It was her last chance To live.
Death is only a reminder That lives are shorter Than expected
And years donāt mean anything If they are just neglected
So she spent everyday As though it was her last Because one of them was
And she was not prepared To be at loss For the fact That sheād soon stop breathing And her heart would stop beating
So she traveled on her bike Went on long hikes Visited family and friends
Took walks in the rain Binged the same movie 56 times Played board games with roommates And ate ice cream for dinner
Visited art exhibitions Got front-seat tickets at theatres Rolled down hills Like how she did in her meadowy childhood days
She did all these things Because she knew she would never do them again For her there was only now She was nearing the end
And so when the time came She cried and screamed Because it was her turn to leave But as her eyes closed For the last time Under the bright glow of hospital lights
She remembered All in one second All the little things That made it worth living Those 18 years of her life.
The essence of joy Is the colour I speak Not red or the green or grey Yellow I say!
Yellow is the childhood colour Coated in a fondant of happiness Yellow ducks in the baths Lines of daffodils on paths
The colour of sunshine Oh donāt you relish it! The positive beat of yellow Reluctant to blend in
The colour of butter And hazy summer afternoons Of sandcastles And zingy bitter lemons
Itās blissful, bold and beautifully bright What colour do I like Itās yellow, thatās right!
You offered me the ocean I took it gladly For I loved its character And its strength
I loved the waves With their never ending curls The cream white foam Tipped against the tops
I loved the ocean Its vicious yet calming temper Slashing at the shore Then retreating gingerly
I loved the feel of the water on my skin The abrupt chill Of the water Weaving in between my toes Soaking my feet with salty joy
I loved most when the ocean Became savage Pounding against the rocks The turbulent gushes
The ocean is a charm A brooch that I will treasure You offered it to me I took it gladly I loved its strength I loved its character And now I thank you For a life without the ocean Would be a life without wonder.
You were the favourite Yet we had the same things Our parents had a glance That made me realise They loved you more They loved me less
I rose in the shadows Of your achievements I fought by your side Yet I felt two steps behind In our parentās eyes.
They liked your charm And your wit They could never understand My trailing eyes My cold smile.
Always seeking Something that wasnāt there My judging glare All because They refrained To care
For the daughter they had left in the shadows of their son.
There is a house I know of in South Kensington. It has chartilly lace white walls on the outside and black Georgian balconies. There are two cream white pillars in front of a shiny black door with a doorknob encrusted with gold. Beside the door are two asymmetrical potted plants neatly trimmed to round balls that remind me of giant pom-poms. This is a house I know of well. A house I love and admire. 15 people have died in this house. 52 people have lived in this house. 26 people have worked at this house. 10 people have been born in this house. The list could go on. People have came and gone and lived and died in this house and yet the house has stayed where it is, inviting others into its vast rooms and candle-lit hallways. The voices of the people who lived here seem to echo in my ears when I touch the walls- every inhabitant has left a memory of them behind it seems. As I ascend the winding staircase now I am reminded of the twins Mary and Josie that used used to live here with their father Lord Charles in the 1840s. The twins always had sly, cheeky smiles and beautiful long blonde curls and fashionable lace dresses. They loved to slide down the staircase when no-one was watching. This house was their playground of adventures that lit their eyes full of curiosity for the world. It is such a shame they died so young. And then there was Fred Hampton who rented the upper apartment in the late 1850s. He was a painter who detested other peopleās company and relished being on his own. Heād be seen more frequently with a paintbrush than a pen. In the room that he painted he would smear and splash paint on on the walls when he was annoyed at something. The smears and splashes of paint formed a whole other painting on its own. It is a shame that it has all been painted over. Hampton lived half the year in Paris and half the year in London, often traveling around Europe to paint portraits of noble gentlemen and gentlewomen- he got a considerable amount of money from his clients. And then one day he left his upper apartment in Kensington. He set off with luggage containing mostly paints and canvases. I donāt know what happened to him after that. And letās not forget the servants that used to live there. There were many of them, for it was a large townhouse to manage. Where I stand in the basement now was where kitchen maids and cooks would be frantically at work, boiling vegetables, rolling out pastry, polishing silverware or preparing trays to take up their their masters. Their lives below stairs were ignored by others but together all the servants had their own little community downstairs spreading their own petty gossip and their hopes for the future.
Years later, a rich French lawyer and his wife bought the townhouse. They were the kindest and most generous people, who established their own orphanage in London and set up charities over the country. Their wealth enabled them to help others. They chose to help others. This is why I admire them. But they also brought life and laughter to the house by holding grand parties there. Over sips of cocktails, guests would discuss politics, travelling and business. Later there would be dancing and singing. The ladies would play harpsichord whilst the gentleman plucked their violins and sang tunes. Everyone favoured these merry nights, where the outside world was partially forgotten and everyone had something to amuse themselves with. I wish I could continue to tell the other stories. Of the people who lived in the town house in South Kensington. This is only a page of peopleās lives in this house. Only a very small portion of the timeline of inhabitants. There are thousands of stories in this very house. I could write chapters and chapters and books and books about it. But Iām not going to. Iām just going to remember that everyone thatās lived in this house, in their own way, has made it come alive.
Fresh white paper is always very appealing. Although it never sparks any creativity within me. Itās been 3 long and boring days now and still Iām stuck for ideas. I often think of little ideas and scribble them down In a little book I have for inspiration but today I have no ideas and the world is both bleak and boring to me. I glare at my pen with anger and annoyance. Why canāt it give me any ideas? Sometimes thoughts suddenly pop into my mind but then they vanish or donāt fit into place with the rest of the contents of my brain and so quickly disappear leaving me blank. I make myself a crumpet and a piping hot cup of coffee and sit in my garden.
I spend a lot of time in my garden contemplating the nature that surrounds me. I love the birds and their sweet melodies and complex tweets and I love the unreliable breeze and the overgrown ivy which has devoured my garden fence. I love everything about this garden, I just wish it would give me some answers.
All I need is a seed to plant in my garden which with a little watering every now and then will grow large and lush and bloom to be the most vibrant and eye-catching flower.
I need to find the seed that will spark a string of words that will fit into a sentence and grow into a paragraph that will then sprout into a chapter and a story.
My story.
2 days later my hand was numb from writing, and writing what I donāt know-all I knew was that I was writing something and my mind was demanding me to write. I wrote for days and days, putting pieces and fragments of ideas and thoughts together and transferring them from my head to the paper. All I can say is that my story incorporated blossoming flowers and thick lush vines and vivid descriptions of picturesque scenery and that the writing made me joyous and content and calm on the inside.
But then one day I put my pen to the paper but the thoughts would not trickle out on to the page. I didnāt know how to start a sentence, nor end one and yet again I was faced with writerās block.
Once again I toasted a crumpet and smeared it with butter and took long sips of coffee and sat in my garden gazing at the nature I was so lucky to have as the backdrop of my life.
My garden was my guide and it fed me with ideas or rather I helped it to grow and it helped me to find myself. The entanglement of branches on the trees untangled the spiralling thoughts in my brain and the towering gnarled oak tree removed the stress that had been such a burden to me.
I sat in my garden for how many hours I cannot remember, only that the next day I was writing again as if magic and my mind was clear from chaos and fresh with ideas urgent to be released on to the paper. For once, I was satisfied.
I forgot every other thing except for the view of the northern lights. I forgot the silhouettes of the trees and I forgot the houses and the mountains and the forests and the land that lay before me. I remembered the view. The beauty of the neon green wisps of curtain complimenting the midnight blue backdrop, the light like green flames dancing in the sky with an indescribable beauty only able to feel if you were there in person. The light flourished and pranced, captivating me with its rare grace. When I gazed at it for longer I noticed the hints of pearly pink and purple blending into green. In fact the more I looked the more details I was able to spot. I didnāt feel as though the sky and the ground were two very separate things. I was part of it. I was part of the parade of light. Gravity wasnāt a barrier. I was part of the painting. The display. I could feel the colours and the irregular strokes of light within my palm, illuminating the very world inside of me.
She didnāt like to look at the body in the water. But she didnāt regret killing her. The clouds had been charcoal grey that day, and the lake had been much the equivalent in colour. They drove to the lake. Usually, they went for morning swims in it, though that day the air was frigid and the water looked to murky and cold. So instead they just talked like old friends do and together it felt like all the laughter had returned to the desolate empty atmosphere. To an on-looker they would of looked like the most content and casual friends. But a friend does not murder their friend. Through long sips of coffee, she forged a plan in her mind and at precisely 2:14pm the next day the body of the āfriendā was found in the deep, dark depths of the lake.
