On Gardening
I hate gardening. I hate all of it. From the dirt burrowed under my fingernails to the sweat running down my forehead. I hate that I don’t know what I'm doing. I mistake beanstalks for weeds, I drown the leaks, and I pierce my skin with brambles. I hate it. I wish I knew what I was doing, but I've no teacher. A garden to care for but no gardener to teach its care. I wish I knew the secrets; wish I knew what to do. It feels wrong to plant something not knowing it’s the right thing to plant, worse still to take those plants away. To cut the branch, to kill the tree, that scares me. To my core. Each cut feels poor, misplaced, wrong. Should the plant die it's my hands sticky with sap, staring hopelessly at death I caused, its last leaves littered by my feet.
There was a gardener. A good one. I wish I'd heard his words, heeded his advice. But I didn’t. Now his garden is in my hands, his plants mine, shared in his departure. I know he tried. I wish I had too. But I never seemed to realize that he wouldn’t always be there. I thought he still had time. I wish he did.
The garden is lonely now. The garden never used to be alone. It used to hold itself high, proud of every tree, every bush, every flower. His slow steps grazed the gravel as he wandered, looking at each plant as though for the first time, gazing with a slight smile on his face, his garden proudly gazing back. The garden is still proud. But it's quieter now. There's no tap accidentally left running, no flower that hasn’t been seen. It's still. The air seems to hold, with only the lightest of winds blowing.
Nothing's changed really. Nothing at all. That’s the biggest change. It used to change in a day, new plants bursting forth, thrusting themselves into the world. Now the same plants stand still, no new companions pushing through the dirt beside them. They sit there, stooped toward the ground, waiting for a new friend to appear. They’ll be waiting a while.
I hope the gardener isn't alone. I hope his friends stand by his side and tell him that he lived well, that he did right, and that he made change. I hope he feels me with him too, asking him what to plant, whether I should remove the poppies that've grown, hidden amongst the vegetables. I hope he looks at me, puts his hand on my shoulder, and gives me the answers. I hope I can tell him how much he meant to me, the impact he had.
Maybe then I wouldn’t hate gardening.
On Xbox
It’s the middle of the night. A moonbeam slyly leaks through the sitting room curtains, its white glow striking my face. I'm lying on the couch gazing at the pale ceiling overhead. The tv glows and hums breaking through the silent darkness with ease. My headphones press against my head filled with shaky laughter. A smile slowly fills my face.
There's something beautiful about this. Something special about these times, about these people. I'm alone. The house is tired. I stand a sole figure in this time of silence and yet here, in these loneliest of hours, conversation rings through my ears. I feel free, stretched upon my couch, intoxicating joy racing through me as I talk, picturing my friends doing the same, feeling the same, all in different sitting rooms, all in different houses, all together. I love these moments. All of them, each passing laugh, each heartfelt moment, each pointless conversation. I love that I'll never get them back, that this is it, that we can only share it in passing.
Sometimes I am alone. Truly alone. The darkness cuts deeper, the joy has left my headphones. Now I stand here, solitary in every way. In these moments, while the silence weighs heavy and I ache to feel, I draw on those moments again, and even for just a few brief seconds, it all feels easier. And that’s enough. I pull myself up, dragging my body up the stairs and slumping into bed. That’s all I need. A ray of hope in the toughest moments, cutting through them, shining a way forward.
I fear the good moments too. Worried of their passing, that one day I won't remember them, won't be able to drag them up, that I won't be able to keep kicking, fear I'll lose it all and drown, stranded in an empty sea, the people I hold dearest to no longer felt in my memories.
I won't let that happen though. I promise I won't. I'll hold these moments desperately, clutch them to my chest, and never let them slip. Friends will come and go, time will creep by, and Storms'll rage furiously in my head, but I'll keep these moments with me. This endless chatter will echo in my heart for eternity, these perfect times staying with me thought it all. I picture my friends doing the same, in different sitting rooms, in different houses, tied together by those times we shared.
Brief moments standing by our sides, never truly passing us by
On Hospital
My knee is hot. It burns. The raging heat slowly pulses, on and off, on and off. The wind blows in, the hospital blanket lightly waving in the wind. It's dark outside. Silent inside. The door creaks open. A nurse slips in as it swings back shut.
“You doing, okay?” Her speech is soft.
I meet her gaze, "Doing fine.” She has kind eyes. I hate them.
She takes my hand, the needle hanging loosely from it. “I'm going to give you your antibiotics.” I nod as she pumps the first of the syringes into me. It's a strange feeling. Not sore, just... wrong. I feel the cool liquid inside me, moving through, pressing my skin up. My hand presses against my thigh and I lightly pinch the skin. A distraction.
“All done.” She smiles kindly. It hurts.
“Cheers,” I turn my head away from her warmth and stare out the window.
Shes’s not finished. “And... um...when you need to pass urine...just let me know.” She turns and leaves the doors swinging shut once more.
Kindness. Can't even go to the toilet unaccompanied. All because of fucking kindness. I hate it. I hate that that’s kindness, that taking my freedom is good and just, that this is right, that I'm lucky. It's the truth though. This is kindness, this is good and just, this is right, I am lucky. I am. For me, this is just a day. Just one day, one accident, one injury. One day where I can't stand alone, where I'm always watched like a hawk. It could be more. So much more. Even so, the hate still burns and boils, bubbling over, a hatred for kindness, a hatred of the truth.
I don’t need the toilet. That’s the truth too. A truth I don’t hate. That I will is a truth I do. When I do, I'll press a button and the nurse will return. She’ll help me up, let me lean on her to limp over to a pair of crutches standing by the wall. She’ll watch over me as I stagger to the bathroom, standing at my side should I fall. I’ll make my way there and she’ll stand by the door, waiting for me to need help. I won't. I’ll walk back out, she’ll help me back to bed and finally, she’ll leave. And I’ll lie there, in a bed of hate and truths. Pinch myself. Hope for distraction. No luck.
Tomorrow I’ll go home. Tomorrow I'll be free. Tomorrow I'll have my pride. That’s tomorrow though. Tonight I’m helpless. Tonight I’m a prisoner. Tonight I'm prideless. That’s how it feels anyway. Honestly, there's only one truth I know for sure. Tonight, I'm alone.
On Fairytales
I like to imagine we got a fairytale ending. One where slowly, but surely, with each right thing I did, you fell in love with me. One where in the end we fell madly in love and gazed at distant stars, our breath clouding the clear night, before slowly turning our heads to lock eyes.
It was never meant to be
I like to imagine that I didn’t give up.That you rejected me and I kept some hope. That this hope drove me and we got one of those stories old couples tell. One where I asked you out everyday for a year and eventually you said yes. Where you eventually realised I was the one and our only regrets where that you didn’t say yes sooner.
It was never meant to be
I like to imagine that I missed something. That I left something out of my confession, that you misinterpreted it. Even now, I cling desperately to the wingless hope that you’ll turn to me, pony tail whipping the air behind and ask me out. I know you won’t.
It was never meant to be
I like to imagine that I got over it. That it only took a week and you left my mind. Wish I’d forgot all about my boyish crush, pulled myself together, got lost in something else, someone else’s deep brown eyes. If only I could adknowledge, what I already know, that at the end of the day,
It was never meant to be.
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