witness to this soul

Some say that the eyes are the gateway to the soul. There is so much in one lonesome stare, so much energy in the eyes of others. Everyday we look, staring into shallow eyes that tell tales of love, truth, hope and betrayal, yet we look straight through. But some choose to look at what is there; gazing at the open pages lying in the cold stares of others…1

It was a cold afternoon, one of many I spent outside the graveyard. Being there, feeling the presence of the dead, the clarity of the silence, provided me with a sense of morbid hope. There was something intoxicating about the serenity of the steeples, grasping the sunset like a child tearing at a gift on Christmas day. The towers opened the heavens excitedly, ripping away the sun to paint the sky with dulcet tones of violet and blue. I closed my eyes, letting the breeze kiss my skin as tiny raindrops began to brush my face. I heard people’s footsteps, treading past me and laughing at the girl they saw everyday, giggling at the sight of my face as I danced slowly into a state of transfixed numbness. The breeze slowly turned into winds, sweeping dew adorned leaves from beneath my feet. Rivers of rain began to spill on my cheeks; the smell of soft linen lingered in the air like the scent of summer gardens. In my mind, I was dancing in fields of lavender, kissing sunflowers and tiptoeing barefoot in the pastures of Eden. As the air turned colder, I let my soul seep back into reality and finally gathered the strength to leave that bench. It’s strange how we can become emotionally attached to anything that provides us comfort, and how much we depend on all the small things that remind us of home. For me, that bench was like a haven outside one of the few places of rest in this world. The dead could lie; no breathe, no life, just an eternal desert of sleep. As my feet touched the path, I imagined what it would be like to sleep like that, to not know the rising of my chest as I spent another breath, to be like a child in a wooden bed buried beneath mortals pounding steps. For a second my breath halted, my heart froze and everything went hazy…it was like a cloudy, uncomfortable daydream where my world was filled with footsteps and lakes in which my reflection was pale and distorted, like looking into a puddle that evaporated into nothing.  My mind flickered back into consciousness like a broken bulb in my mind. I stepped on quickly, my feet trying to keep up with the thoughts as they raced through me. I hugged my coat closer to my chest, lighting a cigarette from my pocket as I moved on faster.  The lighter clicked as it ignited, illuminating the cold air that surrounded my face. My eyes shimmered grey and cobalt as I stared into the flame. As I inhaled, I imagined pools of clear water, falling like diamonds on my body. I felt it running in streams, its cold touch wrapping around me as I became engulfed in an overwhelming sense separation. The refreshing coolness of summer waterfalls soon transformed back into the harsh winds of winter in one lonesome blink of an eye.  The scent of summer lavender soon turned to the stench of cigarette smoke, clinging to the air and causing me to sigh deeply as I moved on. I was late, the streetlamps flickered and blinked at me as my bag clunked against my leg. It didn’t hurt, I barely even felt it…I never really felt pain, my body had become immune to it, like it didn’t even register in my brain that I was meant to hurt. I guess that’s the way your body deals with things when you’re under attack everyday. I slipped my coat away from my left arm, glaring a neat row of gashes that adorned me like a bracelet. I ran my finger over them, feeling the bumps in my skin where I had torn myself apart. Everyone said that beauty is skin deep…all I had to do was take away the skin and uncover someone beautiful beneath it all. I pressed my fingers to my neck, feeling the blood rushing round me like waves of life penetrating my veins. Feeling my veins exploding with life reminded me that I existed, that I was still breathing and moving. Sometimes all I needed was that reminder, that feeling to reassure me that I wasn’t dead.  Being a teenager was hard enough, what with everything being so sheltered and fake, but with me there was so much more preventing me from being able to feel ‘normal’. No glitter, no hype, no aftertaste, just me, dealing with depression at 14…2