The two-way road in front of her appears to stretch for miles. Streetlights tower over her like thin giants and the crows have not stopped watching her. Remi considers turning back, but the motel has already disappeared from view.
Like the first plunge into a cold pool, she’s suddenly overwhelmed with the fear that the world no longer exists. That this stretch of road that will continue on for an infinity, and when an infinity has run out yet another infinity, and that Remi will never truly shake the way escape loves her like a lover loves another. It’s paralyzing to think that this cursed navy sky that never truly sets, this cracked tar below her feet, this landscape of stores that never truly open or close and run down buildings with phantoms for a shadow of a town is all there is. Her hands shake. The world is silent and offers no condolences.
work piles up on a desk hardly used, run a finger through the dust on the bookshelves, flip through the pages of long neglected books.
bag thrown in the corner, half open and spilling like some sort of overwhelming desire to stay on top of subjects that only bring the monotonous illusion of comfort.
ignore it, of course.
ignore the way that these clothes have begun to pile up in your closet ignore the way these words are but half written and how these assignments are more blank papers than for a grade.
ignore those messages, the calling of a modern society and a place just outside if you only ever took a moment to get up.
(doesn’t it feel better to stay peacefully lonely under these covers?)
so softly, her lilac hair blows in the wind, mixing with the leaves that hang down. you swear you can see the lavenders bloom and wilt in the seconds between each snap of the the shutter. your heart climbs into your throat, still reaching for another ledge, another mountain to scream away the way it aches when you glance at her. you’re almost too afraid to pull the camera away from your face, to look at a young god in the making with nothing to offer but pictures that are more like digital sculptures that have been made by carving out an image with your soul. every shot is stored away, but no colours will ever be as deeply vibrant as the ones in this exact moment, immortalized in a fickle memory. you swear that you’ll see her face on your death bed and she laughs, calls you silly but doesn’t know the way she is everything that you want. there’s the blinding of sunlight, a curtain of verdant green hiding her from view for just a moment.
she turns around, a slight tilt of her head and a question on her lips, asks: “are you coming?”
(you don’t tell her that your feet will drag at the earth, creates scars in the dirt where she walks, but if inevitibility came in the form of a picture, then you would put her on your mantle)
Shadows melt around him, draping him a coat of darkness. It almost swallows him alive if not for the halo the screen light bathes him in. He could have been an angel if not for the black wings the almost-night gives him. She can see the rings of sleepless nights under his eyes, hollowing away at his too pale skin like a spoon digging into vanilla ice cream. There are craters where he should be complete.
Despite such an ominous presence, she still finds her eyes drawn outside, tracing out the shapes of their watchers against a gradient of deep blue fading into the faint strands of scarlet. The last calls of the sun etch itself into the sky, but she’s long forgotten what morning is. When every single day is but the same backdrop, everything blends together. If this world was a painting, then the artist would be but a fool with a single colour.
(but god, does everything look haunting painted in the colour of sorrow)
sometimes it’s easy to feel the emotions that don’t exact reside in my chest, fluttering away like moths drawn to that light, but i have never been that light, not really not ever.
sometimes it feels like i’m just a mirror that reflects the feelings of others around me and pretend that they’re my own. perhaps that isn’t all wrong, there must still be things that i’ve turned into something that truly belongs to me.
sometimes i don’t feel that crushing worry of existence, don’t feel that maybe this is point maybe this is nothing maybe no one wants you maybe–
sometimes i feel perfectly fine and it shouldn’t make me me feel surprised
i lost an sd card, but i walked home and the weather was nice.
i messed up several orders, but it wasn’t busy at all. time didn’t seem so slow.
i’m still looking for that damn sd card, but tomorrow i get to take amazing photos and light ever so striking against a dark sky.
maybe i haven’t treated myself the greatest, haven’t been doing as well as i want to in my classes, but i’m doing okay.
and i’ve always thought that satisfaction comes with dissatisfaction, that the two will always and forever be insperable. it must be pessimistic i know, but i guess it’s nice to think that after something bad the world gets a bit brighter.
you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep going that way darling.
but still, when I see you march forward with your shoulders squared with your chin up and confidence in a walk that you shouldn’t have needed to take, I cannot do anything but to hope that when you make it to where you’ve so stubbornly set your eyes upon, you’ll look back at me one day and wear those scars proudly
(i can see your smile from here, but there is no hiding those tears too)
oh baby, you can’t fight the way the crows land on your shoulders. they’ll fan out their feathers to make the black hole that you disappear into. you look like an angel in black with countless wings just waiting for you to spread them and fly. the sky is waiting for you to take flight, to break the cerulean of the sky, to soar through pinkish clouds. you’ve become the very definition of freedom. you’re the composition of every teen spirit book. there is tragedy written in the curve of your body, with your t-shirt flying up to show a faint outline of bones against a canvas of sepia. it’s the same in which the sun finds love in the colour of “right before morning” and “just around evening.” they cannot breathe in your dusty colours, but still, your cheeks flush against the cold unable to stop the brush of baby pink against your skin.
you are free. you are free. you are free.
(sing to me about the sky when you become the reborn icarus)
Tears prick eyes like needles on raw skin, and everything– everything, is a torrent of fragile emotions waiting to spill over the brim of an all too hollow container.
Time slows and speeds up with the people who rush in and out of the trains that have been pulling in for hours, perhaps days even. Each and every face is as distinct as the name of each feeling on the tip of their tongue, details forgotten as the words get stuck in their throat and the person walks out of sight. Forgotten here, tucked away in the shadows of a dirty subway station, dust collects on the unmoving figure.
Cameron wonders if Atlas carried sorrow in his lungs the same way they do, feeling their throat close up with every shuddering breath. They wonder how long it will take before their knees buckle to the weight of grief, pressed down into cracked concrete. Buried where they will not fight for their existence.
The bench dips slightly beside them. Heaviness lifts slightly, perhaps out of surprise. Cameron does not turn.The sound of a lighter breaks the silence and acrid smoke fills the air. Still, their eyes remain downcast at knees curled up to their chest on the seat.
Just be patient. They’ll leave when they’re done.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
A card makes it way in front of their knees. Cameron blinks, slightly dazed.
“Is this your card?” A low voice comes from the side, almost masculine in origin.
“I never picked one,” Cameron answers raspily. Even with the apprehension of answering a stranger, it’s almost as if they feel compelled to answer.
“You know,” the smoker whispers, “your card speaks to me about new beginnings. The end of something old and familiar makes way for a fresh start. Here is the journey that calls for you to get up and try something new.”
A train had pulled in while the stranger was talking, but even so, Cameron finds themselves straining to hear the faint words. The rush of wind and the sudden burst of chatter as passengers spill out from open doors make it a challenge, and yet, this is the most present in the moment they’ve been since wandering down here, lost and alone.
Cameron could feel an almost smile touch their lips. “That’s an eight of diamonds.”
“No, no. See, that’s where you’re wrong,” the voice denies, pulling the card away. A short pause ensues, perhaps examining the card in a better light. “Oh, this isn’t my tarot deck huh. Well that doesn’t matter!”
It hadn’t discouraged them. It’s almost admirable.
“It doesn’t?”
“Nope!” They exclaim. A puff of smoke drifts in Cameron’s peripheral. Coughing feels rude, so they hold the impulse down. “I’m magic, you see. I can see things you wouldn’t be able to.” Their confidence is astounding– and stupid.
A light scoff. “Bullshit.”
“You’re healing.”
Cameron pauses at those words. In a moment of brief and temporary vulnerability, they sigh. It sounds like a breath let go after being held for too long.
“Then why does it hurt so much?”
“When is something worth anything painless? You’ll find that in those places you thought were broken hold the most potential for beauty, for a chance to start fresh once again.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I never asked you to trust me. Look down. Trust yourself.”
The train pulls away. When the stranger laughs, it sounds as though the laughter follows the train as it leaves the station.
Smoke fills the air once again– stronger, stinging Cameron’s nose, making their eyes water. Coming unbidden, the tears start rolling down. First because of the smoke, but soon the dam breaks loose and the all too hollow container that is their body, their heart, is overcome with emotion that cannot be held back. Cameron cries, all alone in the station and all alone in the storm of their own world. Gasping for breath that will not come, rubbing their cheeks raw, damp sleeves and knees– it all feels so ugly.
Pulling hands away from their face, Cameron notices it for the first time.
Tiny, luminescent green leaves have sprouted from the places their tears have touched. They’re no bigger than a fingernail, but a hesitant touch with one hand confirms their existence, slightly cold but real. It’s fascinating, to see something so unnatural, but undeniably a sign of life in an unexpected place. There should be fear and anxiety building in the pit of their stomach, aversion to something so strange, and yet, all they can feel is a sense of calm.
They said they were magic. Maybe the healing they spoke of was true too.
There are no vines, no gardens to speak of when everything is stripped bare, but here, bathed in the gentle glow in the dark corners of a dirty subway station, it feels as if the ache is scraping everything clean.
Cameron looks up from their knees to look at the stranger. No one is in the seat beside them.
It feels almost foolish to thank the empty chair beside them, thank the faint smell of smoke that lingers. There’s a bittersweet ache that lingers. Even so, there’s an urge in their chest to voice the sentiment aloud. Something tells Cameron that the stranger would hear it anyways, from wherever they are now. They smile.
“Thank you.”
The bulb of a flower begins to grow amongst the leaves.
The 15 Minute Write 