Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Hallows Eve

Cold blustery nights, with the leaves sweeping the streets, wet, damp. Tendrils of hazy clouds floating along the muted glow of the watchful moon.

Voices wafting through the dark streets, sounds of childhood, a hush of excitement. Approaching footsteps, the echo of a knock. The screams of souls and loud sinister laughter. The flicker of candles and yawning orange grins. 

Memories run through the streets, and crash through ghosts with sneakers, unbeknownst. They run up front drives and twirl through bushes, they peer through hedges, blinking and winking at the ghouls that pass by.

And the door opens. Trick or Treat? The chorus came. Opened satchels, and eager smiles. Memories peer over  shoulders,  watching, reminiscing.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Mirror Mirror

Sometimes, no matter what, you realize that when it's the end of the day, no matter how much you try to fool yourself otherwise, you realize you're still very much alone. No matter how many times you cut yourself up in pieces trying to please everyone else. When you try to have a voice of your own, it's silenced. There's a world that's full of sorrow, and we're all looking around in the chaos for that one glimpse that someone understands. Only when the glass shatters in millions of pieces, as the shards pierce us through our hearts, do we learn that we can only find it in ourself. No one else.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012


I have memories. They're stacked in my closet, hidden under my bed, lining the bookshelves, peeking from their secret spots all tucked away behind the curtains. They climb up my walls, and peek down at me while I lay in the dark. When I walk, I see them. They follow me when noone else is looking, but I sense them, sometime. Sometimes I know they're right there, and even when I stare at them they pretend that I haven't noticed. Or when I'm seated at my desk, I can feel the scurry of little feet underneath.

I smell them on a wet evening, while the winds are blowing and the trees are swaying in the dark. Or when I walk up the stairs of an old building, and each step takes me closer, creaking. They gather like dust, in dust, and think it's a camouflage. They perch on the windowsills, watching. 

Sometimes they think they are still alive. I don't know what to do with that knowledge. Do I tell them or should I not? When I open a door, I hear them run around for their hiding spots. But if I take a seat, and sit long enough, they creep close and sit by my side. They tell me things, but they don't have voices. When they speak, I hear them as if it is myself, reading another's letters in my own voice. 

They want to live on. Can you blame them? Sometimes they're broken, and missing parts. Sometimes, they keep walking in a direction that doesn't exist. When they tumble out from between pages, I fear for touching them, lest they crumble so aged and delicate they may be. Sometimes, I can feel them asking me questions. They want to know if they lived for a reason. I don't know how to tell them that I don't know. I tell them I think they did. They did not exist without purpose. 

There are little ones, they pull on the hems of my jacket. They curl themselves around my knees. They want me to meet their friends, who belong to others. Not mine. I know them, somehow. Sometimes they all look alike. And sometimes it hurts to look at others. Even though I may only have met them, it feels like I've known them forever. They want reassurance, even as they creep back into their hiding spots, they want to know if I will forget them? How do I tell them that I don't know if I can, even if I tried?