I write the words I can not speak, it brings me comfort in ways I can’t explain, it has been the only way to process what goes on inside my head.
Molly had no clue as to what happened to Sammy after high school. For Sammy, the same with Molly. They both had put the memories of their ninth grade behind them and moved on with their lives. Each becoming shadows of their past.
The Perfect Crime
Setting (Flashbacks): It’s been 50 years and my name has long since been forgotten. The only place left with my name on it is an old case file in the back of an old, rickety filing cabinet marked “Open For Investigation.” It’s been left to gather dust in the way back of the grey, chipped, and antique middle drawer alongside all the other cold cases. My name is filled in as “Jane Doe.” Because that’s who I was. That’s who I’ve become.
To her, he was the world. He showed her things she never knew. He made her want to dance again. Just like the paper dolls in the sky.
Is it me, or was it the trauma?
Where do I even begin, is a question I often ask myself when I'm trying to deal with the jumbled and twisted thoughts that run ramped each day in my head. I suffer from un-diagnosed anxiety, and I'm sure a variety of other things as well. I say un-diagnosed because I refuse to talk about things with doctors, and choose to suffer in silence instead. I got tired of hearing "It is just in my head" and to "just get over it." I often do a lot of self reflection, and it is partly because of the anxiety, but also from childhood trauma that lasted even into my adult years.
An introduction into the world of a boy who seemed to have been lost for a time. A series in which some things may make sense, and others not so much. What those things are, are for you to decide.
A petty game of Chicken
I used to write words that would leave those who were brave enough to read them speechless. Until you left me and I no longer had an inspiration to write ever again. I would let the emotions flow from my fingertips and now it is just so rare to feel that I may never be able to write as honestly as I once did. I have no desire to love like that again. Not the way I once loved you. Even after all this time I still feel as though this is a petty game of chicken to see who can last the longest and neither of us are winning. But you are. I don’t know why but even now through all the ashes I wait for you to return home, hoping that maybe one day we may be able to rebuild the home you burned to the ground. I clutch the key you gave me and stand waiting for you to notice the tears as they stream down in this bitter winter. I will never understand why it is I write all of this out knowing you’ll never read the words I write for you when I’m alone.
The Color of Music
My world is full of color, but not the way you would think. My color isn’t color at all, rather it is the vibrations of music. With the right song I can fall in love, feel at peace, or be more motivated than ever before to make the world a better place. Music, it seems as though it can make the gorgeous oranges and reds of the autumn leaves, the bright blues of the oceans and sky, and the purest of white’s on a snow covered forest floor, even more majestic. It can even make the deepest of emotions swell from my eyes. Forcing me to feel things I had never dreamed that I would feel again, joy and passion. Music has been the color that makes me want to get up and dance to every beat, and melody of life. It is a way in which I am able to express words I can not say, explanations I am unable to explain, and a voice for when I have felt I do not have one to share with the world.