Endurance

Soon landscapes become dreamscapes and places once familiar grow warped in the realm of dreams. Sounds turn to song; what were once voices and musings long-forgotten now return as distant lullabies that kiss our ears on an evening breeze. I once thought memory was a reliable thing, but now I realise that though they are true, truth and reliability are not the same. I cannot say for certain now if old corridors and shafts of sun were as I remember them to be, or if they have already grown labyrinthine in my dreams. What remains when the ages pass—houses turned to dust, creatures turned to sand—what endures? “The thing that remains for ever after”—I am searching for it still.

Good

It is hard not to give away the hurt we receive, hard not to give it away like little coloured glass beads dropped in the sand for children or innocents to find. Or flung at Mum or Dad, dropped like bitter grains in the place of sugar in their tea, or at an unsuspecting pigeon that had nowhere else to flee. It is hard, I know, not to hold a grudge against those happy people who are having a happy day. And you ask yourself whether you are living in the same world as them, living the same day. It is hard not to spread anger like a plague when you feel snubbed, when you feel wronged. It is hard not to turn to the closest person or creature who is lovely, who is kind, who is good, and crush, crush, crush. But it is the good who will be the balm to sorrow; it is a hot cup of tea with milk and sugar, just the way you like it, from a loving hand that will smooth that frown away. So do not spurn the good, my sweet, for they just might make tomorrow better.

Shore

I seem to have been here before. Cool stone wet to the touch where dreams have formed pearls of dew. Cobblestones shaded from the sun; these paths have never felt those golden rays, only twilight. Beyond that iron gate is the sea, a swath of blue shifting under another. This realm knows no rain. How I wish to stay in this world, on this path that knows no sun, by this shore that knows no age. Here the dream is whole, entirely contained. Outside my window, a city thrums. Inside my mind, an ocean laps the shore. Why must that world evade me when I fall off to sleep? Why must those shores recede when I close my eyes? Darkness sends her tides of night and takes my dreams. I spend my days with eyes wide open in waking night, watching the shore.

Empty Space

Pixels fall like flakes of snow, but do not melt. ‘Clutter’, they seem to spell. Fill, they seem to whisper. Who knew those little specks which humans once tried to liken to stars—but they are not stars, for stars do not fetter, do not fill all empty space—could speak? They are incredibly loud and they are everywhere. Dust motes no longer dance for there is no space. Sunlight seems effervescent, yes, scattering over shining screens—but tidepools of rainwater where grasses used to sway have dried. Empty space. Our worlds were built on empty space. There is no breathing room without empty space. Were the whole sky truly filled with stars, we would all burn. So leave some room for empty space, the world seems to plead. Silence a song so silence can fill your ears with the music of the stars. A world can still be built from empty space.