hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries, millennia, eons of time. As I went on, I thought about who the man could be, as I had never seen him in the neighbourhood before. And who was the woman? How was he related to her? Why did she originally take his side to kill me, but then double-crossed? What if the bullet had missed and had hit me instead? Was she actually aiming at me? Or did she really want to kill him? Where was I heading to? What challenges would I have to face? How long is it between me and my death? I could get the answers to these questions in only one way. And that was to go and to live in who-knew-what.
As I reached the end of the tunnel, light spat at my face. I thought about the man lying prostrate in front of me, still, motionless, frozen. 1 of 5 gone, but did that do me any good? Will the ones inside forgive me for this? I think. The gleam of the sun at the mouth of the tunnel forced me to shield my eyes and squint for signs of life.
Suddenly, I jerk to look back as I hear a noise behind me. It sounded like the shuffling of feet, but I couldn’t be sure. Moreover, I had no kind of flashlight or for that matter any source of light except the sun. I thought about what I could do, and ended up with two options. Either I could flee and run for my life, into an unknown world, or I could go and make friends with whoever was there inside the tunnel. Well, since the start of this trip, friendliness and alliance had not been something to my advantage. But I decided upon taking a risk and chose the latter option. I advanced with careful steps back into the tunnel, and called out.” Anyone there?” I got no response. I called out again, and this time a dark figure jumped out at me without a moment’s notice, and it sprang straight at my face. I had a vague vision of a huge, black, furry creature jump out at me and licking my face as I fell down. Wait. I knew this smell. It was Czar!
“Hey Czar! Here, boy! Here!” I was overjoyed. And intrigued. How could he have followed me till here? Did he also jump with me into the trapdoor? No, it can’t possibly be. If he had, I would’ve seen him in the hallway. Or somewhere else. But I didn’t. anyways who cared? As long as he was with me, I had no fear! My Irish wolfhound was the dearest thing to me in my life. I always cared for him more than myself. I have gone without food for several days, but have fed him every single day. He was the heart to my body, the breath to my life.
And now here he was, playing with me, companioning me for who-knew what. I asked him if he wanted to go and get a sneak peek at our new neighbours, and he pranced on his feet with excitement. Suddenly, I realise that I hadn’t payed attention to what was the scene in the, the... What do I call this place? I didn’t know. . I decided to call it the Fallaciouso. My first interpretation.
(There's a lot more action, mystery, suspense, and thrill to come)(And this NOT going to be another hunger games.)
Exist or Live...Your Choice
Existing in a corrupt world...I'd say "corrupt" is an understatement. I won't waste your time listing all the words & concepts that represent this world. This piece would surely turn into something else. But the world we live in, much like the flesh we live in, is basked in sin. And sin is death. Sin is even more lethal in comparison to death. Because death only happens in this world, but your sins will be with you when you die. And if we were all judged fairly, we'd all be forced to live with our sins for eternity [Hell]. But God is not fair. God is Loving. His Love for us unconditionally forgives the constant sinning we throw into His face every single day. His Love surpasses the hate & fear we spread across the world. His Love is the ONLY reason we are able to exist in a place like this.
So in my eyes, there is no coming to terms with a corrupt world in order to exist in it. When we accept a world like this as our only truth, we do not exist. If we only acknowledge this realm, we are as dead as the world that consumes us. My advice to you, would be to come in to terms with a Loving God & live accordingly. Only the creator of life can show you what living really feels like.
Lucida
A Love from long ago...
They say the mind replays what the heart can't delete.
Thoughts ripple uncontrollably, they tell themselves,
by themselves
& no matter how much I fight, I've concluded that....
You're the thought I can't get out of my head
Yet even when I don't want it, I welcome it.
A seed of feeling, I'd sown so long ago, & no matter how much I water, or don't, the feeling always seems to grow.
Every part of you, equivalent to a fully blossomed flower.
You're radiant in all your ways, so even if someone's having a dark day, you'd give a piece of yourself just to lighten their way.
You've become the most selfless person I know.
For anyone you love, you've let a petal go.
Without an agenda for the things you do
You've made every bit of happiness, stem from you.
I've found you.
A beautiful garden
An oasis of serenity, amidst a chaotic mind
So simple, yet so complicated.
Colorful, bright, and powerful.
You shine.
Trying to forget how much I love you is like trying to dig to the bottom of a lake with a shovel.
Refilling faster than I can take out,
For every memory I try to erase, it's replaced with one better.
With that being said I've decided to embrace the fact that you'll always be the best first thought that I can have while getting out of bed.
I won't fight it anymore, even though I'll likely never have you, I hope the person that does will adore you the way that I've always dreamed of.
My love for you is seasoned, aging like fine wine, it only gets better with time.
So no matter how long you take, if you ever decide to come open this bottle, I promise it'll be like nothing you've ever tasted.
Words for me to explain what I feel for you, will likely never be created. There's too much of a feeling, too much of a yearning. So little of a doubt. You're one of those people that I wouldn't want to be without.
- Junior Alexandre ©
Impact.
You are part of this world little child.
Grow and spread your wings.
Soar higher into the horizon.
Don't let worries keep you down.
Stay ever alert and strong.
Keep up the striving feel and spirit.
The little actions all play a role in life.
Smile, be kind, gentle, and learn to allow yourself time & space to make room to express yourself.
Dance, sing or practice a new talent/habit\trick.
Who knows, you might be really good at it.
Go and reach for what you need, want or a majestic dream.
Whether you're going at any pace, speed or movement, don't stop.
Go, move with all your power and great speed.
Remember, and never forget little acts every day make a big difference.
Is it 6th sense?
Sometimes I think that she must be magical or something.
But, no, magic isn't real.
It's not.
Right?
Sometimes I don't even have to say a word.
You already know exactly what I might say even before I say it.
Maybe, it's because we share a unique bond.
You know exactly how I seem to work and operate.
You don't need any special kind of hint to understand what I'm saying.
This world and thing called life would not be the same if you weren't in it. Gotta really appreciate Mummy dearest more.
She's a wonderful blessed treasure.
The Sum of the Parts of Me
First of all, let’s get something straight – I never want to grow up. I never want to lose that childlike fascination with the world and with how things work. I never want to not be able to ride the shopping cart down the aisle to customers’ delight and the manager’s frown. I never want to stop admiring the flowers when they bloom and squealing with delight as I watch the baby bunnies hopping around the yard each spring.
Since I was a child, I always wanted to be an astronaut. I wanted to go into the final frontier and help the human race expand beyond itself into places unknown, discovering more about who we were and are and could be in the process. But I don’t qualify for the program, at least under the current rules. I will make it into space only after I die and my ashes are scattered in the great unknown. So be it – I will still go.
Mostly, I want to leave a legacy. I want to write poems and stories that reach people and touch them where they are vulnerable, making them question who they are and what they want to do. I want to expand horizons – theirs and mine – letter by letter, word by word. I want to know that what I have contributed is valuable in some way to some person, and that, by doing what I do, I have made a difference. Knowing that, I would be happy, and I would continue on to find the next person I can reach.
#challenge #aspirations #whoIam
