Forward

I found this path in the woods. I can’t remember how I got here but here I am, smelling nature and listening to the birds singing in the distance, if I strain my ears a bit I think I can hear the sound of a waterfall, or maybe it’s my imagination. I don’t know. I’m too afraid to move too far from this path. Visibility is short and what I can see is limited to what is before me. The sun beams down through the foliage. At least I won’t get sunburned. But what am I doing here. I can’t remember. it’s peaceful out here listening to the birds chirping and the various sounds of nature tapping at my attention trying to draw me in. I think I’m on the side of a mountain though, the path curves at just an angle that my thoughts can’t help but go there. Its peaceful here, this place in the woods that I’ve stumbled on. I wonder if it’s okay to stay here for a bit, or is that a bad thing… running away from what lies further in the foliage. Why aren’t I curious enough, eager enough to go forward? What stops me from moving so close to something that progresses? Curious things to wonder, curious indeed…

I’m waiting now... waiting for something to happen. But why must I wait, when did I stop and just wait, can I start things, how do I start things. I’m confused now. How did I get here, here in the woods where the sun only catches me sparingly through the foliage? These questions fill my head with no answers in sight and still I stand unmoving in the woods, a path laid out before me, ready to be taken.

It is warm where I stand, the few spots of sun hit me not as hot as the sight before me promises. It must be the trees that shield me, the branches too now that I think about it. Why would I leave such a safe place that protects me from the heat and burn of the sun’s rays? But it’s also lonely here on the path, no hand to hold as I contemplate the things in my head.

Maybe one step is okay, no two steps because that’s even. There we go that’s okay. Forward is good. The sun hits me slightly more as I walk away from the protection of the trees. Is this a good thing, a bad thing or simply a thing? Who knows? But forward is good, right? …Right?

Maybe two more steps, because even is good, even is right and forward is right. I move along the path the trees fade away into the background and the sun catches my skin, blinding me slightly as it strikes me. The day is definitely hotter than I thought, the trees were far kinder than I realised. Maybe I should go back, maybe I should stay on the path were the sun only barely shines. But going back is not good, is it? No it is not. Then let’s take one more step forward, no it has to be two, remember.

The sun now engulfs me and my skin tingles slightly from the burn. The birds still sing softly in the distance and the sounds of a waterfall still echo somewhere far away. Nothing has changed but a few steps yet everything has changed as I drink up the warmth. Why does it feel so different? Why does it feel so warm and alive? Something has changed though everything is the same, what is it?

The steps come easier how many do I take; I don’t know the sun distracts me with its warmth and I listen to the birds singing as they grow louder. The path falls away as my feet move across it. Where do I go? I don’t know? But forward is good, isn’t it?

The sounds of a waterfall now become distinct and soon my steps become sure as if this was where I was going all along. The bird’s song seem to guide me as the sun‘s heat urges me forward to hurry. The path falls away and soon I hear humming join in with the bird’s music? Is that me?

The warm air slowly changes as a different scent begins to surround me. The humid air dampens my hair to my skin and the smell of algae brings a smile to my face. Almost there, there where there is rest, where the path ends and the trees will shield me once again. What is this feeling of sadness, this melancholy that sets in now that the end draws near? Where did it come from and why does it slow my footsteps? Maybe I’ll rest a little. Just a little here by the edge.

The sounds of the waterfall are prominent and hard to ignore, but I can’t help this feeling of panic that draws from within. Is this the end, the last leg of the race? What will become of me, how will I end this?

Maybe I’ll take one step, not two steps for now. We don’t need to rush, let’s not be reckless. Forward may not be that great after all, right? Right. The sun burns me now, there’s no more cover from the trees to shield me and the path has not come to a close and roughened. How did I miss this? Where was I looking? Things are happening too fast why am I still moving. One step is too fast maybe I should stop? But already I am here already at the edge of the stream that laps at my feet.



I look up and there it is, before I knew it I’d already made it. Before I knew it I’d stumbled on beauty. There before me rushed the waterfall, unbothered by my presence. How stupid to not want to see this. How stupid indeed. I take two steps forward, no more and no less, and into the water I find myself walking as I think what a miracle such things as these are, the rushing curtain of cool refreshing water that splashes in my direction, cooling my skin. This is where I am supposed to be. This is what the path has led me to. I am calm now as the water slowly rolls over my feet. I am sure of where I am and where I’m going, or rather where I’ve gone. So forward was right after all.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All rights reserved. ©2015 

Image: missloony.deviantart.com

The Wrong Shoes

Have you ever felt like you put on the wrong shoes? The kind that pinch and squeeze your feet so tight that you half expect them to reform into some new shape at the end of day, or even after a short while where you have walked longer than you’re pain receptors care to remember. The worst part is you thought it was the right pair of shoes in the beginning and chalked the initial pain up to your imagination and just thought you’d ‘walk it off’ as if the pressure against your toes would eventually magical release because you said it would and the uncomfortable gait you’ve adopted would suddenly just be normal to the rest of your body.

Interesting thought that, or at least to me it is. It kind of makes me think of life, if that makes sense. Just like when you put on those soon-to-be evil shoes, you walk into some choices in your life thinking, ‘yup, this is it’ while the truth of the matter is that it stings slightly and feels just the right amount of uncomfortable that you notice it, but not enough that you do anything about it. Then low and behold as much as you try to ‘walk it off’ things seem to get more and more tender in the soul-spot and suddenly everything is whizzing out of your control as you try to question what the hell it is your doing with your life and where it is exactly you’re going.

Just like those uncomfortable shoes that are reforming the very shape of your foot into a painsicle, you have this choice that has somehow begun to take your innocent young self and reformed and twisted it into something you can’t really recognised as you try to figure yourself out. It’s no wonder people go on journeys to ‘find themselves’ when in fact they grew up knowing who they were. It’s those damn choices that twist and turn things around and make you all confused as you begin questioning what is left and where is right.

Frankly I think we’ve all just been wearing the wrong damn shoes! At least for a little while anyway, we seem to choose to wear these fancy looking, comfort-promising shoes that lie to us with their overall appeal and glitzy outer exterior that has us buying them in the dozens while the real shoes we should be looking for stay hidden in the background, gaining a bit of dust and going out of season as people label them too old fashion or not racy enough to be the right fit.

But seriously, what is it with those shoes? Why do we want to continue wearing them after that first initial wave of pain hits us and the thought of ‘walk it off’ attacks us? I‘ve always thought such things were stupidly obvious. If something hurt, fix it. In this case take them off. In the great grand scheme of things that is life, what then?

Most people would say ‘walk it off’, I’m sure and frankly they wouldn’t be wrong. Sometimes you just have to suck it up. You did, after all choose to wear those shoes so all you can do is endure until the day ends and freedom of the feet becomes a reality. But what if the pain is trying to tell us something, you know, like pain is generally supposed to do. What if it’s trying to tell us it’s the wrong shoes and that maybe we should stop for a moment and take them off before we do some damage? What then?

How is one supposed to know the difference when there exists so many different responses? It confuses me. But I suppose there’s a lesson in when to take those shoes off as well, an important moment that dawns on one as you realize and embrace the pain, readying yourself for the decision to be made. I guess it’s just up to the individual to realize what lesson they get and how long it takes for them to get it.

In the end, I still think it should be simplified though, for the rest of us. How easy things would be then to know, for example, that when those shoes you innocently chose hurt, all one needs to do is to take them off and step back because in the end, it’s not like there are only one pair of shoes out there. Or at least I hope that’s the case.

Empty Shoes

The smell of rain fills my nostrils. The faint drizzle of rain is soft against my skin. There’s a chill breeze in the air. The light patter of the rain on the tarmac sails slowly to my eardrums. My eyes stay fixed before me.

What is this I see?

These memories of a time gone by… A faint ache at things no longer there lingers in the air around me. The shoes left behind as only the echo of once was, remains.

The sky cries for the lost days of youth when presence simply was now cannot be.

For a moment I am sad, to think of what has gone, the memory still so vivid, yet soon to fade away as the ripples in the water do.

I laugh a little as I catch a glimpse of the bright colour in the shoes. A bright memory of long ago, a frivolous time of play passes my mind’s eye. Good times forever sketched in heart.

So clear, these memories that reflect within the water. So close, the illusion of touch is teased, but too soon is it turned off as the ripples grow fiercer and the images now lose their shape.

The soft rain now harsher than before as memory must be put aside and reality brought forward.



Nothing left now except four empty pairs of shoes.

The Wall

You build a wall. It holds all the most deflective materials you know of. It’s your wall, one raised by the need for survival.

But time is cruel.

Time is revealing.

I've yet to think of it as healing.

Time ages that wall, that protective barrier that shields you from the other side. The side which holds all you wished to be locked up, forgotten.

Time slowly decays that wall, slowly only to fool you in thinking this wall will last, slowly because then you do not inspect so thoroughly how the cracks begin to appear, how it’s aged materials degrade and begin slowly crumbling.

But it’s a wall of survival and in survival we have instinct.

The growing sense of unease as you look to that wall briefly and begin to inspect, too late, closely the cracks that are forming, the bricks that are crumbling.

But it’s too late. Already the dark light of what’s buried behind that wall seeps through.

Already the charged thoughts poke at you and inevitably provoke forth that which you had so desperately sealed.

It’s too late to stop the resuscitation of thoughts hoped lost and long forgotten behind a wall thought eternal.

Each electric thought, buzzing with unreal clarity, strikes you and reminds you, it is here. It is free.

It’s too late to stop the process of reliving that thought gone and absorbed into imagination, left to only be but brief nightmares faded to memory.

But again, time is cruel. Time is harsh. Time knows no lie.

The stability of what the wall gave, though illusionary, now crumbles with the bricks and materials embedded in that wall.

Memory invades, reality fights to be heard and time, time has given the stage, the tactics, for what was once buried behind a wall.

What’s left is the instability of trying to regain the balance of that illusionary peace, the safety of that wall.

But instability is dangerous. It brings with it painful clarity that which has been thought locked in darkness. It brings forth memory and what was once thought nightmares and blends them, presenting them on the stage presented and built by time.

How clearly these things return and rock the stability which was in effect the illusion held with such desperate need to avoid the truth that time now calls to court.

How safe we fooled ourselves to be with our wall, decaying without notice.

How we have underestimated the power of time and it’s friendship to truth.

Nothing Lasts

It is probably one of the most pessimistic things to say, but it also happens to be one of the truer facts of life, no matter what we try to convince ourselves. Even the greatest artists of old, whose names have been lost in time, their work outliving the very spelling it was first written in, could not argue this.

Their work may stand, aged but present and yet we all know that those works of unique art will one day be nothing but the dust that can barely even stir one’s memory, reminding us of its existence.

We are no different. In fact, I sometimes think maybe we are even somewhat worse off. Today I may proudly state, with utter conviction to eternally love those dear to me with every fiber in my existence, but inevitably my flesh will fade from the physical and I will be nothing but a memory and though the strength on my conviction can carry with that memory, it won’t be long before, like those artist, I will be nothing but an echo of things once past. My great grandkid’s wouldn’t even care if I had seen the sun, let alone held a strong conviction to those who mattered to me.

And honestly, who could blame them? My conviction was nothing of theirs, but the sayings of an ancestor and those works of art? They were, are and hopefully for some time will be the voice of beauty and the vision of creativity and individuality, but not for everyone. Not for us. Those voices belong to artists that Google know better than most learned individuals. Those are the stories and footprints left by another, for us they are just scenery and we all know that eventually the scenery we see changes and rarely do we see the same again.

So, nothing lasts, a sad and happy truth. Happy, because troubles have an end and that light will soon emerge from the tunnel. Sad, because there is so much we wish never stopped and yet it is made even more so precious because of its inevitable end.

But what does it all matter… is what I would have loved to ask and kept on asking for far longer than I am able to, but… nothing lasts – not even the delusion we hold to of being in a state of confusion, blinded by the ongoing change around us and as all things must, those blinders come off and we are left open to it all, now we just have to deal with it.

I always knew it would happen, it’s not like it came as a surprise. It was one of those things you even hoped would eventually happen. The problem was, it eventually did and I was left with the realization that, though I had hoped and expected and waited for this to come along and finally ‘happen’, I did not have the things I needed to deal with the after effect.

It’s like knowing you live in a hurricane state and hearing about the ‘dangerous’ activity in the area and hoping the thing comes close by so you could see what’s it like, because you know, you’ve never seen one before… and then BAM, you’re caught in the disaster and you figure out at the last minute you haven’t secured your house and dog, whose just been sucked into the eye of the storm, and on top of it, you don’t have any resources for the aftermath, like food and medicine. Ultimately, you’re left standing on the front porch, overwhelmed and underprepared, looking at this disaster, you basically called I might add, and you realized your screwed.

Well, that’s how I feel as I watch my brother drive off to meet his girlfriend for their umpteenth date in barely over a month of being together.

Don’t get me wrong, I like her. She’s perfect for him in a way I never thought I’d see anyone be for him and I am truly happy for their relationship, he really does deserve it. However, I never knew that them being together meant I lost my brother. Being the close siblings that we are, I always knew this situation would be difficult, so I had already prepared myself for when this happened. I am very good at stepping back and letting others be happy, it comes naturally to me, plus I am very aware of the ‘honeymoon’ period couples go through in the first phase of their relationship. I know that my time with him is second to their moments together, not really surprising.

But, I know when I am not wanted around to the point of annoyance. One feeling I knew better than I ever really wanted to, one feeling that I’d wish on no human being, ever. I never once, thought I’d get this feeling from my own brother. The most painful thing of all is that it is most likely a very unintentional thing. He probably has no idea he is doing it, or at least I’d like to believe that. But that makes it worse, because than that is a subconscious desire of someone who wants something so bad, but feels too uncomfortable to say it aloud, something I could at least deal with.

I am no stranger to rejection, I doubt there are any people left who are. But it’s never bothered me much because I always had those few precious individuals who made rejection just another experience in the real world, nothing more. But how do I recover when the one to deal me such indifference is one of the few I have carefully and painstakingly selected?

It’s not an experience I wish to relive anytime soon and so I do what I do best, I step into the shadows and wait. I wait for time to do its thing and take me away as it has those artists that even Google begins to struggle to recall. That place we know and yet can’t quite remember the directions to. That far off place where the dust of what once was, stirs in hopes of being remembered.

It could be the depression that clouds my thoughts as I contemplate these thoughts and try to find my way. I easily forget I have this ‘thing’ that drags me to the dark and soaks my thoughts, but even then I can’t find argument against them. I find too much sense in the senseless. The chaos of confusion makes sense and I cannot ignore the things that draw my attention, even if it draws it to the dust, fading it out into an echo.

I always knew it would happen, but I never expected it to happen like this. For so long I have lived in a world constructed by the very idea that everything would fall into place and I would find my footing where it would always be.

There would always be change, I knew that, but in all the change, there would still be me and the things I hold dear. I never factored in the change and it’s consequence on my dear ones. I never expected a change where I was not fully considered. I never saw a future where I would not be even a small significant piece in the lives of those who will forever be that for me.

I am left with a heart wrenching dilemma where I am forced to stand on my porch and look into the eye of the storm and see, up close and uncomfortably personal that… nothing lasts, not even the things we fight tooth and nail to hold onto.

It was always going to happen, one way or another, but even with that expectation, I never expected to be told I was not welcomed or expected to be around, in a manner like I have.

Everyone is young at some point and you argue and fight throughout your life. It’s to be expected. It is not strange for one sibling to say to another to ‘get out’, or ‘leave me alone’. These are the things said over years of knowing each other and having moments of youthful rebellion. However those words can transform with nothing but the slightest change in tone and pitch.

The same words, same sentence, but the way in which they are said, can be the small difference in a jovial come back and a regretful retort. As nothing lasts, so do too many things unwilling begin.

No one wants to be forgotten, even if it is through an echo of artwork spread across the aging walls of some degrading church or by illegible scribbling on brittle paper that will most likely never see the light of day again. We all hold the very human desire to be remembered. It is the undeniable proof that we have been acknowledged, that our existence was of value to another.

It might be because of that looming hurricane that we know comes our way, be it for change or destruction that we want to make our mark all the more desperately. We never really want to lose the things that make us feel ‘I was here’.

So I have to face the conclusion that I have always known, nothing lasts, but even so I hope to have made enough of an echo to remind those who leave me, of who I was and that I was indeed here. Despite the hurricanes, the treacherous flow of time and the inevitable way of things not even predictable, I strong hope to have at least hammered in one nail with my name on it.

A Stranger's Act of Kindness

I've often asked myself, why not?

It’s amazing how many things this question applies to and yet what’s even more fascinating is how often we shut this voice up in the negative or in the form of ‘next time’. Well, at least, for me that’s how it is. Today was just like any other day. The sun came up, the earth was still revolving, etc. there was nothing special about the day, other than the possibility of seeing people I cared about. But isn't that an everyday hope and expectation?

My point is, it was a normal day, but somehow I don’t think I’ll forget it any time soon.

We never really remember, fully, the kindness of others. It’s too quickly forgotten these deeds that have impacted our lives in ways we would never understand. However, just because these acts will sooner or later be forgotten, should we then never initiate them? I shudder to imagine a world where this is the chosen answer.

I am no innocent in this regard. I have received kindness, in one way or another, in a small way or a largely obvious one. But if you were to ask me the details of what, when, whom? I would not be able to tell you. 

Sure there are some that stand out, but even then I could not say with certainty the accuracy of the recollection, however that does not mean I was unaffected by it. Why else, despite my very many experiences to the contrary, do I find myself able to see hope in the human race?

The kindness I have received has changed me in ways I might not even be aware of, but also that I don’t mind. And why not let that change me? Why not?

But kindness isn't always without its troubles, giving it or receiving it. Good upbringing dictates to us as children to never take gifts from strangers, and with good reason. A helping hand has proven too often to belong to untrustworthy intentions. Kindness has been the unfortunate tool, tightening the strings on unsuspecting puppets.

But it isn't only our upbringing that makes kindness so suspect. Most damning reasons of all are cultivated as we grow and watch the world around us, a world where kindness is made a symbol of mockery and deceit. A trait viewed as weakness and unjustifiable cowardice. A ‘thing’ to be avoided least you wish yourself isolated, tormented or worse, killed.

How can one not question any kindness given by a stranger then, when every fibre of your learned experience tells you to run the other way or more deviously, take what you can and disappear?

Kindness then falls into the danger of endangerment, leaving nothing for hope to be born from or life to be learned from. That is until a stranger passes by and reminds just one soul of its existence, hoping against hope that its soft whisper will be heard against the screaming of delusion.

Why not turn those soft words into belting sentences of hope? Why not? Isn't that what this world is built on? The ideals and hopes of those changed by kindness, wanting to give that kindness back and build on it the dreams that we all hope to achieve.

So then, I return to the memory of today, who knows how long till it’s forgotten. A normal day, an impressionable line of people at a food shop in a centre built for students, but priced for government’s greedy consumption. One item, one mission: get in and out and return to work. my one item didn't require the minutes of waiting the others would need, but in no way did that prioritize me above them, nor them me.

One girl, a stranger to me as I was to her, stood before me, the last obstacle to my purchase and escape. Her card was on its umpteenth time of being scanned and subsequently declined. She showed no signs of poverty, but one who truly knows that word, knows that it is not simply ‘seen’ on first impression or even at first glance. Her plight reminded me of a time I've buried in a black box my thoughts wouldn't even use a stick to poke.

But she was a stranger and it was not my problem. At least that is what I argued to myself as I walked slowly away from the counter, back towards my office. Why bother with someone unrelated to me? She showed no signs of being penniless and she was in fact on her phone trying to contact someone. Clearly she must have a backup plan. And yet why, step after step was I still arguing her unrelated connection to me?

I cannot tell you of the argument itself, as mental as it was. However, I can tell you that before I was even aware of it my feet had changed direction and I had retraced my steps. By the time I realized what I was doing I just let it go. Why not?

I paid for her order, with few words against stubborn disbelief and went on my way. Who cared if she remembered me, honestly I preferred she didn't. What did it matter if the act benefited her or annoyed her? Did it really matter how long this act would be remembered?

So many things that could have swayed me against that simple act, and yet I find myself still smiling hours later. It didn't matter whether I could or couldn't afford to do it. It wasn't a question of whether or not I could walk away. The real question was, why not?

My soul sings at that one small good deed and already I know I will do it again, when that voice returns and starts its unnecessary argument and that question echoes in my head, why not? Anything that feels this good should truly be repeated. But should one wait for that voice to wake you up and inspire you?

Kindness shouldn't need the push that seems to be the working cogs of an old moral-laden machine, left to gather dust in some unattended corner of our souls. Such acts should be the things that are done more easily than stringing two letters that never get anyone anywhere. Because, why not?

Today was an average day, one I doubt I will soon forget, because this was the day I witnessed a stranger’s act of kindness.

Hovering Hands

I have never been aware of it… wait that might be a slightly white lie I've constantly told myself. I have noticed it, but in the way one notices a truth not quite ready to be accepted yet, so they just push it to the side until the day comes that all that’s left to look at is ‘the side’ to which all things were pushed.

Still either way it is something not comfortable to confront, or at least for me. I have always been realistic, bent partially to the pessimistic, with great entry to the minds fantastic … yeah I used that because it rhymed.

Some say I'm creative, I’d strongly like to believe them because I tend to live in my mind, a place where all makes sense and things I push aside don’t quite have a chance to take centre stage. But, like creativity, reality is a very needed necessity and without it there would be no platform with which to build our fantasies with and so that which has been shoved, kicked and so on to the side has a tendency to come fighting to the centre stage, simply because we, who have exercised our minds to be the architects of our own inner worlds, have unwittingly given skills to our subconscious to find devious ways for us to confront our inner demons, at one point or another.

So, now I am left here staring at the proverbial stage of my mind, staring at what must be a very strange and disturbing sight to many, at first. An empty hand lay in the centre, as if emphasizing its point of needing to be taken note of. Normally I would just assume I have entered another weird part of my imagination and the story will soon unfold, but this time I don’t have the energy or even the will to fool myself, because I know.

I know that on this empty stage is something I have chosen to look away from for so long that I had hoped to have forgotten about by now, a truth I’d hoped would be lost. But who knew my inability to lie was so deeply ingrained as to even be unable to fool myself, I thought I’d gotten that right at least. But there was the truth, lying with its open palm beckoning me closer so that I could no longer look away.

But imagination is a powerful thing, what if that hand was the unfortunate severed limb from a victim taken by a serial killer in a story I had just written, or from a warrior who had fought valiantly in battle…

Oh, wait, there’s reality pushing in, refusing to be covered in fantasy again. How well it knows my tricks, the silent partner in the building plans of my imagination. Now it is isn't just a single empty hand that takes centre stage, slowly more fade in, except that these hands aren't so empty. No… these hands reinforce my understanding of why I know the hand in the centre.

The hands around are not empty, they clasp other hands and not just any way. These hands are clasp in a way that echoes passionately across the stage. A passion that makes it now impossible for me to ignore reality screaming at me to take note of why it’s called me to this stage.

The hands that fill the stage are clasped in loving embrace, all except for one. In the centre of the stage, where the light has lost its lustre, a single hand lays isolated and alone. Sure I could draw from my imagination once again and build a world around who or why or what the hand is, but the radiance of the embracing hands surrounding that one hand is too bright to close my eyes to and above all else, I know.

I know that hand is me. How is it that I am akin to an empty hand is indeed an interesting question. However, for me it isn't really a question at all. It is in fact my life.

Many interpretations can be taken from that, but for now, as I am faced with this proverbial stage that reality has forced upon my attention, I am pretty sure which one it aims for me to take note of. Like the truth I've chosen to avoid, it has come from ‘the side’ to grab my attention, shackle me to a chair and announce its presence. It’s here to preach to me of love.

Yes, love and isn't it always about that or the lack of that or even the over-abundance of it, either way love is always something that wiggles its annoying head into everything. It’s that pestering sibling you can never quite be rid of, or that fly that you just can’t kill. Hell I go so far as to say it’s that mosquito that finds you were ever you go, the stalker mosquito.

I have always known love and yet I have never known love. The truth of all man and woman alike until, of course, they’re lucky enough to be the embracing hands on the stage before me, oblivious to the worlds around them. Always dancing to a tune designed for them and mute to us observers who can only imagine what the harmony of the music is like.

I have known the love of parents, the greatest a child, especially one with a damaged mind, could ask for. That unconditional warmth too few are privy to and too many take for granted. That soft and sweet embrace, that can be taken far too soon, or be given far too late. That scented touch forever missed or never missed enough. I've known the clasp of their hands since mine was barely able to hold itself and yet this indescribable, unconditional love, is still only a hover above the empty hand that stands at centre stage.

I have known the protective pull of a sibling’s grasp, a brother’s shield. That reassuring tug of hope, that pulls you and pushes you along. That accepting grasp that reminds you who you are, no matter where you go and who you follow. That guiding hand, that shows you how it’s done and paves it for tomorrow. That allied shake that reminds one bonds are strong, even when distances are long. I have known the clasp of a big brother’s hand since before I knew the significance of its life impacting love and yet I know it’s but an echo of the hover above the empty hand that lay still in the centre of the stage.

I have known the love of family, the razor sharp burns of opening ones heart to those demanding it.

I have known the love of friends, the roller-coaster of dizzying success for those who request it. The crazy beat that stings one’s palms to keep open. The bumping knuckles, which pushes forward our joint understanding. The clapping rhythm, that moves us to joyous celebration. I have known the clasp of friendly camaraderie that lightens the soul and yet still it is only a hover above the hand that stays centre stage, alone.

Never have I known the love that dances around me, embracing to the tune that only they are privy to. 

Never have I heard the melody that sings the soft tune which sways one to pink fantasy, though many a fantasy I have, ironically, written.

I am that empty hand, because I know. I know nothing of a lover’s grasp, the warmth that holds you in place and reminds you, that you are wanted. I know nothing of that warm embrace that clasps one’s hand and dances to a tune known only to us. I know nothing of a hand within a hand of passion.

I am that hand in centre stage, surrounded by clasped hands, swaying to their happy melody, lost in their own sweet fantasy, many of which I'm sure I could create within my imagination. Around me the light seems dimmed and I am left cold and without a partner to whatever tune I'm meant to dance to.

I know. The hand and me, are one and the same, a truth long pushed to the side that now has forced its way to centre stage in order to be seen and heard. A truth no longer to be ignored, simply because with all the hands partnered around me, it’s very hard to not see that my hand has remained just a hover above the stages of their stories. Because isn't that what I am?

I am a sister, a daughter, a cousin, a niece, a friend and yet I have never been a girlfriend. As all those have been for me, I have been for them, just a hover above a palm.