We met outside the town hall and started exchanging small conversations between partaking the assignment we’d been given. I wondered where she was from, what she did outside of uni and whether or not she had a boyfriend. Perhaps she didn’t; would she think differently of me in these short conversations? By her passive tones and inclination not to continue with the small banter and flirtatiousness, I assumed she had a boyfriend, then she threw a quirky smile and a bite of the lip and my interest peaked over time. 

The clock upon the highest point of the town hall struck midday and she walked down the slight slope towards the tram stop. Maybe I stopped her to ask for her number, then suggested for a drink or two. Perhaps she said yes, to both, or maybe not at all. A few of the class members could join as a gathering for first years, share drinks and settle into a warm rapport with one another. Or, we’d just continue to talk until we found ourselves at a fork in the road, and parted our separate ways after exchanging numbers and facebook invites; spending twenty cents but moments later to continue our conversation.

Perhaps, none of that happened and I continued to wonder what might have happened. Brooding most days over what possibility it was that if I’d asked for her number, and whether it increased or declined upon each passing day that I didn’t ask, factoring in whether or not I spoke to her that day, and what she spoke of, or not at all.

Perhaps I just sighed as she walked down that hill past midday and I eventually just my imagination die out. A passing phase, a moment of simple infatuation or curiosity, either was just as harmful.

For what it matters - 3

“I’m not sure on where all this is coming from,” She stared in a slight daze of shock and confusion. 

The rain continued to steadily fall, more so sleet than anything. Still, the rain did little to distract our gazes upon each other. Dark spots began to form in her clothing and the longer we stood upon the open, the chillier the sharp winds became. 

“You’re the fire. The bright flare traversing through the dark corridors of high school.” I must’ve looked pitiful or plain stupid standing about the hard rain, standing several metres apart from her. 

The carriage doors beeped and closed abruptly; to the satisfaction of the remaining passengers seeking refuge from the winter rains. Seconds later, the train slowly shuffled into a steady acceleration, away from the station platform and the two remaining people standing oblivious to the rest of the world.

“Don’t say you love me,” She finally said. Her voice was uncertain, and I doubt she regretted saying those words. I knew she’d never think of me ever more than the friend a year below her. Occasionally she’d help me with personal issues and edit an essay. She was just my upperclassman.

“I wish I could, but the feelings no longer fester within me.” My cruel words opposed my true motives to find closure.

“You say that as if it were an evil thing to show affection for someone.” 

I stepped closer to her and took out the umbrella from my bag. The small canopy fared useless to shelter our now soaking clothes; with a small thrust I entrusted the umbrella into her cold hands.

“I say that as if it were something that caused me great pain.”

She looked at me, not knowing of what I intended of saying next, yet the uncertainness in my voice scared me more than I did for her. 

“You were the fire burning deep within my soul. My blood would boil in such a way, at such a state that I would fluster, and then ease into a calm, yet embarrassing conversation. The words you helped me so effortlessly inscribe became the very foundation at the bottom of the throat.” I found these words flutter, smiling, I said “I know we’ll never see each other again after this day; our only interaction being through high resolution photos, touching only for an instance as we both type with the keyboard; even still being kilometres apart. We’ll continue to grow apart, but for what it matters, whether now or before, no…That’s not the answer.”

“You are a writer? Speaking in long monologues, using colourful language you’d never really use in conversation because you’ve a single imperfection; you cannot talk without losing your tongue. You cannot tell the truth because the longer you hold back information, the more drama you can create; you’re able to hold onto friends for a bit longer. You create a lie, a fabrication that everything will be okay and at the end of my closing speech, I’ll be forgotten forever. But I’ll never be forgotten, and that’s what scares you.” 

I told her to say. 

The crusted salt upon her eyes did little to dry her red eyes from tearing

For what it matters - 2

“Do you ever think back to when… we were both at high school?” 

My words came in a mix of mispronunciation and stutter. I paused mid sentence to ensure the rest of my sentence made sense. She stopped bouncing from shoulder to shoulder of the trains commuters. 

She smiled like she did in her last year of school. She shrugged and didn’t answer. “Uni’s fun, and I’m studying something I actually like and not just to get a good ATAR score, you know?” She added.

I did that half hearted shrug in compliance I often did and stared out the window. She asked me too, if I had ever thought of high school and what I’d left behind to begin TAFE. She asked me with a hint of sincerity. I didn’t answer, knowing that I’d reveal too much of myself and I felt we were just old friends who talked only when confined to enclosed areas where we had no other choice but to. She asked me another question.

“I always remember you as the undisclosed girl; never revealing herself because if she did then she’d be afraid that she would burn out…or something like that, I guess.” I might have given a bad answer, “And I remember myself as someone burning up, I think that’s why we were friends. The water and fire.” I quickly added, still staring out the window. I felt like I was reading out lines, they were so fake.

“Argh, you’re such a writer aren’t you?” Her mannerisms flared; the smile that created fake dimples because that’s what made her cute, the slight decline of the head as if she tried to break through the air before walking. Her knees dropped and she squeezed through the stiff crowd towards me where she stretched her body vertically as if to match my height. Her scalp brushed my nose, and I breathed hard. She hadn’t changed at all.

The rain outside poured through the opening doors. Her hand did little to shield her hair from the near hail rain. I stepped outside to let others out and she turned one last time to hold her hand up to salute; not letting go of her bag for it would ruin on the wet ground.

“I lied!” It probably was going against my nature, but for what it mattered, I could have told the truth to her last question. I didn’t need to know when I would see her next because it was preordained that it would be a longer time than before till we saw each other. No matter how small a world we live in, it would seem that the people we wish to see the most never appeared around the corner, at the train platform or at that party everybody went to. I’d see her only in photos and status updates. Watching her vicariously and liking a post just to feel connected, and even if I could image her with my eyes closed, a few inches from the screen we’d still be dozens of kilometres apart, separated by strings of data and binary where our true intentions were masked by superficial emoticons and singular word sentences.

“You’re not the girl who expresses herself in small doses. You’re the girl I skipped out on. Every time we talked, I skipped onto the next person. Didn’t I? 

For what it matters - 1

Rain pelted against the steaming windows of the train carriage. Swaying ominously with the uneven rail work beneath. She leaned against the other wall of the doorway and yet in this overcrowded carriage I could feel her every breath as she rambled about how her studies at University were beyond her. I smiled at her smile and she’d look about, then refocus on talking about how her timetable was near perfect yet, that one imperfection she said, was “like the scratch atop the roof of your mouth” and I couldn’t help but think of her lips.

She asked me a few questions and my answers held back like the foreboding of the carriage tempting to jerk forward with every dip in the tracks.

“So, why are you studying at RMIT now? I bet it would have been hard to leave your friends back there, hey.” She seemed closer now.
“I’ve a better chance of getting into a course here once I finish TAFE, then at high school, plus the fee’s are cheap.” I forced a little laugh.

I’d always felt awkward when explaining why I’d left high school, but she was understanding and the laugh wasn’t needed. She understood far better than most would. So I assumed.

We continued to talk just for the sake of conversing. Her attention slowly diverted elsewhere and the rain struck the carriage like bullets upon sheet metal. She suddenly told me her station was arriving and I felt a sudden gloom take over. Our rare meeting upon the platform wasn’t exciting to me, however as always when meeting with an ill parted friend whose existence and meaning had vanished like salt upon ice. Where nothing is left but the memory of how something used to be there. I felt an urge to at least redefine where we stood in relation to how we perceived each other; a friend, an old friend or simple strangers in changing times.

The train swayed back and fourth. Her dark hair swayed and she bounced off peoples arms childishly.

“It’s great when the trains are crowded, means I won’t fall over because I can just knock into someone.” She smiled again.

Crawler

Waves of energy
fluster through
your heart like
the beat of a drum,
the bass drop
in every kick.

You cannot breathe
and every count
revives your heart
for just a moment
till your gasping
for another

Another to hold,
cry, weep and
throw yourself
at ‘till there’s
more than enough
to support you

So you’ll pass
another crowd,
another drink
and another
heart to hold
Until you’ve found
you’re own.

She broke the harsh light of the high beams like a torch peeping through the blankets of a sleepover. She turned, spinning the hem of her dress around to the front of the car and shielding part of her eyes from the intense beams of white light. Her vision blurred, for she could not see the occupant of the car and therefore did not bother to signal to them for the lights to be off. Instead, she pulled over her cardigan onto her shoulders and began walking into the heart of the paddock, letting blades of grass part around her and flatten as she walked for her eventual return.

He sat quietly in the car, gazing beyond the girl in her dress and at the rare cloudless night. The few stars that had returned for such a clear night flickered dimly and sorrowfully, and he almost instantly forgot about them as the girl began to walk away from him. He followed the trail of parted grass with his eyes, hoping she’d circle back around and sit beside him. However the grass did not wait long, and soon her tracks in the field was gone, with no hope of returning.

And my heart shattered upon itself in a misery attempt to feel consoled by a stranger in this dismal bar.

With an inclination to draw in a breath, your toxin seeps from a pretty smile and curious eyes. Wash over me and smother me in a fog that my eyes cannot see past, whisper under the noises of the city. Cross legged and hands flapping about in a joyful manner, tell me everything will be okay. 

Unsheathe your blade and cut away the ropes tying me down. Tell me everything will be okay. Use your words to repel my hesitation, and your smile to reanimate mine. Bathing myself in the sun, opens a rare insight to how careless life can be, with a simplicity that could be thought of mere coincidence, that causes everything to feel like a dream. 

Pretend to hold my hand, and say you love me so I can wake up, just to fall asleep again.

No amount of passing time could make me forget how much you meant to me. Such thoughts blew with the wind and for a moment, I believed I couldn’t do such a thing. If the coming of a new season and the change of tide could bring about new beginnings, then a dreamer wouldn’t dream of anything but something without you.

I hadn’t spoken a single word to her. I had only a singular thought process in dire times. Even if I wasn’t sad, I knew that showing apathy would only weaken the situation, weaken her resolve and I’d be forced to remove myself from the ward. I didn’t know what she wanted. I stayed over night with her, offered little worlds of comfort. 

She smiled bleakly whenever I said something, I thought I would take them as a positive sign however even half hearted words of comfort received the same, stoic and repressive response. I decided it best to just look at the ground and pretend to be sad.

I wasn’t able to offer anything, and I felt invisible just sitting here like a thing. She was fond of her passing relative and yet everyone else had left. I was also sad, but I didn’t cry. I was sad because she was sad, and yet no emotional strain surfaced past my still beating heart. 

I coughed whenever I thought about this; how emotionally removed we as humans are. I would then relate this to not helping a homeless person on the street. Was my spare change more important than arriving early at the tram stop, my life was obviously more worthwhile than spare coins. My time was better spent not worrying about something that didn’t involve me. 

Yet I remained because she was sad. My love for her was too important to show any sign of presence towards this deceased person. Although her salty tears made a silent tap against the cold floor, they had no connection to myself. It became almost cruel, to watch her cry when I felt nothing at all. 

Memories wash over me, like waves coming to and fro from the shore. They’re salty, and stale, rotting against the walls of my mouth. A stale memory invokes a sudden urge to throw up, and yet knowing to hold it back to save yourself against my pain is just as unbearable. 

These memories are etched into the very core of what we have to maintain some sort of dignity; to transcend past our mistakes, our regrets. These salt covered wounds in our minds remain with us to remind us that we can never move on. To move on would mean to give in. 

Yet, as the waves wash over me, the salt cleanses a troubled mind. Not to a state of purity, but enough to see through sore eyes. Even if it’s a blurry sight, it’s enough to see. See the past, for what it was, for what it did to a character. 

Swing sets rock back and forth as if skipping frames on a show reel. Pan slowly across the plains, sweep through double doors and I know you’ll be waiting for something soon. The dark tint on those doors caused an uncomfortable anxiety amongst the hype of a childish crush. 

If I’d known anything, I’d have told myself not to open those double doors. However, I did, and out flew a flock birds, fluttering frantically and I knew then. Nothing. 

Blue hues and red ties.

Heaving and panting was always a comforting gesture. If I didn’t feel my heart pump black ink through old veins, then I knew I wasn’t living. Not being athletic meant that whenever my body was inclined to physical excretion, I’d the pleasure of experience an unhealthy dose of adrenaline. 

I always thought about this when I knew I’d be seeing you on the weekdays. Unsteady fists grip the steering wheel, inpatient eyes rock in their sockets behind Roy Bans.

“Soon” is what I’d tell me. Soon, I would tell myself. I would.

theactoflimerence:

Two nights ago I had the first dream in over a month. I awoke some time that morning whilst it was still dark. I remember not knowing what happened, other than feeling a slight pain within my heart and when I closed my eyes I tried hard to enter that dream.

I believe this is why I’ve had the agonizing writers block. I’ve the 48hour film competition in two days, so I plan to dream just once before then. Once I start dreaming, I’ll start writing.