My grandmother always told me such conflictions, Such perfect hypocrisy dripped from the corners of her mouth, As if she was salivating at her hand made narrative that kept everyone in their square, Like pieces on a chess board. It was the only control she had every had, To perpetuate the poison or die, Truthfully she was not the giant we all believed, Not the Matriarch of a dynasty She was a child still waiting to be held.
Down through the snickets and moss covered walls, bad Santa hungover stubs his toe and he falls, He curses and damns the terraced old gate, Though he gives not a fig if his presents are late, For you see this old codger woke up in a mood No cookies were left with his milk or some food He does splits over ice and asks what’s the crack Why should he risk all the nuts in his sack For some snot covered yout passed out his bed With dreams of game stations a whirl in his head Not a thought for bad Santa all cold in the snow Not a thought for those bed less the less that they know The more that they want, the more that they need To fill their daft heads with baubles and greed Bad Santa resents rewarding the mindless For is this not the time to show others some kindness He sighs as he wades through the ginnels and walls Merry Christmas be damned and humbug to you all
Find me down the garden path, Where shadows twist and roses cry, Where sunlight meets the aftermath Of whispered thoughts that drift and die.
A labyrinth of tangled mind, Where thorns and blooms together grow, And fragile hearts are intertwined With fears that only silence knows.
In this realm, the sky is gray, A tapestry of endless doubt, Where dreams like ghostly specters play, And echoes of the lost shout out.
And so find me wandering down the garden path, Where my thoughts meander freely, my words tread carefully and I forget that I am lost.
What would you do with your freedom if it was given to you? Would you talk long walks without looking at your watch? Would you let your toes sink into the wet sand on the beach without reaching for your phone. Would take a photograph of freedom or happiness or joy to post online so that everyone could take notes and compare.
Do we want the freedom to spend, the freedom to buy the freedom to travel and eat and watch sunsets? The freedom to hold your hand as we walk down streets of white walls and gaze out over glass green oceans.
I crave the freedom to believe my worth isn’t determined by how many hours I work or what not so small part of myself I need to cut off so that I can prove to my neighbours that I am whole.
I don’t think we know what freedom is anymore.
Riley Morgan always believed he was destined for greatness. As a child, Riley would stand on a makeshift podium in the backyard, delivering impassioned speeches to an audience of stuffed animals and the suburban fox population. Becoming the prime minister wasn't just a dream; it was a calling. However, in this world, childhood dreams are temporary pursuits that must be attempted and set aside before one can transition to a stable career.
Now in his late twenties, Riley had outlasted most of his peers in this pursuit. Many had already let go of their childhood fantasies—astronauts, rock stars, superheroes—and had settled into practical, stable jobs. But Riley couldn't let go of the dream. His passion for politics had grown with time, from not so loved school prefect to university debates and to a brief but disastrous stint in local government. Every step, despite its failures, felt like a confirmation of his glorious destiny.
Riley's persistence had turned heads. He was the longest-serving "dreamer" in recent history, in his mind causing a stir both in the media and among the public. In reality he got more eye rolls. Some admired his dedication, while others saw it as a refusal to accept reality. The government, bound by the societal rule that no one could start a stable career without attempting their childhood dream, begrudgingly allowed Riley's continued pursuit but with growing impatience.
In a shocking twist of fate, Riley's relentless campaigning and uncanny ability to appeal to a certain demographic's nostalgia catapulted him to the position of prime minister. However, Riley was woefully unprepared for the actual responsibilities of the role. Britain quickly fell into disarray under his leadership. Economic crises, diplomatic blunders, and social unrest became the order of the day. Riley's idealistic speeches and grand visions couldn't mask the ineptitude and lack of practical governance skills.
One evening, as Riley faced yet another crisis meeting with his long-suffering cabinet—this time over a disastrously mishandled trade agreement —they received a summons from the Council of Transitions. This council oversaw the delicate balance between dreams and reality, ensuring that the societal rule was respected.
In the council chamber, Riley faced a panel of stern-faced members. The head of the council, an elderly woman with kind but firm eyes, spoke first.
"Riley Morgan, you have shown remarkable dedication to your childhood dream. However, it is clear that your continued tenure as prime minister is causing significant harm. Society needs you to transition."
Riley's heart pounded. "With all due respect, I believe I can turn this around. I've come so far, and I'm not ready to give up on this dream. All I need is a week, an MI5 hacker and a lot of biscuits, oh and one of those flicky bic pens, the nice ones not the cheap ones."
The council members exchanged glances. The head of the council sighed. "We are not here to take away your aspirations, Riley. But your insistence on this path has brought our nation to the brink. Your dream has become a dangerous delusion."
"But what if my stable career is in politics?" Riley pleaded. "What if this isn't just a dream, but my true calling?"
Rileys cries echoed through the passageways of offices now emptying to watch the small dictator be forcefully evicted from the premises. Riley picked himself up and as he walked away heard the faint sound of champagne corks popping.
In the quiet realm where thoughts arise, No chains can bind, no walls comprise. The mind, a bird with wings unfurled, Explores the depths of its own world.
Beyond the reach of rulers' might, It finds its peace in endless flight. No edict, law, or decree signed, Can cage the freedom of the mind.
Alice’s room was a sanctuary of nature and calm. The walls were painted a soft sage green, evoking a sense of tranquility. One wall was adorned with a large, intricate mural of a lush forest scene, painted by Alice herself, reflecting her artistic side and her deep connection to nature.
Large windows dominated one side of the room, flooding the space with natural light and overlooked a small, verdant garden. The window sills were crowded with a variety of potted plants, from trailing ivy to vibrant orchids, each one carefully labeled with its scientific name.
An old oak desk sat cluttered with botanical journals, sketchbooks, and an assortment of dried flowers and leaves that she used for her art projects. What some would think cluttered she knew to be organised in its own way, her way.
A cozy reading nook was tucked into one corner, featuring a well-worn armchair with a knitted throw blanket and a small bookshelf filled with volumes on plant science, environmental essays, and classic literature.
The room was softly lit by a combination of natural light and candles dripping down onto the woodwork. String lights with tiny, delicate leaves were draped across the ceiling, casting a gentle glow in the evenings.
On the walls were framed photographs of various landscapes she had visited and studied, each one capturing a moment of inspiration or discovery. There were also a few awards and certificates, modestly displayed, acknowledging her achievements in her field, hinting at her quiet pride in her work.
The room, in essence, was a harmonious blend of nature, creativity, and intellectual curiosity. It was a space that nurtured her passions and provides a peaceful retreat from the outside world.
Under the amber glow of the setting sun, Sarah and Jake stood at the edge of the old railway platform, the echoes of their laughter still hanging in the air. The station, once bustling with the rhythm of countless journeys, now seemed a solemn witness to their farewell. They had shared a lifetime of memories, from childhood escapades to late-night talks under the stars, dreaming of futures yet to unfold. The end of an era had come, marked not by a calendar date but by the undeniable tug of new adventures calling them in different directions.
Sarah's eyes glistened with unshed tears, yet a determined smile curved her lips. "This isn't goodbye, you know," she said softly, her voice steady despite the emotion swelling in her chest. "It's just the beginning of something new for both of us." Jake nodded, his own feelings mirrored in her words. Though the path ahead was uncharted, it promised the thrill of discovery, the allure of the unknown. They embraced, holding onto the comfort of their shared past even as they let go, ready to step into the future. With a final wave, they turned away, hearts heavy yet hopeful, knowing that while they might be parting ways, their bond would endure, strengthened by the promise of the adventures that awaited them both.
In the heart of the city, where the future gleams bright, Neon lights flicker, painting shadows of night. Skies filled with cars in a luminous flight, A symphony of engines, a dazzling sight.
Streaks of red and blue, they dance in the sky, Like modern-day fireflies, they shimmer and fly. Above towering spires of steel and glass, Where dreams of tomorrow and present moments clash.
Yet amidst this marvel, a whisper of sorrow, For the nature we lost, the green we did borrow. Concrete and chrome have taken its place, Leaving no trace of the earth's tender grace.
Rivers of lights where waters once flowed, Gardens replaced by electronic glow. The hum of the engines, the buzz of the streets, Not the quiet whistle of wind through the trees.
Fly high, shining cars, in your radiant race, But let not our roots be entirely erased. For beauty is fleeting if balance is lost, A reminder of nature, at any cost.
In the heart of the city, where the future's alive, May the spirit of nature forever survive. For awe and loss in harmony dwell, In the tale of the future, that time will tell.
