infinity.

please don’t leave me. i’m so scared.

silly child. i’ll still be here. we’re all always going to be here.

what do you mean?

answer me this. what do you think we’re made of?

…i don’t know… skin and bones?

haha. that’s just our temporary container. something to hold what we all really are.

and what is that?

energy.

energy?

that’s what we are all made of. energy. and do you know something about energy?

i know nothing about anything.

energy can never be destroyed.

then… where do we go when we’re… gone?

well. energy never disappears. it only transforms.

transforms?

yes. changes form. sometimes, we’re skin and bones. sometimes, we’re balls of air. sometimes, we’re a spring breeze. but we’re still together. all of us. in this one, giant universe. that’s constantly transforming.

but… how can i see you again? how can i talk to you again?

you don’t have to worry about little things like that. the world is so much bigger than all of these little things. what matters is that we are not gone. we are never gone. we’ve simply changed. but we’re all, always together. every little thing that you see. we’re all part of one big, everlasting, ever-transforming, infinity.

including you?

including me. including you. us. we are infinity.

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labels. (excerpt from “the art of breaking”)

labels.
as soon as we grow up, we get labelled.
stamped, dated, labelled.
birthdate. time. place. weight. height. worth.
name.
an arbitrary name we have no choice in, yet it becomes
something so intricately woven into everything we do
for (usually) pretty much the rest of our lives

as we grow, we accumulate more and more labels
likes. dislikes.
school. program. skills. talents.
derogatory terms. categorizing terms.
brands we wear, bands we love.

our personalities end up being boxed into these few labels
some others stamp on us. and some we stamp onto ourselves.

and that’s what we become.

enclosed and contained within our own selves,
taped and packed and labelled.

novel excerpt.

she reads a lot.
but novels, not so much.
she likes poetry because poems are often not about
tim or tom or daisy or doll
they are about you.

it’s like reading a song where you get to pick the tune.

and in these books, she found pieces of herself.
which was something so dear to her.

because so much of her was lost.

when she was young
she wore her heart on her sleeve
and gave out pieces of it to others
unconditionally
but they broke those pieces and left her
and now she had these holes in places she couldn’t reach
and if only band-aids could fix a broken heart

i’m scared.

please (-and i)
please understand that the last time i remember being completely carefree about quickened heartbeats and blushed cheeks were the days when i did quizzes on blogthings for entertainment and rushed through my math homework so i could go on the computer as early as possible. those were the days of red scribbles on grid paper before i lost touch with things and then the paper turned into pink and white sticky notes promoting breast cancer awareness with scribbles made from pencils or maybe blue pen i

don’t (-know)
don’t forget i gave you something special twice. and i don’t know if you know this clearly but you ripped it apart once twice bit by bit by bit and threw it away and i took it back. i took back all the pieces and super glue-gun’d them together and hid it from you and locked it and hid the key under the mat and taped the mat to the floor and camouflaged it with words that were the same colour as everything i said before but they didn’t come from the same place because that place didn’t exist anymore since life always seems to

break (-all good things)
break things into pieces or sometimes shatter them. and laugh at you while you try to gather up each and every piece and put it back together but you never really can put it all back the way it was because, some of the shattered pieces are too small for you to see. and sometimes you can’t pick up some of the pieces because the edges are too sharp and if you try your fingertips will bleed and you know it and you know that you can’t always fix things with bandages. and sometimes, you try to pick those pieces up anyway. and you bleed. just like you knew you would. and i didn’t want that to happen to the ‘something special’ i gave you and that’s why i took it back before you could break it that badly. i hope you know that the ‘something special’ that i gave you was

me (-never)
me always, but i liked to pretend as though i could win when i was losing and i just wanted to feel like i was in first place and i guess being last is in a way better than being second. still. i liked to think if i just left the race, or maybe got myself disqualified – whichever was easier – then it wouldn’t hurt to lose so badly and good-ly at the same time, almost like a paradox. and that’s a horrible feeling, because almost no one really likes the last few letters of the alphabet and, so i wanted to drop the race, and convince myself that i could win

again (-last)
again a paradox because winners don’t usually come in last. or maybe paradox is the wrong word, probably, because i never did know the difference between juxtaposition and paradox and all the other contradicting or contrasting or whatever they were called, those terms. i knew what oxymoron meant though. like ‘extremely average’, or bittersweet, or painless love. but other than that, i didn’t understand the terms, not fully, and i just guessed my way through grade ten english, the same way that i guess my way through life. the same way that i guess i gave you almost everything back again, am giving you everything back again. and i think that is what i want except i’m scared because your mind might be made of water and i know that sea monsters exist.

and last night i had a dream that i was a fish who didn’t know how to swim.

just some prose which will most likely be incorporated in some form or another in my WIP slice-of-life story titled “in case you cared”. ^^