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
Gravity - TranslationOnce upon a time, there was a Boy for whom the Earth seemed to have developed a special liking. All that was his pose, hair, clothes hung down, stretched towards a ground always near and yet always so far, attracted by a force three times more insistent than that acting upon others.
However, the Boy had refused since his earliest childhood to give in to this clingy Earth, to grant it that which it wanted the most: his eyes, and thereby his heart. Because it was not of a pulsing, mechanical sack of flesh and blood that the child beat, but rather of a heart that was light and pure, made of gold and set in glass, held up by feathers that were weightlessness in their own right.
Thus, he kept his gaze always a few degrees above the horizon. Full of himself, they said, or simply stupid. But he, the Boy, did not take notice of these words, because he was neither: he was hope and he was daydream and he was romance.
Still, despite this light heart, the Boy passed by people without
GraviteIl était une fois un Garçon pour qui la Terre semblait avoir développé un amour spécial. Tout ce qui lui appartenait pose, cheveux, vêtements pendait, étiré vers un sol toujours près et encore toujours si loin, attiré par une force trois fois plus insistante que celle agissant sur les autres.
Cependant, le Garçon refusait depuis sa plus jeune enfance de céder à cette Terre trop collante, de lui accorder ce qu'elle voulait le plus : ses yeux, et ainsi, son cur. Car ce n'est pas d'un sac pulsant et mécanique que battait l'enfant; mais plutôt d'un cur léger et beau, fait d'étain et orné de verre, soutenu par des plumes.
Il gardait ainsi son regard toujours quelques degrés au-delà de l'horizon. Imbu, disait-on de lui, ou tout simplement sot. Mais lui, le Garçon, ne se préoccupait pas de ces propos, car il n'était ni l'un, ni l'autre : non, il éta