I felt inspired to write, so he gave me a word and I wrote from it. I don't usually write things like these, but I felt inspired to... This might be tiny and meaningless to everyone in the world, but this is dedicated to Poppy and Harry for inspiring me to publish the things I write..
'Suicide'
Suicide is darkness. Writhing, like a snake- throughout the thoughts, the mind, the soul.. Tainting everything with evil. It turns the world to black and white, it turns your mind into a prison, where you are both the prisoner and the warden. You choose whether on not you escape from these thoughts, but you choose not too. Because, secretly.. You find yourself safe there. Without colour, everything is easily seen, easily felt. There are no complications. When you are in your prison, death is welcomed as an old friend. He is also in black, no colour.. No complications, right? You limit yourself to feelings of sadness and anger, because it hurts less than to know what awaits the other side. People can help you escape from your prison, but only if you truly want to.
(to the suicidal) - I wish to speak words to you, but words are colour. They are feelings, they are pain and suffering but they are also happiness and love. If you allow me to taint you with these words, I can help set you free from this prison. I can touch the bars and bring life to them, shades of blue.. and green.. You can stand up and walk out of there with me, and I can introduce you to the world, as if we were two black figures, walking into a waterfall of colour.
Yes, it will hurt. But no more than the deep red lines you drew tonight. Red? Oh, I forgot.. Colours don't exist in your world.. yet.
'Smoke'
Smoke courses through lungs like the plague swept through England, poisoning everything in sight, it blackens every alcove, darkens every brightness and stops people breathing. It swirls around the place, like a dark cloud hovering over a town - or the black mark over wizard's tents.. Screaming via a black abyss of darkness, the smoke claims it's victims.. and every last cell in the lungs bow to it's dark majesty, as it is more powerful and darker than anything they have ever seen. Many,many years later the smoke still swirls, decorating the tissue with dark patterns of death - not quick death though, but as if you were to put a stopper on the hands life line, so the forever moving flow of energy that is usually sparked in the palm, is stopped and slowly mixes with the smoke, becoming tainted with darkness.
'Love'
It exists everywhere, although many a time it is seen by just one, yet noticed and felt by everyone. Someone who lives without it lives truly alone, yet people who live with it, can feel like the most lonely people in the world. It can be wonderful, if the true feeling of it is to a friend, it can make everything in the world brighter.. or darker.. for if that person is hurt, or sad.. The rain clouds darken, the flowers become dull, the beauty that surrounds you and that person becomes nothing but a forcefield of protective feelings and hurt. It can be a dangerous tool, it can travel through the soul, cutting it to pieces.. However, if you can make that one person smile,your world brightens, your eyes light up and nothing matters anymore, because you made them happy. And really, if you truly love a person, that's all that ever matters.
'Life'
It doesn't begin when you take your first breath, like everyone says. It doesn't even begin when you are first conceived. No.. I believe that it really begins when you first realize that you care for someone else more than yourself. When you have your own child, and you realize that you would give up your own to save theirs.. That is when you realize it. Life. It isn't about yours. It's about the ones that you affect while living. Whether it's your child, your first love, your last love, your family or your closest friend.. The second you truly admit to caring about them so much you would end your life for theirs to live on, is the second that you understand what it is to live.
'Everyone is Real.'
I used to think that there were real people, and then there were fake people.
The real people were always sad, and had problems and issues and history and were incredible to talk to and had all these amazing things about them that I would never guess, and their appearance became just a shell to a shitstorm of an incredible explosion - what their personality and existence was. I loved these people. So much. They were beautiful. And I thought they were real.
Then there were the unreal people. They just walked around all day, average stuff going on really. Some were smart, others not so much.. They always had an average to pretty appearance, kinda what we would call normal people. They had friends and smiled often and were never sad and always laughed and did their homework and went shopping and stuff. But they were never really interesting. They were just like background characters, there to be the chorus in a play - necessary for it to work, but you would never know them.
But then I got into my teens. And you know what I realised?
The "fake" people? They walked around all day. But it wasn't average stuff. They didn't like their friends, they were treated badly a lot of the time. They smiled so the tears would seem happy, not sad. They were always sad. But they didn't want to tell people because it's the people that really experience it, who don't want others to know the pain they are going through. They did their homework because they were scared of what their parents might do if they didn't. They were interesting. The real people were an explosion, but these guys are fucking nucleur. They aren't the chorus by choice; invisibility and blending in was the most important thing for them. They don't like to be noticed.
Everyone is real.
