1. if-the-world-were-flat:

    What lies inside this paper parcel has yet to be seen. As if carried by the whispers and moans of the moon and the stars and the wind this package appeared upon these worn and cracked steps. It carries no sender nor return address and the red brick wall darkened by the night casts a great shadow…

     
  2.  

  3. if-the-world-were-flat:

    I hold your hand in mine as summer warmth and nightly wonder persuade us closer. In my arms you feel small and your face is turned and gently pressed, against my chest. Your bare feet match mine, and on the concrete beneath us, lies chalk portraits from girls and boys. In awe of night and dark…

     
  4.  
  5.  

  6.  I hold your hand in mine as summer warmth and nightly wonder persuade us closer. In my arms you feel small and your face is turned and gently pressed, against my chest. Your bare feet match mine, and on the concrete beneath us, lies chalk portraits from girls and boys. In awe of night and dark each star delivers a promise to yield curiosity and thought. Where amongst the silence of the sky and the calm of the wind we collect from each other and in lack of words do not find lack of connection nor understanding nor comfort. Fleeting moments of time where there is nothing else but two people in an insurmountable universe where surely their lies everything – yet in these moments they feel as if they have already attained it.

     

  7. Apart of Me.

    Apart from me.

    I stare outside this cold,

    white-stained window frame.

    Where a picture elegantly,

    but not so, illustrates it’s own fickle colours

    and shapes.

    Etched into the hills so often seen,

    yet seldom visited, stands a

    man of average height.

    Of simple taste, and moderate

    aspirations. He is a tribute

    to his father, and to his brethren.

    His loyalty serves no purpose

    other than his own self-preservation.

    He gives no expression,

    nor language to his body.

    His words go unheard, and you may

    wonder weather he is speaking at all

    or if he is, to whom?

    He is a man without decision nor

    destination.

    And against the soft winds and chilled air,

    he stares blankly from a distance.

    I doubt he can spot the white around this window,

    or if he can even see through this tired glass.

    If he can see me, at all.

    He stands, like the last dieing tree in a burnt forest,

    alone, and indifferent.

    I’m sure that if I could see his face,

    I could uncover who he truly is.

    But from this side of the glass I can only see his presence,

    and even that seems empty. When he smiles, he is no more than

    one man surrounded by nothing.

    One man who chose not to choose, and in doing so

    made the worst choice of all.

    A choice not to live,

    a decision to back away from independence and instead fit in amongst

    the rest.

    He stands alone,

    at the foot of this hill,

    which more and more looks like a mountain.

    Unscalable and daunting.

    he stands at it’s base without expectation.

    Without aspiration, a part of me.

    He chose to be the same,

    and found himself alone.

    Now, through this white-stained window frame,

    I stare down upon him as if I,

    were better.

    I stare from my thrown and I question,

    his motivations. His value.

    His choices.

    I stare down at a man apart from me.

    But this glass, works from either side.

    And I wonder if the view is so different.

    A part of me.

     

  8. Adults.

     A boy sits upon his wooden fortress and gazes out upon the sun-stained grass which covers the never ending plane he calls his playground. His imagination not only carries him but overwhelms him. His legs dangle in the dry motionless air as the brunt of summer weighs down upon him. His energy is spent upon soccer balls, and daunting trees. His brother, three years younger than him sits beside him unknowing of independence. He, his role model and best friend. Together they rest between games and let the sun burn their thin necks. Let their blonde hair grow lighter in the sun. The pool water is blue and it stares up against the same very sky which not only permits their play but forces their rest. A fence with black posts warns them not to near the water they crave without the presence of adults. They long for the freedom which adults carry yet rest in the midst of freedom. They can taste it’s splendour yet they know not what they have, and they may never know it again.

    * * * * *

    An open window lets air into the cold house they so seldom enter in the summer months. While the soccer ball dribbles amongst the dieing grass between them the window begins to leak the sudden sound of screaming, and the summer sun becomes tainted by anger. Against the sounds which escape the window the eldest boy begins to yell and scream for the ball. He runs this way and that and dribbles around his brother challenging him to one on one. His brother reacts with equivalent excitement and his voice becomes louder than his brothers.

    The eldest boy only worries that his voice may have come too late. But he knows that as long as he smiles and his brother sees no sadness or worry in his eyes, that his brother will believe everything is alright. So he smiles and laughs and he protects his brother from the hurt he shields inside.To him, it was more important to protect his brother, than it was to protect himself. He knew then he feared not anything more than he did growing up.  

     
  9.  
  10.