lizi –

mortality .

the heavy mist obscures her view of the world so that she cannot see more than a stride ahead. she reaches forward to see her arm disappear in its thick yet dispersed emptiness, but her fingers brush up against a cool glass-like substance.

she blinks, as if closing her eyes momentarily could clear the mist, but it’s not just inside her head. when she opens her eyes it’s still there. it surrounds her, and she can feel it closing in and enveloping her body until the edges are blurry and she forgets where the boundaries were once clear. or if they existed at all.

2012: 01/21
CATEGORY: story
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dizzy .

head hurts. feet hurt. ears are ringing. they tell me its the bells that are singing. but i know that the world doesn’t sing anymore.

tomorrow. a new day. a ballad. does the numbness stay. apparently its all about what has happened before.

i can’t think. i can’t swear. i can’t remember, from when. where. came all this despair. and then i wonder what the despair is for.

all i want. is for the world. for the world. to make sense. because i can’t seem to tell anymore.

and in the end. it happens when. you least expect to find…

a rhyme…

2012: 01/14
CATEGORY: random
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splinters .

as she stands over the mess she’s made, a mosaic of imagines clutter her mind. the reflection of sunlight through various shards of glass beam back at her, entreating her to shield her eyes and reminding her to shield her heart. for when something is so fragile and easily broken the remainder is never pretty.

thirty eight faces meet her eyes as she glares defiantly, and stare straight through her even as she shifts her gaze. they tilt with every movement, soften with every moment of weakness and harden with every reminder of reality. she looks at them all, one by one, wondering if the different angles will show one face with less exposure. less pain. but every time her eyes refocus the image adjusts itself to reflect the same thing over and over again.

2011: 12/07
CATEGORY: story
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apostrophe .

the curtains draw in a darkness that separates her from the rest of the world. beyond the vacuum she has created and filled with emptyness, the problems of the world that she must solve linger in the air. one by one they queue, waiting for the curtains to crack so they can flood in and claim their time and space.

she lays on the floor, eliminating all contact with the outside world. she shatters the phone, destroys the computer and blocks the gaps under the doors with sandpaper and old greeting cards. she tapes down the floorboards and blocks the sink and gets under the covers and closes her eyes.

2011: 09/30
CATEGORY: story
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umbrella .

a broken umbrella lays on the floor. chords of metal are meshed, intertwined and mangled, ripping through the plastic material. once a shield, its punctures have rendered it useless against nature’s elements, and it is no longer able to perform what’s required.

she remembers when she acquired it, not wanting to leave without it because it was so pretty and special. she remembers how it made her feel safe, and when it protected her. not very well, but just enough.

he shakes the water out of his hair and hands her a towel. she drapes it across herself, and looks down at what she can only describe as an old friend.

2011: 09/04
CATEGORY: story
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the last battle .

sometimes in the silence the buzzing starts. the whirring, persistent, annoying buzzing that represents realisation. at first it’s hushed, but with every second that passes by it grows louder, picking up fragments of understanding and snowballing it together. following all the confusion that once saturated this space, the condensed realisation triggers a chain reaction.

anticipation. it drips off the walls until it creates a waterfall that surrounds her, trapping the rhythm of a heart that’s beating a little too fast. the vibrations pass through the walls and dissolve on the other side, whereas she cannot.

2011: 08/07
CATEGORY: story
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watermark .

“if the world only gave you one more day to collect your moments and build your repertoire of happiness…”

she stops reading the billboard as it blurs past. it’s so stupid, she thinks to herself. someone who had actually experienced moments that contribute to a repertoire of happiness would not think of it this way. why? because those moments are uncollectable. one cannot simply seek them, absorb them, pick them up and slide them into a test tube and cork it for a rainy day. it cannot be found, freeze dried, stuck in a vacuum and sealed.

2011: 05/27
CATEGORY: story
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counteract .

the doors of the train close as she stands facing them from the platform. if she presses the rewind button and puts in the effort to run next time she could make it through.

she speculates. runs through all the possibilities in her mind. should she take it back?

but for some reason, unlike all the other instances, this time it isn’t worth it.

so she walks away from the edge of the platform to find a seat, ready for the consequences. the station is empty except for the man carrying a mop and a bucket up the stairs. and then she’s left alone.

she checks the time and looks around to find the screen to tell her how long the wait is until the next train comes.

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2011: 04/12
CATEGORY: story
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mortality .

dizzy .

splinters .

apostrophe .

umbrella .

the last battle .

watermark .

counteract .

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