children's gamesA single white petal drifts towards the soft green ground. He loves me.
The young girl paced along the length of the flowerbed, waiting for him to arrive. She glanced impatiently at her wrist to check just how early she must be, exactly, and realised that she hadn't worn a watch that day. She looked up and judged from the position of the sun high overhead that it must be noon. He would be here soon.
A second one falls. He loves me not.
Where was he? They had agreed on noon, hadn't they? The young woman began wringing her hands as she continued her restless walking, then noticed it and stopped, only to begin twirling a stray lock of hair between her fingers instead.
The small child continues to pluck away at the flower in her hands. He loves me.
She stopped her fervent marching and pushed away those unkind thoughts. He would come, she told herself. He promised. And she believed it. Even though she felt like she was going to wait forever, she made herself stay.
UntitledI am innocence.
I am the child who plays alone and doesn't care, surrounded by scattered toys and assembled creations.
I am the girl with the temerity to approach a solitary boy and say "Hello, how do you do, let's be friends."
I am the seeds of a wildflower sown, destined to someday become greater than all its brethren.
I am the knot in your stomach whenever you think of holding hands, banished to the nether parts of your heart where, though you don't realise it, I can do my worst.
I am the courage you drew from a well you hadn't know existed, heated and shaped into a weapon you will wield against the fear that holds you back.
I am the electricity that arcs across fingertips brushing, charging the air with exhilarating flashes of fiery colours.
I am the flower that grew unattended, blooming to reveal startling pastel splashes in dull green garb.
I am love.
I am the warm air cooling the hot blush that spreads across your cheeks when you hold hands under the table, when you savour a pri
A grand, regal lack of sound and substance. I'm drifting in a void, drawn further in by the nothingness around me. I'm sinking in a pool of black, a never-ending, all-encroaching pool of black. A blissful, terrifying, serene, chaotic abyss.
From the depths rises a sound. I shiver, though of fear or anticipation I know not. The sound is a whisper, a word, a shout, a scream. Now its crystalline tones have turned harsh, primal. This emptiness is being contorted and crushed, pressed into a shrinking ball that is picked up and devoured by the new blinding, fundamental light. I squeeze my eyes shut.
Decrescendo. A rhythmic beating emerges.
The crudity of the light begins to fade. Tentatively, I open my eyes again, and I gasp. What before was empty darkness is now grey earth and white sky, cleanly separated by a horizon that stretches out far in the distance.
As I watch, the ground trembles. Translucent mountains e