Knowledge.

She is staring at him from across the room, her lips clamped together in a thin line. He is always here at this time, and she cannot help but be here as well. Her books are laid out in front of her, with busy looking papers lifeless beside them. She really did come here to work, she tells herself. As soon as she sees his face the deceitful thought vanishes; there is no confusion about why she is here. His face is one that fills her with desire and a kind of desperate, clawing need. Of course he is the reason she’s here.
She knew him once…it feels like so long ago. It was then, in the time before, that she had lost her heart and found it again in his hands. If she had known that this would happen, that his pitiful state would be the end of such rampant emotions, she never would have given him a second look.
But she did. And she knows that ultimately she would not have changed anything. There was something tragic, yet beautiful, about the way things turned out. What with her loving him with a passion that poets write about, and him forgetting her easily enough. Though she cannot blame him- as she authored most of it in her head, building a novel upon words whose meaning she had twisted, and then being angry with him when he would not help her keep the lie standing. There were some words whose meanings she just couldn’t twist to suit her wants.
For a while, however, she thought things might end as she wished. She had thought that they could make it work, opposites though they were. She had once thought that she might have him in the end and that all her pain would not be for nothing. She wonders if he had ever believed so. It is doubtful, he was always the realist. He had been saying goodbye since he met her.
But would she love him if he were anything but that which he is? Of course not. She knew this. She did. She simply let his smile distract her for a while. It is perhaps his smile that she misses most. What she would enjoy first if she could have him back.
And she does want him back. Sitting here in the crowded shop, with her view of him distorted by the faces and bodies of strangers, she wants him back. Part of her knows that it is not worth it, that he would come with more than just a smile. He would come with pain, agony and a confusion of self- but she would gladly endure all those things. She would gladly accept a life of uncertainties and of confrontations if only to have him. She would leave behind all that she knew to be with him. She would set aside good judgment for him. She is in many ways like a petty child, wanting that which is bad for her and refusing to heed to the consequences.
There is a problem, however, in her fantasy world of wants: he does not want her. He has already made his choice, assuming there was one, and it was not her. It will never be her. This too she knows. As she absentmindedly stirs her now-cold drink with spoon it occurs to her that she knows an awful lot. She knows him. She knows what she wants. She knows the two are the same. She knows she cannot have him. She knows. She knows. She knows.
She is doomed to know.

Dead and Gone

They stand around her with complacent smiles, formed in strained sympathy. She is surrounded by those who will never understand, and do not want to. As they huddle together in their eager commiseration she finds an escape, striking off towards town and towards the bridge.

She feels better when she finally arrives at the site, as if a hand had been around her neck had suddenly been removed. The cheap suits and wilting flowers have been replaced with the crashing waves and groans of the bridge beneath her. There is no sympathy here at this wooden monument; no sad faces, save for her own. No judgment of his choice. No muttered words of disgrace and tragedy.

They have all told her not to come here, they said it wasn't healthy. But this is the only place she can still feel him. She couldn't feel him as he lay in the casket, his face so unnaturally pale. She couldn't feel him beneath the cold marble of this headstone. But here, standing with her face towards the grey waters that he chose to loose himself to, she can feel him. His whispers are the cool wind and his mummers the gurgle of the water as it flows across the rocks below. If she shuts her eyes she can almost feel him standing next to her, waiting.

The sun has begun its journey down to its western resting place, turning the dark river a brilliant collage of reds, pinks and yellows. The trees along the shore match the fiery hues. They have lost the life that once turned their leaves vibrant shades of green. They have begun to curl and fall.
Maybe that's what happened to him, maybe he lost the color in his life. Perhaps it had all become a photograph in shades of grey and black. Maybe he leapt into the colors of the river, hoping to find life through death.

She can only guess at what compelled him to leave.
She should have come back sooner...she should have never left.

No. His choice had nothing to do with her. Even if she had been standing on the rough wooden ledge next to him he would have jumped. He would have looked her in the eyes and asked her forgiveness as he stepped forward, into the one place she couldn't follow. He would have let her watch his body twist as it fell, finally smashing into the oblivion below. He would have believed her to be strong enough to witness his final work of art.

Her vision blurs with hot, heavy tears. I miss you, she weeps.

She wishes that she could be angry, that she could beg him to return. But the anger would taste of lies, and to ask him to stay would be to deny him his last sense of freedom. To ask him to stay would be to ask him to suffer. She cannot do so. Will not do so. She can only mourn him for a time. She can only carry the fragments of him that remain in her heart.

She can only remember.

Photograph

As she holds the photo before her face memories come flooding back, like some great body of water. Waves of time long forgotten fill her lungs. Has it really been ten years? Surely the weeks could not have turned into years so quickly...
His face looks exactly the same as she remembers. His smile, the sparks in his eyes. His bangs strewn across his forehead, his expression sure and steady. None of it has changed. And the wounded boy still lurks beneath the surface, silently begging for help; words his mouth would never utter. She still longs to reach out and take away the pain- the torment.
Fate did not allow her to.
Perhaps it never would, no matter how much she longed to.
Did he remember her? Or has she become just a cobweb of a distant memory? Would she ever hear his voice again- hear his words whispered to her, followed by a secret grin?
Brief laughter, hidden smiles, buried anguish. Did they still plauge his dreams as they did hers? she wonders.
She caresses the photo one last time before placing it back in the book, a tear finding its way to the pages before she can snap the front cover shut. Her unsteady hands place it back on the well-worn shelf.
Fate was too cruel.

The Character and the Creator

The night is dark, light by some idle street lamp. Its beam shines softly through the window, distorted by the flakes of snow that flit haphazardly around it. My fingers are cold tonight; numb almost. The paper is due tomorrow, but the screen before me is blank. I know the story I want to tell and I can see the face of my impatient character staring at me even now. Hurry up, he urges. I crack my fingers and the sound is sharp in the otherwise silent room. Hesitantly I place my fingers back onto the keys and then I wait as seconds fade into minutes.
Nothing. Not the slightest whisper of inspiration or direction.
He taps anxiously on my shoulder; pain etched on his face. I try to ignore it. He takes a seat on the side of the desk and stares down at me with unforgiving eyes like the ghost of a tormented angel. I have to set him free, but to do so hastily or without thought would mean his death. I am his creator, and thus I have all the potential to be his destroyer as well.
The screen glows in front of me and small particles of dust drift beneath the light of the small lamp, as if disturbed by his presence. Please, he begs. I begin to type, slowly at first, but my pace quickens with each click of the keys. Where is he from? I don’t know. His identity is pinned to his sleeve, but I don’t understand it yet. His journey is a long one and the road winds in ways I cannot yet imagine. He is a reality spun of glass and plastic, of frustration and desperation. I look up. His hair has fallen across his face, casting a shadow over one eye.
Melted thoughts and half-formed sentences are my constant companion in these early hours. My hands shake, and I shut my eyes. Focus. Focus. Focus. The story will go with me-- shut out amongst dusty pages and dead ideas. The keys click faster under my control, with an unspoken urgency that screams through the dead end I am at. Where's he going? I fear that I may have lead him down a road with no end. He's cold, dead, lost --doomed to wander and worse, doomed to know. Focus. Focus. Focus. He face is contorted in anguish, but he sits so still I fear he has ceased to be. He flicks his head in a half-hearted nod at me, his way of encouraging me to go on. I am the only one who will tell the tale of his life. For who will give meaning to his pain, if not me? I am the one who must give him a name through the telling of his beautiful face and his somber ways. It is no small task.
Crumpled papers are scattered across the floor, like white flowers picked before their time. They are not but twisted thoughts and beginnings that I cannot end. Help me, he mouths with is cracked lips, free me. I don’t think I can. Words force themselves out of my mind: hope. It is only a four letter word and I laugh at its treachery. Hope can't help him… only I can. I am hope when there is no hope. I am nothing. I am everything. I am the creator. I am the destroyer. Focus. Focus. Focus. I squeeze my eyes shut once more. My hands form a too-tight frame around my face in an attempt to force the information from it. Focus. Focus. Focus. Pain pounds in my head, towards the back, like the dull thud of gavel that sentences me to failure. Make it stop.
I look to him, to be reassured that he is still there. His eyes bore into mine, and I feel his hand reach through the cavity of my chest to grip the heart that beats beneath. I can feel his breath on my face as he leans towards me and presses his forehead lightly against mine, causing sparks to trace along the nerves of my mind. They leave fires behind them, ideas raging violently, fueled by the dry tinder of fatigue. My fingers now move of their own will. Somehow I am pouring him into the screen, placing him softly within my ardent language. I have given him a direction-- a home.
Words, sentences, pages… they fly from the printer and hit the floor. Set him free. Let him go. Focus. Focus. Focus. Step back. Breathless, I look to his face. Thank you, he whispers. I blink and when my eyes reopen he is hazy, distorted. Panic halts my breath -- did I act as the destroyer after all? But no, his distant finger points to the paper at my feet and there in the small, black letters I see his face clearly. His is relaxed, the dark circles beneath his eyes now gone. As I glance back up to the desk, where he sat just moments before, I see the last quiver of his form before he is gone. The dust dances in his passing. I have set him free at long last.
I collect the pages from the floor and bind them together with a sharp snap of the stapler. As I place the fragile sheets in their folder I pause for a moment. Have I done him a disservice by sending him off to critiqued? Will I cheapen him by allowing his essence to be graded? Will I lose him in a score?
No, he murmurs, his voice far away. I let out a heavy sigh. I realize that instead of depreciating him I have given him a voice. I have done what only I could do. I have given others a glimpse of what only my eyes could see. Tomorrow my hands will shake as I turn it in, and I will be filled with doubt, as always. Will they sense the fervor and vehemence with which I created a being out of not but a shadow? Will they see the beautiful ghost that has now been freed through a simple assignment? Maybe, but it doesn’t matter: he is free.

I look so foolish standing here with my paper heart in hand. What was I thinking?

I wasn't.

I've got little to offer. No stablitity, only passion. No promises, just hope. Not what you're looking for.

It's the same story you've heard before. Someone else has beat me and I am left with nothing else to give. Just more of the same.

I want to walk away, each moment I linger I only cement my own stupidity. Though maybe less so because I am aware.

Or perhaps more so.

I have no excuse and even I have lost sight of what is is I want. Is it you? It used to be. I thought it still was...
But maybe it is only but a shadow of you that I love. A ghost. Nothing with a heartbeat.

And whispers make such horrible companions. Though perisistant ones, to say the least.

Why can't you just run me away? Forbid me from staying. Leave nothing more for me to cling to.
Play fair for once in your life.

Set me free, I beg of you.

Modern Day Revolution

Staring at the television screen our eyes go blank as a smothering sense of hopeless apathy overtakes us. We turn to each other as in bitterness as we take a shot to dull the stinging loss. Amidst the smoke of the bar the final tally has been called in the newscaster’s monotone voice, smug with a misplaced sense of victory. Cheers erupt in the streets and on the screen the camera pans to another crowd outside our country’s capital, giving those of us who have endured defeat another slap in the face. We step outside to smoke our cigarettes that we once were able to smoke where we pleased and inhale the cold night air.
We can remember the hope that had encompassed us just months and weeks, even days, before. Life, Liberty, and Freedom. With those ideals in our hearts had we proudly marched to the voting booths. Pens powerfully heavy in our hands we had colored in small circles on those crisp, white sheets of paper that would decide our future. We had believed that this time would be different, that finally our voices would be heard. It was this time that was supposed to send a message to those falsely in charge. Instead we found our strangled cries ignored yet again. With a heavy foot on our backs they shoved us and our ideas of revolution below.
We seek only to restore what our predecessors fought for so long ago, and once again all they can see is treason. We are dangerous with our thoughts of unalienable rights and our love for dated pieces of paper. They laugh in our faces and call us extremists as if the word is an insult. They ignore us, berate us, spit on us and attempt to ban us from existence. They want nothing less than our immediate death; we are a threat if we are allowed to continue. Our words are sparks and they can’t afford to have them catch. We are matches whose strength they would like to wash away.
Little do they know that they cannot kill us off. We are more than just faces in a crowd. We are more than calloused hands, sore backs and tattooed shoulders. We are more than the flags we fly and the signs we carry. We are more than the words we yell and the riots we incite. We are more than the songs we sing at the top of our lungs. We are more than the bricks we throw and the windows we shatter. We are change. We are ideas. And ideas are bulletproof, my friend. Ideas do not die; they cannot be washed away; they cannot ever be fully silenced. As long as we remain to fight they will go on. And should our mortal lives ever be stamped out those ideas still carry on, in the voices of the wind and in the hearts of the young.
It is with this thought that we snap out of our momentary comatose state. The revolution has only begun and we will not abandon it so soon. We are the angry, the desperate, the passionate, the true warriors of change. We are the ones that accept nothing but our Freedom. Our knees will never bend to a government corrupt. Our ears do not hear the beautiful lies spewed by wax figure politicians. It is we that carry Liberty’s torch still. In this Republic we are the tireless minority who speak on behalf of the mindless majority. We are the kink in the system; the wrench in the gears. We are the persistent advocates of the drones that follow the lies of their political caretakers.
You see us every day, but you don’t know our names. We flood the streets, but the media attempts to edit us away and keeps our pictures from the pages and the screens. But through the means of the underground we fill your lives just the same. At times we are the tired nine-to-five employee angrily flipping the pages of a recent newspaper you pass on the bus. Other times we are the punk rioters in your streets with our “fuck the state” tees and our ripped jeans. Sometimes we are the wrinkled face of the elderly who sit quietly in the pub, drink in hand, wondering if we’ll ever see our time come. And still other times we are the eccentric blemishes on your street corners, passing out literature you throw away in the trash while still looking at us. We force you to think, to feel, to rise up against which so comfortably oppresses you. We ask you to cast aside safety for Liberty; security for choice. And oh how you believe you hate us.
But we will never stop. Even when the blood runs from our mouths and our faces swell with bruises we still scream our resolute “no”! We happily endure the pain that comes from our frighten tormentors. We will survive. We never surrender. We never accept silence. We never stop pushing. We never allow our messages to be stopped. We have proved time and time again that we will survive. And now, in the face of our most recent set back, we fight. You may join us if you wish. Grab a sign, and take your courage from the dusty shelf you left it on. Choose to join us, or do not. We are you and so we continue regardless of the choice we fight for you to be able to make. But do not every make the grave mistake of trying to stop us. You’ve more to lose than we do. Our Freedom and Liberty has already been claimed- yours hangs in the balance still.

Surrender

Her throat is raw and aching from the yelling. The past hours have been spent screaming in an attempt to explain what she herself is unsure of. She can’t even remember how the fight got started but it doesn’t matter, they all end the same way. Her hands are sweaty and cold now, losing their claw-like grip on the phone. Sitting there on the faded green couch, with the pale brown walls creeping in on her she can feel her hands start to shake and in her mouth she can taste metallic shards of blood. The pricking sensation of fresh tears only fuels her anger and she unsure of how much longer she can stay in control.
“Are you still there?” echoes the question in his familiar, lilting voice. She can hear the irritated demand, but the words sound distorted and far away. The sentences swim above her head and she can feel her lungs begin to burn with a lack of air. Suddenly she is on her feet and in an equally swift movement her phone splinters into a dozen plastic pieces as it impacts the wall. The tiny bits lay on the floor looking helpless and she momentarily regrets taking her anger out on the innocent object now scattered about her feet. The anger pulsing through her veins won’t let her regret last long however. She is on her feet now, and they are moving her towards the door, but she can’t remember telling them to do so. Walking like someone under a trance she comes face to face with the door; her way to escape the smothering surroundings of this still house. Her fingers grasp the handle and it is cool beneath her fingers; a soft contradiction to the force with which she twists it open. The sudden surge of violence leaves the screen door swinging repeatedly against the brick siding as she trips down the steps that lead to the street; the sound rings in her ears.
Outside the leaves have begun to curl with anticipation of rain. In her haste she didn’t think to grab a jacket and her arms shiver in protest. The sky is a dull grey and the sun has not chosen to show its face today. Wind dances with the dried leaves that litter the street, swirling up from the ground and then slowly filtering back down with a subtle, erratic grace. With her feet still independently in control she finds herself sprinting down the street. Curious faces blur past as her shoes pound the pavement in a steady rhythm. She hates them, all of them. With their perfectly painted houses and perfectly trimmed lawns- what do they know of life but barbeques with neighbors they secretly hate? Fake smiles and feigned interest; she runs faster.
A few blocks later, gasping for air, she finds that the cement has at some point turned to dirt and the grass of well-manicured lawns to rocks. Bent over in fatigue she squints at the lake quivering before her. Of course, though her mind was unaware, her legs knew right where to lead her.
Beneath a small assembly of trees stands the frame of the old, rotted bench swing which creaks beneath her sudden collapse of weight upon it. Smells of earth and a sudden dampness swirl about her, consuming her. Above the clouds have assumed position of authority in the sky, and their distant grumblings speak of rain. Even now the wind smells of water. As she sits alone, with her back hard against the crumbling wood of the bench, she wishes that life would pause for a year or two, leaving her here at the edge of this rippling lake. Time to think, that is what she had told him she needed. Here, with the lake as her backdrop she wants only to think about the sound of the trees; of the birds that cry in mock concern for the coming storm; of the dry rustle of the reeds; of the squeak of the chains that suspend the bench as she rocks back and forth.
Thunder rumbles again, closer this time, and with it come the first drops of rain. The drops splatter her shoes and in the water around her, making soft, wet noises as they land. They run down her bangs and onto her chin, pooling finally in the folds of her shirt. She lets her head fall back to rest against the bench; eyes closed she lets the droplets take the place of stubborn tears she cannot cry. Her hands relax from their claw-like state at her side; surrender.
Amidst the downpour she hears the approach of unsure footsteps; they pause hesitantly at her left. Her eyes blink open to see a face staring at her own, questions illuminating the familiar, murky green eyes. His hair is damp, and sticking out in places as if his fingers have run through it too often. His hands are balled into fists and jammed into his pockets; shoulders slightly hunched. Their eyes lock and the whisper of a smile shimmers in her eyes, but doesn’t quite make it down to her mouth.
“What are you doing here?” her voice comes out dry and uneven.
He doesn’t answer right away, and instead remains standing with his foot absently tracing lines in the dirt that is quickly becoming mud. Beneath the slight roof of the bench she is sheltered from brunt force of the rain, but this drenched Greek god before her has no relief. Instead his black tee shirt has become a second skin and his shaggy, espresso-colored locks are now molded to his forehead.
“Call it fate.”
“Meaning I ran past your house and you followed me.” He smiles and dips his head in agreement.
“Mind if I sit down?” He asks, giving his wet hair a slight shake. A few of the droplets land on her arm.
“I’m a little tired from the run,” he adds.
His breath is all too even, exposing his half-hearted lie. With a sweeping motion of her hand she motions to the open space beside her. His tall frame bends slightly to fit beneath the shelter of the roof as he sits down. He gives his hair a tousle and as his arm falls back to his side she notices the small tattoo located at the inside of his wrist. She loves this tattoo, it’s a small sunset scene with the words “A Norterst” written in surprisingly delicate lettering; a stark contrast to his strong hands that led up to his tanned arms. She doesn’t know what the phrase means though, she has never asked.
Her fingers fidget with a rip in her jeans, near her right knee. She twists a stray thread around her finger; the pressure turns her finger a sickly purple color before it finally snaps. Still focused on the frayed tear she asks.
“What do the words in your tattoo mean?”
“Hmmm? Oh, they’re Latin for ‘from start to finish’.” His hands are warm on hers as he gently pulls her fingers away from the hole in his jeans and into his hand instead. She traces the words on his wrist with one finger. She looks out towards the disturbed waters. The rain has dimmed to sprinkle and the horizon has begun to shift its hue. Bright pinks, faded yellows and fiery reds have taken the place of the former blue and grey streaked clouds. Seconds turn to minutes but the silence is not uncomfortable; it is not forced. As the sun become serious about reclaiming its place low in the sky and the light strengthens even as it begins to dim she speaks again.
“Why did you get it? The tattoo I mean. I’ve known you for years and I don’t even know what significance it holds for you.”
“I love the sunset. When the light clings only to the bottom of the sky, casting its light strongly still; it is in those moments that I feel alive. If only because I know that I have indeed made it through one more day, that each tick of the clock has brought me to this point. It speaks to me, congratulating me on all I have overcome; on what I can now refer to as my past. I have competed the day from start to finish.”
He goes silent, just looking at her with those great green eyes, waiting for her response. She loves looking at his face, his perpetually clenched jaw, his soft lips, and his eyes shadowed beneath his lashes.
And so they sat together on the bench, watching the sunset stake its claim among the lingering clouds. She thought about her earlier fight, and for a fleeting moment the rage came surging back, but just as quickly it was gone. She looks at his tattoo again and is enveloped by a sense of tranquility. There were days when she was happier to see the sunset than for it to rise, but they were only a few days of many. From start to finish; that’s all that life was- a journey from start to finish.