every now and then, one paints a picture

that seems to have opened a door and serves

as a stepping stone to other things

― Pablo Picasso

Was it something he did? Something he said?

No, not really, just... I don't know there was something about him that stopped me in place. His face, I couldn't force myself from looking away, as if seeing a man that found peace, but at the same time...

What?

I ask her with my heart slightly racing. I can't even explain the craziness that's going on in my body, or any logical reason for it. All I know is that I need the answer to it. Strange thing, one might say. The need to know details about someone you haven't even met. About their face expression, about their gestures. Anything. I look at her again with the question still vibrating from my body like some odd form of expanding energy. I can see that she struggles for words, her hands helplessly outstretched forward, palms up.

Mmm, it was as if he was collapsing from the inside.

What do you mean?

I ask slowly, feeling my brain not being able to process the sentence or not wanting to. My arms crossing tightly over the chest as soon as I see my hands begin to tremble. I watch as she sighs and shakes her head, almost as if she had the entire chaos of the cosmos inside of her and didn't want to let it out into the world. My eyes turn soft and encouraging, and she smiles a bit at me, nodding.

It was such a peculiar thing to watch. His eyes were closed, face lifted to the slightly dim light filtering through the clouds. And the light... god, it seemed to be swallowing him up, a soft embrace that he could sink into completely. Getting lost forever and never coming back up for air. I saw peace radiating from him, but also sadness that seemed to flicker from under his eyelashes, as if all the shadows of the world were hiding there.

Melanie.

I whisper out, trying to say something, but she puts a hand up, gently silencing me.

Peace was surrounding him, as everything in inside of him was collapsing.

I don't... understand.

My voice is muffled and low as I make a great attempt to sink into my soft hoody deeper, the wind around me humming the first tones of Autumn all too clearly.

He was rebuilding, Sophie. It's the best way, or any way that I can describe it. As if watching things underneath his skin, muscles, lungs crush and tumble like rubble, turning into dust like... he was finally giving in all the pain that wanted to suffocate him, giving into it willingly until everything inside just... collapsed.

She inhales deeper, enjoying the feel of words finally finding their way on her tongue, rolling off it in a graceful, nearly hypnotizing dance.

Like he was breaking all of his structure and the person that he once was into something new. Devastation, pain, dust. Crumbing away until there was light breaking through in between his shattered walls. And I saw it, like watching him inhale the light, the first sunlight in many decades.

I blink at her several times, not finding anything to say. She smiles at me and then stares at her hands for a while, looking a bit embarrassed and awkward for putting herself out there like that.

I told you it was a lot.

You did, and I knew it would be. Could pretty much feel it from you, like you were oozing

with it.

She makes a face and sits on the bench behind us. I join her and slip my hands inside the front pockets of my blouse. It feels nice and warm, but I still tremble a bit as I sit next to her.

Sometimes I forget how you are.

She looks up and gazes at me with her eyebrows furrowed.

Not in a bad way, more like sometimes I forget about the magnificence that sits inside of you. How you paint words instead of just saying them. That's a little miracle in itself.

She looks down at the ground with a shy but warm smile, and we just sit there in comfortable silence for some time. While all the while I wonder how to tell her, how to even start to explain that everything she said about him, every thing she described sounded familiar. That every feeling she read from his face and painted so masterfully seemed to struck a personal cord in me. As if I lived through all of that, as if I experienced it first hand. Or experienced it with him in some other lifetime, a perfect stranger described with someone else's eyes.

.

Are people born evil? This question can only be answered in one way if one is a believer of Jesus Christ. If one does not believe in Jesus Christ, then the question can quickly become, 'does evil even exist?'

God explains that man was never meant to know evil. This is apparent in Genesis chapter 3 verse 22 - And the Lord God said, 'The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil. He must not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the tree of life and eat, and live forever.'

He continues in chapter 8 verse 21 - The Lord smelled the pleasing aroma and said in his heart: "Never again will I curse the ground because of humans, even though every inclination of the human heart is evil from childhood..."

These verses tell the reader: Man was never meant to know the difference of good and evil. But, of our own free-will we chose to be aware. The repercussions of this became a burden for our children who are now born with evil in their hearts.

Is evil learned? No.

Can evil be battled with good? Good is the only way to battle evil. The only way to prevail is to continuously choose good. Just as there is only one way to receive salvation; through the belief that Jesus Christ has already atoned for our evil sins.

Some days I feel as though everything blends into one and my feelings are churning like oil and water, those days are the hardest. Constantly being told what to do, what to achieve, how to live, is both a safety net and a nightmare. Battling between being lazy and scared or being over worked and trapped is suffocating, yet the loss of oxygen makes me feel alive on the right day. Do you know how it feels to be at war with the most inner parts of yourself while the exterior puts up a façade so excellent you almost forget the thunderstorm happening inside your own mind? Maybe I'm just being dramatic... or maybe I'm not. I haven't figured it out yet. Do you know what the stranger in the mirror looks like? How they look at me? They look like a shell of my former self, an expression painting their mug with such disappointment and pity, making me want nothing more than to fit her once more. Do you know what that's like?

081122

I'm still lost.

I couldn't find a way out of here.

To this stagnant loop of self-pity and blame.

I seem to get stuck trying to step forward.

What am I to do now?

It's all so foreign yet empty at the same time, to feel the limited freedom I gained from being stubborn.

What was it that i've been trying to do?

How did I lost sight of my goal?

I wasn't allowed to dream... extravagantly,

freely,

selfishly.

I should only choose the practicality of our situation.

I am not allowed to have something...so useless.

Utterly worthless things.

I drop out of college.

To be specific...I abandoned my responsibility to such extent.

All that I could blame was myself.

My fault.

It's all my fault.

For not having any better dreams

For not making myself let go of the only thing I have.

For not being able to have a clear goal.

For not even trying.

I... I tried though

But I got scared in the process.

I wasn't supported to this kind of path.

My parents chose my academics than the career path I would like to chose.

I lost sight of what's important.

What's my priority?

What's supposed to be my priority?

Pitter patter

Past 7:30 in the evening

Shining golden full moon in the midst of rain clouds

Balcony on a second floor house without any lights

Grey clouds

A windless rain

Scent of fabric softener from sundried laundry lingering on the air

A low volume slowed version song on repeat

A cold coffee

Cold breeze in passing ever so slightly

Muffled voices from somewhere along the darkness

Flickering streetlights

A passing lightning with silent thunder

Sometimes vehicles pass by, leaving a yellow silhouette

Cold fingertips

A headache

Blurry vision

Heavy breathing of my own

The moon slowly shrouded by dark clouds

It was a sight to behold,

Watching its light vanish in instant.

Everything taking place in a second

As the song blended in smoothly

The rain pouring it all out

And in a moment, there was silence between echoing rain drops

Leaving everything behind with a sudden blackout.

Another moment pass

Beneath the bright moonlight shines a small clearing in between clouds,

Welcoming a lone star.

Lastly

A blinding lightning

And a delayed roaring thunder,

Making the walls vibrate along.

https://youtu.be/YJ1IDm2Qiwg

August 11, 2022

OK, we’ve all been there at one time or another as a writer. You work hard – very hard – on a particular piece, and then you edit and fine-tune it time and again, until you finally post it for publication. Once your poem, commentary, short story, or even prelude to a novel has been published, you find yourself repeatedly checking its stats, sure that the masses will love your piece as much as you. As days – and then long weeks - go by, your stats change only minimally, so you try to convince yourself that not everyone has the same refined taste as you do when it comes to writing. Surely, however, the media format you've chosen, in all its glory and knowledge will recognize your work's outstanding attributes and bestow an accolade of recognition. So, you patiently wait, day after day, week after week, until the designated moment finally arrives, all too sure that your piece of work will be cited as a winner. Repeatedly throughout the day, you refresh the homepage until at long last, the list of winners appears. What? Wait a minute and hold the presses. There must be a ginormous mistake because your piece is completely missing from the cited winners. In abject despair and disbelief, you throw yourself on the floor and cry for at least half of an hour, completely and utterly devastated. Sure, there were thousands upon thousands of entries, but everyone you know loved your piece and assured you it would be a winner, so how the world did this happen? How did you not get it right this time? You were so sure you’d written the perfect piece.

Does this sound at all familiar to you? Have you written that perfect piece of prose and submitted it to a challenge, only to not achieve the expected, coveted prize or recognition? Have you been filled with disappointment and had your heart broken - or am I the only one? In all honesty, this scenario has happened to me on more occasions that I care to admit. Did it hurt? Without a doubt. Did it crush my desire to write? Absolutely and emphatically not. Following each and every failure to win, I have responded by picking myself up off the floor, and in true glamorous movie starlet fashion, I have remind myself that there’s always tomorrow and the possibility of more writing attempts. And thus, a new quest has begun thereafter as each day I once again go in search of new challenges with a fervent hope that the next time, I will be able to produce a much better piece - something noble and enduring. Isn’t that what writing - and life - are all about? We must not become too complacent in the rituals of our everyday existence, because in the grand scheme of things, we should always strive for the stars in order to achieve the very best in all upon which we embark.

So, yes, I've had my heart broken and my writing rejected on more than one occasion, but the truth is that these things have taught me much: perseverance, discipline, dedication, and more importantly, a desire for finer writing skills, because with every piece I write, I am able to see improvement. I suppose, theoretically speaking, I could thank the publishers for not selecting my pieces as top winners, but then again, let's not get carried away. In the thread of honesty, I will instead simply thank them instead for helping me achieve improved results each and every day:

Thank you potential publishers for teaching me much in my artful pursuit of writing (despite my often having to nurse a broken heart along the learning curve).

"I am still learning." Michelangelo

you’re still whole, it seems like you’ve just

changed your parameters

- Caitlin Conlon

She lifts the side of a silky, dark grey shirt, gazing at the reflection in the mirror with calm stillness, fingers raising curiously and sliding slowly past the faded bruises from the day before, feeling her ribs shift slightly under the skin as she presses carefully into them. Well, at least it was healing - a bit slower than usual, but it was some progress. She lets the material fall down on its own and then catches her own glare in the glass, seeing how the green eyes darken with things stirring inside of her, hiding her emerald fields under thick threatening clouds. She looks like a storm ready to breathe and drown the world in her raging waters. Yet, she is calm, calculating what her next move should be.

What the last days taught her; was not to underestimate the opponent that somehow landed onto her path, no matter what shape or form. Her beliefs, things that she had known, and the surprising outcome of the situation blending together. Leaving her with so many contradicting thoughts and emotions. Her energy never displaying such chaos that was not of her doing or control; she was the chaos itself, its ruler. Being its victim and pray went against her most basic nature, the deepest essence.

It shall not happen again.

She leans her hands against the sink, fingers pressing against the cold porcelain, body straining forward as if she wanted to push the washbasin into the wall and through it, a million and one notions coloring her insides like swirling angry moths. The nocturnal things of the night, scratching and shifting against the skin, tickling her veins with fires that were becoming more and more impatient with every day. What holds you back? What stops you from obtaining your destiny? Is it really logic and the care about your kin? A precaution against the destruction that may come your way? Are you worried, scared, or intentionally holding yourself back? You don't actually want to bring harm her way, don't you?

You have become weak, Lilly. You're rotting from the inside.

She flinches and grabs tighter onto the sink, chest rising and falling. Her skin crawling from the way the words vibrated under her flesh. Feeling as if suddenly she was marked by cigarette burns, leaving her with uncountable ugly raggedy wholes. It stung like hell. It made her angry. The craving for destruction inside of her growing, circulating in tangled up air, expanding its inner core. She was not weak, or would she ever be. Weak were the ones standing on her path, and that crumbled before her like dry cement, snapping one by one like dry twigs. All fragile creatures of the mundane and beyond. She whispers, and both growls out the words, sensing every nerve in her system tense up and sizzle, making her body jump as if electrocuted.

Her left eye starts to twitch, and she clenches her jaw, irritated. Low grumbling sounds escaping the throat like a lioness just before it is ready to pounce. Her energy shifting and twisting, slipping out of her pores in faded blue light, like gas lifting from the stove, ready to explode but for now, just teasing, greedily licking the entire body. It feels good, thick, almost sweet, and tangy on her tongue. Sugary molasses straight from the deep unquenchable desire beneath her skin, pulsating like stars against her dark skies. Destruction in the most refined form of pleasure. She thinks, swaying her hips slowly in smooth circles, moving her head from side to side, outstretching the neck both ways until it gives a satisfying popping noise. Lifting her body slightly as she leans even more forward, the expensive sink protesting a bit in response.

The waves inside of her, continuously clashing against each other with force, wanting to find release, wanting to break the dam that held her back. Too many days of tension and anticipation coloring her worn-out, tattered veins. Both begging and growling for blood, for vengeance. She was the strangest kind of chaos that surrounded itself in hushed calm and silk while always aware and blazing. Constantly, without rest, consumed by the things that gave her life. She was pure mayhem from the tip of her toes to the crown of the head. But on most days, that fire, and those blue flames, were coated in something inexplicably steady, safe. A protection layer; shielding both her and everything around from collapsing and covering the world in ash that would leave only devastation and eternal ice to linger over anything that dared not to perish. That layer was a build-in code inside her body, restraining her energy in a semi-neutral state.

On most days.

But that was before she met the girl. Before her structure turned into an erratic wounded beast - that was losing the concept of logic with every new day. Causing her rage to stir every time her powers turned their ugly claws back on her. Once, the beast was an ally, now the greatest foe, teasing her and threatening every time she would lose focus, every time she let herself think she was once again in control.

More, more, and more.

She was both exhausted and full of fuel like never before. Such energy was breathtaking, but it no longer fitted in any frames, spilling out of her in irregular sharp edges, flaming the insides, and infecting the mind like an exposed corroded wound. Thinking straight proved to be a luxury that was running out fast. Faster than sand through a child's outstretched fingers. But her mind had to stay strong. It was the only thing keeping her sane and stopping everything she worked for from falling apart. She would not be defeated, no matter the price that would have to be paid for it.

She takes a deeper breath and tries to calm down, knowing that the biggest strength one possessed came from balance and clear, unweighted thoughts. The universe giving us everything that was needed and providing the right tools to conquer all odds. It was not an easy task, but a doable one, requiring the thing that we often feared the most. It asked for trust. Trust in the process and faith that everything would be well as long as our hearts and minds opened up to it. Now, it might seem a rather foolish and naive notion to put your hopes in, but she knew from experience that it was true. Just surrender to it, manifest your light and push out into the matter. As if you are pushing it out of your muscles, out of your skin, your pores - down to the last damn molecule in your body. Send the love that has always been nestled into your being, and offer it for what it was. Your most precious gift.

She lets the thoughts bloom into existence, slowly spreading in her, twisting and bending like green new vines, heading upwards to the sky and wanting to kiss the sun. Falling into its tender embrace, as though opening petals of a rose - both delicate and full of strength, eager to show their beauty to its fullest. She focuses more on the bright, live images painting themselves in her mind and visualizes the white and gold light of the sun growing in her particles, expanding slowly in the tissue and then coating the bones like warm, silky, dripping syrup. Pushing gradually out of her and covering every surface around, spilling out over the sink and the bathroom tiles, shifting and covering not only the floors but the walls as well. Filtering to each room and filling the entire space of her apartment, pouring out of the windows and cascading down the brick walls like softly shimmering streams of light and mist, embracing the city, street by street. Grazing itself almost unnoticeably against each person and every living creature and surface in sight. Relax. Breathe. All is well, and all will be fine. Forgive yourself for the things that are out of your control. You are love, strength, a boundless life-force that has no fear in it, no doubt, no anger. You are all and everything in between, a part of a never-ending creation.

Her mind is open, her chest lifting and falling in a steady rhythm, the hands holding onto the sink, slowly loosening the firm grip. Something deep down inside of her that had nothing to do with her lungs; exhales, gives in. Everything in her beating quieter until the arms start to tremble a bit, a new sensation that she doesn't understand yet, overflowing her like the most soothing touch, like a caress that has no end, only bending and curving things in between the sighs. An echo of energy. A memory that pulsates and throbs without any time limits or boundaries. Reaching the past, present, and things that were yet to come. It quivers under the skin like the most delicate of whispers. Gradually, filling her to the brim until her legs turn weak, and she slides to the floor, not fully registering everything that's happening. Her structure, seeming to change, soften up, and melt until even her bones feel like butter and wet summer sand as her waves slow down, keeping her warm and safe from all harm. As if cradled in a cocoon of love and light, making her particles swirl in a slow kind of dance. And at the same time, stopping everything around her at this moment. Almost as though looking at yourself from the side and seeing everything captured in the stillness of an old, slightly crinkled color Polaroid, marveling at it while also being held in that photograph forever.

And yet, it moves.

And yet it blooms. Grows.

Expanding like a galaxy of colors under the fragile flesh.

Something unnameable, unfolding and vibrating. Feeling as if the beating of thousand lazy but strong drums. Boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom. There was something about it, that was practically taunting, teasing her deliciously, and causing the mouth to water, teeth grazing against the lower lip.

She positions her back against the wall for some support, her head slumped forward against the chest, lips moving as she mutters out incoherent words, slurring them out as if she was drunk. Soul drunk, love. She tries to shake it off, somehow releasing herself from this state that appeared to have no logical explanation, but once again, thinking straight proved to be a difficult task to handle. Her brain, feeling like a jumble of useless mush, resembling jelly tissue. Sticky, wet, helpless.

Everything inside of her wants to protest against that feeling. The notion of being helpless ripped out of her viciously like old, useless roots at her youngest years. Instead, planting inside a ruthlessness that stood against any weak reaction or behavior by those who raised her and took care of her upbringing. Though to any human eyes brave enough to watch, the words like drilled or disciplined would probably prove to be a much better choice. Not that it mattered to her much. The only important thing was reaching the goal; everything else was just a means to an end.

She tries to fight the softness of her bones, the haziness of her brain, the overtaking, light-filled warmth. She's way stronger than this abstract, sickening foolishness yet... yet this time, it melts away into something welcoming, inviting, and caring. With her head still slumped forward, she puts her hands, palms down on the cold, elegant tiles, and glides her fingers gently back and forth, feeling the smoothness of the cool porcelain; something almost intimate and tender about the simple action. The floor under her fingertips starts to vibrate delicately, faint white smoke and her sapphire energy blending together, echoing the colors that already decorated the bathroom. Nearly white sky in summer, and the deepest blue of the Mediterranean sea, the round cyan rooftops in Greece. Something close to heaven. Blue was her energy, it was her life path in this world.

The tiles tremble even more, causing dust to appear from their glued edges and lift in the air; an echo of space dust and crumbling starts. She thinks as her eyes wander absentmindedly against the bathroom floor, the light coming from the window coloring everything into something surreal. Something made of magic, dreams, of the subtle dimensions in between that so many of us miss, not noticing the full grandness happening around, just on the edge of the spectrum. The masterpiece of life itself.

She feels deflated in a way, her head still slumped forward. But surprisingly, it isn't a feeling of weakness this time. No, it's more like drifting under the currents; you're safe, but everything is slightly distorted and unfocused. It's captivating and unmeasurably beautiful. She inhales deeper and pushes her body to move better, her arms feeling as if she has lost the strings that normally pulled her up into reality, into the physical part of all of it, almost like trying to wake up from being sedated. It feels both good and disorientating. She sits up more straight and lets the familiar energy in her support her efforts and guide the muscles, slowly filling the frail, clay-filled bones with blue light. In a way, creating a spine for her being. She inhales and looks at the room around her, noticing the bright mist still there, floating lightly around the room.

And then her stare slowly drifts back to her hands.

It's then when she notices it. The energy shifting like a live creature from the sapphire shades to softly flaming oranges. The surface of the sun, on her cobalt floors melting into a sunset, into the birth of first creation.

She closes her eyes for a moment and lets herself feel it even more. The energy shifting and changing from mesmerizing blue to a flickering orange-gold, crackling and snapping into the stillness of the air. Both swimming in hungry, lazy waves and threatening to expand the holes on its luminary form. And then her heartbeats rush without warning, fluttering like the wings of a million tiny anxious things, chest rising and falling as she manages to place her back firmly against the wall behind her. The energy floating and cascading from her until it once again reaches her fingertips in a never-ending flow, shifting from a simple, flickering light to nearly perfect golden-orange circles, opening like ripples against the smooth surface of the water.

She inhales in a strange way as if she no longer understood what air was for, her hair lifting, the curls moving around her face in soft waves. The peculiar energy moving past the structure of the floor and sinking under it, traveling down, one layer under the other. Moving past ceilings, furniture, and the living tissue of the people and any other creatures that it meets on its way. Touching them but not hurting them in any way; more as if leaving its subtle fingerprint against their tissue, a lingering trace of its own form of a watermark. It glides down slowly and without rush until it reaches the bottom of the building, moving past the concrete body of the basement until it descends into the earth as though finally reaching its natural destiny, its home. There is silence in the air, everywhere around her, not even a hush filling the time and space. And then it happens; the energy bounces off the ground and spreads in one soft but powerful wave. An automatic bomb without a trigger made only from the expanding form of the universe's lungs; its always present matter, Hiroshima constructed from the living breathing matter of the sun. It lifts back to her faster than light-years ever could and embraces each of her particles, causing her limbs to lift, body circulating and twirling softly in some abstract form of an underwater dance, the hair floating as though seaweed around her shape. You are the other piece to my fractured soul. The shoulder blades for my ink-filled wings.

The whispers inside of her break into a million and one pieces and turn to dust before she can fully register it. The entire moment lasting barely seconds. Before it, all comes to an end. She falls to the ground with a low thud against the smooth, hard surface of the bathroom floor, coughing out strange, nearly invisible smoke as though faded out grey ash, and looks around dazed, trying to make sense of her surroundings. For a while not sure where or when she was.

W-what... what in all dear hell was that?

She asks faintly to no one in particular and swallows with a tight, strangled throat, feeling frightened by the sudden sound of her hoarse voice in the otherwise silent four walls. She lifts up slowly on her elbows with a pained groan and looks up at the cracked mirror above the white porcelain sink, cringing slightly at the shape now carved into the glass form. It speaks of lightning and the coming storm. She blinks a few times, not wanting to believe her own sight, but somehow, to her disbelief, the lines don't just magically disappear. Those memorable lines, those specific lines; lightning painted on skin that she touched before, stitched and embroidered skillfully into a familiar chest. She freezes as her mind erupts with sudden memories of a different, much darker, and less classy bathroom. God, it seemed like that night happened decades ago, and not just barely a couple of weeks.

I lift the shirt a little higher, my stare passing past a regular-looking, white sports bra, and stop abruptly. And what catches my stare isn’t her full breasts slowly lifting and falling. No, it’s something completely different. Between her chest is a mark that stops me from breathing. I gently touch the pale lines that start in the center and spread, as if I was staring at the roots of a tree growing deep under the earth. Or more like looking at someone that got - my pulse speeds up - struck by lightning.

She feels her chest tighten a bit as she forces the body to shift to a sitting position at first and then finally staggers up to her feet, holding on to the edge of the door frame, before passing the living room and stopping at the kitchen sink. She takes a few breaths as her hands rest on the metal rim of the sink, leaning her entire weight on it, and then she pours herself a tall glass of cold water from it, the cool liquid slowly soothing the fevered mind.

She remembers that day so well with the tiniest details. It was the real first time she noticed that the girl was in the possession of some abilities. The first time, she tasted the flavor and shadows of her energy as the lights in the restaurant flickered and buzzed with growing power, electricity surging through anything that it could, its life juices going wild. And most importantly, it was the day that she saw the mark on her chest, speaking of lightning and a possible threat, but that also spoke of something else. She inhales deeper and slams the empty now drink against the counter, somehow managing not to break it but hearing the glass crack slightly. The sound of falling snow and ice forming. Mmm, the tree-shaped sign spoke of familiar things that crept under her skin. She couldn't exactly pinpoint the reason for the strange familiarity but it was there. She looks out the window and shivers.

And now it was here as well.

In her home.

Imprinted on the surface of the mirror.

A clear sign that whatever was coming, was getting closer.

_________

Previous 3 chapters

chapter 16. https://theprose.com/post/432229/the-arithmetics-of-mass-and-spirit

chapter 17. https://theprose.com/post/432229/the-arithmetics-of-mass-and-spirit

chapter 18. https://theprose.com/post/433321/the-things-stitched-beneath-our-skin

The book:

https://theprose.com/book/1661/worlds-colliding