His words were piercing. No longer did he love her. No longer did he look at her with amazement and questions, only hatred. No longer was she special. She lost that status a long time ago. It was time to come to terms with her reality. She would walk away from another relationship empty handed.
As he walked away sadness over came her. She may never see him again. A gaping hole she felt in her heart. How could it be this human being who had been her world, her love, her reason for waking up for so long could be gone.
She remembered his lips on her forehead, his rough hands clasping hers. She let out a wimper, her eyes were stinging and wet. But she would have to face it. This was goodbye, and there was nothing she could do.
It came to her as if in a dream. It was a blank sheet of paper with one name on it. Written in black ink and beautiful handwriting. Writing that could not be her own. She wondered who’s name this was and where they came from. She wondered if this was life. Seeing a blank page and hoping one day you will see your name written in beautiful handwriting. Then she hoped one day it would be hers.
Some people want their name in lights. Some people want their name to go viral. She just wanted one sheet of paper with a perfect handwritten version of her full name. Then she wondered if this was to much to ask for.
She saw him, the man she would one day love. He was a plain man, a hard worker. She watched the sweat roll down his forehead. Standing there she knew life would not be the same. Smiling she took his hand and handed him her hankerchief. He looked into her golden eyes that seemed to be smiling at him. He wiped his forehead and nodded a thank you. Their hands were still clasped and his glance fell to her lips. They were pink and slightly chapped on the right side where she often bit down, only when she was anxious. As he took in the curves of her face he handed her the pink cloth and she let go of his hand. Going back to work he thought of when he might next see the woman with the handkerchief. Hopefully someday soon.
I often wonder what it would be like to be a famous author. There would be glamorous book launches and poetry readings. My days would be spent sitting at a computer creating a world that doesn’t yet exist.
This amuses and scares me. I have loved books since a young age but to write one seems impossible. I think that’s the fear talking. Fear that if I did get around to writing a novel it would amount to nothing. And that’s how we feel some of the time, like we are nothing. But we are something. Or at least that’s what I’d like to think.
From the heights of the mountain she looked over the sea. She looked and saw a path to a world she had never been to. Distances she had never travelled. Her heart longed to leave the island. Sandy beaches and shallow bays had kept her heart this long, but she wanted adventure. Set sail to a land she didn’t know. A land that would surely be more exciting and life changing. But then again she had not yet been herself. She’d only been what the people of the island wanted her to be. That was a shadow of a man she no longer loved.
A picture is worth a thousand words for those who are to lazy to write. I look at the image and see red. Squares of green and blue. I see women walking through a rose garden. I see the impression of a human body. I see the birds flying south and the trees extending towards the sky. I see the reflection of a man in the water and the clouds grey overhead.
I see a building and in it, a road reflected off the glass. I see cars and lights. All sorts of colours and shapes. I see life and love. I see machines that help us through our day and I see people who I will never know. I see blurred faces at dusk and moving bodies on bikes. I see our world and life and words come to mind.
Thin, beautiful, dark, cold, grey, sunlight, rays, happiness, smiles, green eyes, moles, gloves, trees, nature, ponds. It is all captured in a single image or a bunch of images. If I’ve seen one I still haven’t seen them all. And the question is. Do we really think of a thousand words when we see a picture? Do we think at all?
Do we even register beauty in every day life or do we let it walk right passed us without as small of a gesture as a compliment. This is life. A series of faces we will never know.