Echo Gallery.

Walk through this echo gallery. Shadows of individuals rest here, succumbed to their inner thoughts. And while the hall is a secret, the world's critical gaze judges those that reside inside.

Look at this girl. Jackie, her name was. Jackie, the Maiden of Anguish, you might call her now. She's just a statue now. And now, only in her wildest dreams is she human.
And from her rocky face, her dry eyes shed tears of pebbles.

Her face was sculpted from her body, a bust from the rest. The artist; herself.
She only wanted to look pretty for the world.

But now, the curator of the gallery covers them all in silky clothes to keep them from staining.
What's the point of looking pretty if nobody's watching anymore?

But she's not pretty anymore. No, she had a scarring accident. Someone tipped her over while visiting and her face received a fatal chip.

Horribly disfigured, she welcomes the curator's cloth. She might be taken down from the gallery, because who likes imperfection among perfection?
Isn't it sad that beauty is based on chips and flaws and dents?

But now, she sits in a pensive state. She wonders if she could have changed her destiny. Who knew that she would have sold herself to this awful place?

Eden.

The spirits, they are restless. There is something ill at ease. I watch them from my window, quarreling with the wind.
Look into the garden.
The branches, they are swaying, dead twigs suspended in air. There is something ominous about them.
The spirits create a raging tempest of memories soon forgot. I watch it from my window -- a storm of swirling silver is mirrored in the glass.
The wind picks up. An unearthly whistling fills the air.
Thunder crashes.

The fall of water from clouds forms a silver sheet. It crashes upon the roses and strips them bare of colour.
It is often warned that weather is a force to be reckoned with. It is heavily laden with omens, both good and bad.

Go into the garden to calm the spirits. The rain pours from the sky like blood from an open wound into the garden, staining it a silvery-blue.
The petals, they have fallen from the roses to the ground. The bare branches shake in fear.
I look upon the ghastly sight of destruction by gales and rains.
My eyes fill with water. I've fallen to the ground.
The ground begins to shake. I'm as frightened as the trees.
A yawning chasm opens, enveloping the breeze.
I wonder if this chasm will swallow all my fears. The silver sheets of water drain slowly to the deep.
The petals, they have vanished. Swept away with the silver.
I'm left alone with the trees; what little use they serve. They quail in fear, huddling masses of brown and grey.

The weeping willows sob, their time has come at last. They fall into the chasm, into a dark vortex of silver and pink.

The spirits, they have vanished. Drawn into some endless pit. The weather is an omen -- the storm is not relenting.

The future is looking grim. My eyes have flooded over. I'm swallowing the wind, the water, and my tears.
The garden, it is helpless. It's drawn into the chasm. The silver sheets of water are ever relentless.

The spirits, they were restless. There was something ill at ease. I watched them from my window, quarreling with the wind.
Looked into the garden.
The branches, they were swaying, dead twigs suspended in air. There was something ominous about them.

Something ominous.

I never should have gone into the garden.

What We Had Was a Beautiful Tapestry.

Don't I know you?

We measured the time with hands entwined, counting the moments that left us in a haze.
Alone...
You left me.
But of course I forgive you. I've seen how you live. You have fears and needs to appease. But we helped each other. We banished those fears. We filled those needs. And like a phoenix, we rose from the ashes of your former life. We picked up the pieces, rose up towards the sun, with ambitions and dreams wrapped around us like brightly coloured ribbons.
But the ghosts in the attic, they never quite leave.

I could have sworn I know you.
It's a distance that's filled with the greatest of ease. The distance between our fingers. We fit into each other like puzzle pieces, with your hand in mine.

With each passing day, the history we made drew us tighter and tighter together, confirming our belief that some sort of miracle brought us together in this celestial waltz. Rising up towards the sky, dancing through time and space. Through the colours of the seasons. Through the brightly coloured ribbons.

But somehow, this time spent together was ephemeral. The petals of time slowly unfolded, revealing what the fates had planned for us. Whether we liked it or not, we accepted it as part of Time's decree.

So we just held on fast while the moments we had faded away into the caverns of our minds. And all of the memories we had eroded to dust. All of the time and space between us grew into a huge chasm.

We learn to accept the past as lessons that were painstakingly and exquisitely crafted. As thread that we use to spin the stories of our lives. The tales of the love and hate, the happiness and sorrow, captured in thin lines. Brightly coloured lines. Forever immortalized in a tapestry to hang on our walls.
Because we don't realize how much faith we have in our lives unless our prizes have been somehow elusive.

Yes, I thought I knew you from somewhere...

Inkwells.

I don't want to sleep tonight. I want to take a walk in the falling snow.

...there's no snow...

I want to lay in fields of green-turning-white.

For some reason, all the world is alive tonight. I guess the cold, in a strange, invigorating way, breathes life. La vie.
The wind picks up. The windows shake.
Loud, though. I guess I won't hear the dawn break.

I cannot bear it any longer. I dash outside.

Neighborhoods with sporadic trees. The world pulses. The rhythm of la vie. The rhythm of my pulse. Together, just one beating heart.

I throw my head up to the sky. Clouds of ink float above, quietly. My breath catches.
And strangely, slowly, all around, I watch the snow fall to the ground.
Each silent flake is like a drum, beating out an ephemeral cadence.

Morning light upon the clouds. Drops of light fall to the ground.

The drums are still beating. Puddles of light ripple from centers of gold.

I never heard the dawn break.

Beginnings.

A labyrinth of moments, each different from the next. Everywhere I turn, a new beginning begins, but they never find a finish.
The walls are nothing.
I walk to the horizon.

Another maze. It's all so surprising, but entrance is granted.
I wonder if it's different.

It isn't.

Up in the sky, the moon is swept around. Swaying over the ocean. The waves keep crashing. The moon still keeps moving. Almost like clockwork. Like a wind-up doll.
And through it all, the maze keeps going.

Another patch of sky. The moon has vanished. Or shrank.
But now the stars sign. Twinkling out a life that could be mine.
If only their light could shine enough for me to make it through the maze.

Sudden darkness.
Glancing up to the heavens -- the sky has clouded over.
There's no spark of Leo or Orion.

Winds from far off countries have taken echos of their stories, but all that is heard is whistling. Crashing. Misting. As the moon comes down from dreaming, and the crashing waves stop sleeping, one can only wonder if this is only dreaming.

An unseen blockage is an illusion. A turn taken to begin a new beginning -- still looking for an answer, but never finding the finish. The wrong turn is taken, and lost is found.

Lost, a dark line is made, hopefully in search of the way back to the moment.
It could be left or right.
It could be in or out.
It's either this or that way.
It should be one direction.

But the turn that was taken, the turn that is being made, the turns to come, they don't hold the answer. The stars are gone. The ocean has melted into darkness. The moon is weeping somewhere.

This might be the end.
Or this could be just the beginning.

Passion. Freedom. Love.

Tall grass waving. Where are the clouds going?
The afternoon is hazy. The river flowing.
And all the while, flowers are whispering.

Silver willows. Shades of blues. Green and golden. Summer snowflakes.
Stargazer lilies have closed their eyes.
Some are known as freedom. Some as passion. Some as love.
Passionate love.
And all the while, the clouds are drifting. Collecting. Breaking.

Tall grass waving. Luna smiles upon her children.
The world has gone to sleep.
And from all around, the flowers' secrets drift through the air.
Like wood nymphs. Will-o-the-wisps. Foxfire.
Stargazer lilies have turned their faces to the moon.

Dawn breaks.
Freedom.
Morning glories yawn for hours.
Roses sip their coffee.
And from all around, the flowers tell a story.
About the one the moon loves.

Tall grass waving. Where are the clouds going? The afternoon is hazy. The river flowing.
And all the while, flowers are whispering.

All in a golden afternoon.

Untitled #2

I took a walk today.
I went to the park of an elementary school. I don't remember the name.
The playground was abandoned.

Sitting on one of the swings, I passed the time. Counting blades of grass. Watching the clouds change. Observing breath clouds.
I spent the day in the company of ghosts. I woke up alone.

It was dark.

I began to walk home. Drops began falling from the sky. The clouds were crying.
Streetlight by streetlight, I counted. I began to talk to you, saying things I would never say directly.
Lightning crackled. Thunder boomed. Everything froze.

I hate the seasons here.