An intoxicating gauze, a blend of perfumes,

Interwoven intricately ephemerally. 

Intrinsically enthralling and soft to the touch,

Thick layers or flimsy peel.

Velvety pillows veiled with a rough skin.

A faint rustling,

A gentle tornado,

A dress, a twirl of caressing petals.

Prickly and sudden, drawing blood,

Appearance versus reality.

It was dawn when they woke me up. Not the dawn with the cream-coloured sky and candy floss clouds. Not the fairy-tale dawn caressed by the mellow custard sunshine, nor the bright crisp chirping of exotic birds. The sky, painted khaki and flecked with dullness, seemed to have been the perfect setting for an apocalyptic period. Well, then again, I was in an apocalyptic situation. After all, the entire country wanted me dead, simply for having lived life to the fullest. 

I suppose I was living idyllically, unaware of the changing times. Unaware of the blood boiling in the veins of the country. People wanted change and I suppose I did hinder this change. But how can I be blamed? I was forced into an uncomfortable, awkward and lonely position that I had to make something of it. I had to brighten up my days, have fun, invite guests and create my own social revolution. I did bring change, but not the change the people wanted. Whereas I created my own social revolution and transformed the world of delicacies and fashion, the people constructed theirs only to kill me. I am innocent. I only wanted happiness in this world in which I succumbed to expectations. However, I made myself happy by using my power and wealth, but I suppose a woman is is alsways to blame in this world. Whose fault was it that I was married off? Mine. Whose fault was it that my husband was too awkward to sleep with me? Mine. Whose fault was it that consequently I could not have a child? Mine. No matter what I did, do and will do, it is my fault because I am a woman. A woman who must be responsible for all the wrong in the world and carry men's burden because they do not want to carry it themselves. 

They say I murdered the country. They say I murdered men, women and children. They say I murdered everything they owned. Why? Why am I to blame, to be executed, when the responsibility also lies upon my husband, my friends, my entourage, my society? Why, out of all of us nobles, am I considered devilish and sinful? If anything, I am the victim. I am a victim because I was stricken with so much burden, hate and disrespect. I am a victim because despite this, the world hates me, and despite this, I am responsible. I suppose it will be centuries before people feel empathy and love the underdog.

After they awoke me, stripped of dignity, wealth and power, the trial began. Whereas they had the world supporting them, I had my lawyers who were given a day to plead my case. They had decided my case before the trial, convinced I must be executed. 

Then, shoved around, they ordered me to prepare myself for my execution. If only they could kill me now. The unfairness of this world is too much to bear. The unfairness of being a woman is too much to bear. I was forced to change in front of my guards. Humiliated and naked, I was just a pale broken thing. With a plain white dress, they sheared my hair, stripped me of beauty and femininity. Hands bound behind my back, I became an empty vessel. I wasn't the devil, I wasn't unkind, I treated others with respect. I was a sweet person who, although lacking foresight, only wanted good. 

Unlike my husband, the culprit and coward, was given a carriage to ride in to his execution. Me? A simple open cart, under an ominous sky, where everyone could chant and humiliate me. Calling me names, I maintained my grace nonetheless, silent and poised. They may have stripped me of all my wealth, but I am, until the end, royalty.

Kind and loving, misunderstood and alone, my very last words were: "Monsieur, je vous demande excuse, je ne l’ai pas fait exprès."

Forever a Queen, forever myself, forever, Marie Antoinette.

My walls are constantly suffocating me,

Surrounding me, restricting me.

Heavy breathing, constant panting,

Gasping for fresh air.

My walls you see, do not hear me,

If anything, they all but feel me.

My fists as they punch the blank screens

From rage, desperation and panic.

My walls hear very few things,

Only silent weeping in the dark.

Unfeeling and cold facades,

The demise of my freedom.

My walls I believe who should be protecting me,

Erect and powerful from the blows,

Have only crafted this nasty box,

Defining me, labeling me.

Immune to the words I write,

Insusceptible to the colours I paint,

Repelling me and who I am,

And forever erasing my identity.

My ghost of the past has many a name: guilt, fear, regret, she embodies all that I cannot tame. She haunts me night and day, assaulting me with perpetual accusations. She brings me to a happy place I knew as a child, so warm, so peaceful it was back in the day. Returning fills me with nostalgia and I am realise the consequences of my actions. She comes back to show me, remind me of how selfish I was and how I cannot change that. She is the ghost of the present as well. I see her everyday and she torments me on how I ruined her past in my past, how am ruining her present in my present. She is always there, reminding me, flitting in and out. And though I have not encountered her yet, I can feel wisps of her future form lurking around the corner. It is she. Dead now. Haunting me, accusing me of how I caused her death and how I left her. Never leaving. Never over. This ghost cannot be banished, dispelled nor forgotten, for how can one do that to their own mother?

Independence. Independence. This word I, we humans have heard all our lives and grown up with. Independence. My mother told me: "One day, you will learn to be independent". Teachers told me: "One day, you will have to be independent." As a child, that word, that concept seemed so faraway, imaginary. Why need independence when you have other people? Isn't independence learning to live alone? I always thought that as long as I surrounded myself with people, I wouldn't have to face this expectation and strength that was required of me. After all, we humans live in communities and need each other. So why, and how does independence exist? As a teenager, I felt attacked as everyone around me starting telling me to be independent, to be an adult, to be a grown-up. They told me to learn to do things alone. And I thought to myself: "Why is independence only something adults can achieve, can acquire?". 

In my own pursuit to discover what independence truly was, I became independent myself. Fighting my own battles, discovering the world, having fun and learning to be and love myself. After all, independence can be achieved by anyone. It means being comfortable with yourself, comfortable with the world that grows and evolves around you. Independence isn't only surviving on your own and learning to live as a unique individual that can stand out from a crowd, but it is also helping others and those around you by making the world a better place. Independence isn't a solitary concept. It affects everyone and is something that unites us. It represents freedom and joy. Joy of life, joy of love, joy of friendship, joy of everything we come to adore. 

This independence makes us special and talented. We strive to reach this independence and we become stronger. Independence is making your own decisions. In my case, independence has taught me to love everyone despite our differences. It has taught me to love this human race despite its flaws. We are a rich species, not through our material wealth, but through this independence that constructs this uniqueness, this infinite rainbow of individuals who can all bring something new to this world. This world is so special and we strive to make it a better place by learning. Independence is so many things. Learning. Loving. Creating. Constructing. Strength. Humanity. Us.

Floating amidst nothingness,

Soaring through emptiness,

Alone, and quiet, and relaxed and slightly drowsy.

Free from others, free from work,

A paradise where no responsibilities may lurk,

A fugitive, an escapee, a runaway from all that's lousy.

An absence of rules and obligations,

Devoid of any harmful sensations,

Peace and warmth, cosiness and fire.

Nothing I could cherish more than this time,

Atop this serene mountain that none can climb,

Sacred island, safe haven from which I retire.

I was never the same after I tripped on depression.

Never the same after I crashed into pain.

I couldn't see after I fell into the abyss of loneliness.

I was never the same after constant frustration.

Never the same when I couldn't escape from my own brain.

I couldn't see anything as I wrapped myself in emptiness.

Never the same as I lost myself in shrouds of sheer darkness,

Never the same as I shrouded myself in clouds of vacuity.

Never the same as I clouded myself in pain, fear, horror, desolation.

Never the same as I killed myself.

Crispy crackling and burning branches,

Roaring red and leaping leaves,

Silent streets and howling winds,

Shuddering chills and woolly socks.

Bonfires and woods, pine cones and death,

Nostalgia and regret, loss and despair.

The air dampens yet the leaves are dry,

Crackling and flitting in the sky.

Cobbled lanes so mesmerising,

Death really is so tantalising.