She was as big as the universe,
Enough love for everyone
Who needed some of her strength.
You could see suns in her eyes,
Hear worlds unknown
In her laugh,
Imagine a whole universe
Pulsing to her heartbeat.
She was told she was too
Proud, too big,
Too loving
To fit in this world.
They tried and tried again
To bring her down to their size,
Until finally
A black hole appeared in her galaxies
Taking everything with it, leaving
Nothing but a porcelain doll,
Fragile and delicate.
One more little push
Made her shatter.
She tried rebuilding herself,
Tried to hold
What her once strong arms
Could, but collapsed under the weight.
She worked up the courage
To ask for help, and
Received it.
She is rebuilding herself,
Piece by piece
Relighting the stars in her constellations
One by one.
Monday 30 November 2015
Tuesday 15 September 2015
In the Dark of Night
When the sun falls below the horizon,
And the stars come out,
That is when you find yourself completely alone.
It is a time for reflection on oneself,
For deep thoughts and big decisions.
The dark that scared us so much as children
Now liberates us
And allows us to be ourselves,
Even if the moon is our only witness.
Things are different at night,
The world seems peaceful,
Filled with endless possibilities
For adventure.
In the middle of the night,
When the world is sleeping,
Look up at the stars.
You realize that you are alone,
Alone with your thoughts and feeling,
With your inner demons.
In the dark of night
Many people find themselves,
For only when you are truly alone
Can you hear your heartbeat,
And finally understand
What it is trying to tell you.
And the stars come out,
That is when you find yourself completely alone.
It is a time for reflection on oneself,
For deep thoughts and big decisions.
The dark that scared us so much as children
Now liberates us
And allows us to be ourselves,
Even if the moon is our only witness.
Things are different at night,
The world seems peaceful,
Filled with endless possibilities
For adventure.
In the middle of the night,
When the world is sleeping,
Look up at the stars.
You realize that you are alone,
Alone with your thoughts and feeling,
With your inner demons.
In the dark of night
Many people find themselves,
For only when you are truly alone
Can you hear your heartbeat,
And finally understand
What it is trying to tell you.
Monday 31 August 2015
Leaders of Tomorrow
My generation has a right to be angry,
Angry at the dying world
We are inheriting from our parents.
Angry, at the senseless acts of discrimination
That are considered the norm
To the eyes of most.
We are the leaders of tomorrow,
Yet we are called lazy,
Technology-addicted,
And good for nothing.
Have you ever stopped to think
That the rising levels of anxiety
And depression
In teenagers today
Are linked to this problem?
By the judgment alone
Of the media,
And of the impossible beauty standards
We have to comply to.
By the perfect grades we must get,
And the enormous tuition
We must work two jobs,
And 50 hours a week
To pay off.
This was not our doing,
For we were but infants
When the previous generations
Decided our fate.
They decided that this would be
Our problem,
Think about it for a moment,
We must save the planet,
It's animals and it's plants,
But not start any wars,
Or offend anyone.
We must be the saviors of humanity,
The light in the dark.
We have been given
An impossible task
By the leaders of yesterday.
All that we are asking
Is that history
Not judge us too harshly,
For the people and the leaders we will need to become,
In order to survive.
Angry at the dying world
We are inheriting from our parents.
Angry, at the senseless acts of discrimination
That are considered the norm
To the eyes of most.
We are the leaders of tomorrow,
Yet we are called lazy,
Technology-addicted,
And good for nothing.
Have you ever stopped to think
That the rising levels of anxiety
And depression
In teenagers today
Are linked to this problem?
By the judgment alone
Of the media,
And of the impossible beauty standards
We have to comply to.
By the perfect grades we must get,
And the enormous tuition
We must work two jobs,
And 50 hours a week
To pay off.
This was not our doing,
For we were but infants
When the previous generations
Decided our fate.
They decided that this would be
Our problem,
Think about it for a moment,
We must save the planet,
It's animals and it's plants,
But not start any wars,
Or offend anyone.
We must be the saviors of humanity,
The light in the dark.
We have been given
An impossible task
By the leaders of yesterday.
All that we are asking
Is that history
Not judge us too harshly,
For the people and the leaders we will need to become,
In order to survive.
Wednesday 26 August 2015
Empires
Enough.
It is time for a change.
We will no longer stand by,
We will not let you hand us
A broken world.
We have had enough,
Enough of this game of power.
Our sisters dismissed,
For no other reason than their gender.
Our forests and wildlife,
Sacrificed to Greed.
Our youth, unable to find work,
And burdened with enormous debt
From an education they were told they needed.
History says that Empires
Collapse from within.
Well hold tight my darling,
For here it comes.
The tidal wave, the earth-shaking
Last drop that sends us all over
Into darkness, while the ones in power
Struggle to stay on top.
Things must change,
People must be taught once more
How to care for others,
That we cannot eat our money,
Nor can it buy us a better world.
Our blindness to what truly matters
Demonstrates our ignorance of our race,
For how can we help others,
When we cannot help ourselves.
In a world where promoting equality
Is considered a threat,
Where the color of your skin
Determines your worth.
Humanity is not cattle,
We are not simple machines
That exist only for revenue,
And easily replaced once broken.
This is how the world works now,
And this must change,
For an Empire that ignores its people
Is an Empire destined to fall.
It is time for a change.
We will no longer stand by,
We will not let you hand us
A broken world.
We have had enough,
Enough of this game of power.
Our sisters dismissed,
For no other reason than their gender.
Our forests and wildlife,
Sacrificed to Greed.
Our youth, unable to find work,
And burdened with enormous debt
From an education they were told they needed.
History says that Empires
Collapse from within.
Well hold tight my darling,
For here it comes.
The tidal wave, the earth-shaking
Last drop that sends us all over
Into darkness, while the ones in power
Struggle to stay on top.
Things must change,
People must be taught once more
How to care for others,
That we cannot eat our money,
Nor can it buy us a better world.
Our blindness to what truly matters
Demonstrates our ignorance of our race,
For how can we help others,
When we cannot help ourselves.
In a world where promoting equality
Is considered a threat,
Where the color of your skin
Determines your worth.
Humanity is not cattle,
We are not simple machines
That exist only for revenue,
And easily replaced once broken.
This is how the world works now,
And this must change,
For an Empire that ignores its people
Is an Empire destined to fall.
Tuesday 4 August 2015
The World We Find In Books
Once a reader always a reader, they
Would tell me, as I opened a new book,
And discovered a new world. I made new
Friends, and for a moment, they were real.
When I was told reading was nerdy, and
Deeply frowned upon, I was confused. My
Young mind could not understand why people
Despised these innocent words on a page.
Many years, and many books later, I
Have come to the conclusion that people
Are scared of books, of the worlds, of the themes,
The ideas that are held within them.
They don't want us asking questions, so that
We may believe everything they say, that
This is where we belong, and we should not
Aspire to anything greater. They are
Greedy, feeding the uneducated,
The close-minded, and the extremists. Books
Free the reader of reality, make
Them understand that there is hope for a
Better world. One where people are free to
Chose their own path, make their own lives, away
From religious or patriarchal ways,
Freeing the oppressed, giving them a voice.
Would tell me, as I opened a new book,
And discovered a new world. I made new
Friends, and for a moment, they were real.
When I was told reading was nerdy, and
Deeply frowned upon, I was confused. My
Young mind could not understand why people
Despised these innocent words on a page.
Many years, and many books later, I
Have come to the conclusion that people
Are scared of books, of the worlds, of the themes,
The ideas that are held within them.
They don't want us asking questions, so that
We may believe everything they say, that
This is where we belong, and we should not
Aspire to anything greater. They are
Greedy, feeding the uneducated,
The close-minded, and the extremists. Books
Free the reader of reality, make
Them understand that there is hope for a
Better world. One where people are free to
Chose their own path, make their own lives, away
From religious or patriarchal ways,
Freeing the oppressed, giving them a voice.
Thursday 30 July 2015
The Music of the Storm
You looked up at the clouds
And saw the darkness coming.
You braced yourself for a violent storm,
For thunder, lightning
And never-ending rain.
You stocked up on provisions,
On blankets and books,
So as to pass the time,
And not have to go out
While the storm ran its course.
The rain started it off,
With its soothing rhythm
Varying in tempo and in strength.
Then came the thunder,
As loud as angel's drums,
Shaking the house and scaring the dog.
It added substance to the music,
The deep bass, the heartbeat
To accompany the main melody.
Finally came the lightning,
For what is music without a good show.
It lit up the sky, one second at a time,
Adding magic to the whole affair.
You put down your book to watch the show,
Knowing that nothing created by humans
Would ever equal Nature's beauty.
Slowly, the lightning became less frequent,
Then took its final bow.
Thunder quickly followed,
But refused to slowly fade.
Instead, went out in style,
Shaking the earth one last time.
Soon you were only left with the rain,
The soothing, calming melody,
That filled the background as you continued to read.
Slowly, carefully,
So as to fulfill its promise to the audience,
The rain began to fade.
A hundred pages later, you look up from your book.
Only to look out the window,
And find the show has ended.
The dark clouds are gone, the sun is shining bright,
And you can't help but to smile
At the rainbow in your sight.
And saw the darkness coming.
You braced yourself for a violent storm,
For thunder, lightning
And never-ending rain.
You stocked up on provisions,
On blankets and books,
So as to pass the time,
And not have to go out
While the storm ran its course.
The rain started it off,
With its soothing rhythm
Varying in tempo and in strength.
Then came the thunder,
As loud as angel's drums,
Shaking the house and scaring the dog.
It added substance to the music,
The deep bass, the heartbeat
To accompany the main melody.
Finally came the lightning,
For what is music without a good show.
It lit up the sky, one second at a time,
Adding magic to the whole affair.
You put down your book to watch the show,
Knowing that nothing created by humans
Would ever equal Nature's beauty.
Slowly, the lightning became less frequent,
Then took its final bow.
Thunder quickly followed,
But refused to slowly fade.
Instead, went out in style,
Shaking the earth one last time.
Soon you were only left with the rain,
The soothing, calming melody,
That filled the background as you continued to read.
Slowly, carefully,
So as to fulfill its promise to the audience,
The rain began to fade.
A hundred pages later, you look up from your book.
Only to look out the window,
And find the show has ended.
The dark clouds are gone, the sun is shining bright,
And you can't help but to smile
At the rainbow in your sight.
Wednesday 13 May 2015
An Ode To The Night Circus
I opened its pages and began a new life,
The feel of the book on my lap,
The paper, thick between my fingers,
The inked words dancing on the page.
The image of it formed in my mind;
The black and white circus,
The tents, the grass, the iron gates
The sign that greeted eager patrons.
With them I entered a world
Unlike any other I had previously visited.
When I closed the book,
The smell of apple cider
And caramel apples
Hung in the air.
I could see the reflection of its tents
In the wind.
I longed for the moment
I could open its pages once more
And rejoin the circus again.
For days, I ran away with the circus.
When I finished it,
I felt empty.
The world within these pages holds
A life of its own, a dear friend
I wanted to visit again and again.
To see its endless tents, the brazier burning
At the center of it all.
The tick of the clock
That stood at its gates.
I fell in love with the idea,
Became a rêveur, desperate for one more night
Within its gates.
The mere sight of the book
Made me smile, thinking of the secrets
It hid deep inside.
I still dream about it,
Looming in the distance,
Its paths, characters and gates open to me,
Should I want to come visit again.
The feel of the book on my lap,
The paper, thick between my fingers,
The inked words dancing on the page.
The image of it formed in my mind;
The black and white circus,
The tents, the grass, the iron gates
The sign that greeted eager patrons.
With them I entered a world
Unlike any other I had previously visited.
When I closed the book,
The smell of apple cider
And caramel apples
Hung in the air.
I could see the reflection of its tents
In the wind.
I longed for the moment
I could open its pages once more
And rejoin the circus again.
For days, I ran away with the circus.
When I finished it,
I felt empty.
The world within these pages holds
A life of its own, a dear friend
I wanted to visit again and again.
To see its endless tents, the brazier burning
At the center of it all.
The tick of the clock
That stood at its gates.
I fell in love with the idea,
Became a rêveur, desperate for one more night
Within its gates.
The mere sight of the book
Made me smile, thinking of the secrets
It hid deep inside.
I still dream about it,
Looming in the distance,
Its paths, characters and gates open to me,
Should I want to come visit again.
Wednesday 1 April 2015
On the Curb
As I look at the cars driving by,
The shops and the people passing me,
I wonder what they might be thinking.
Of my suitcase packed tight,
Of my purse, filled as much as possible.
I stop walking, and take a minute to myself.
I think of the previous years,
Of the bullying, the abuse, the humiliation
I'd been forced to endure.
Today is my eighteenth,
Today I packed up everything
And left home.
I look at the world carrying on,
Passing me by without a thought.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection
In a passing car, fleeting.
I see a face with eyes
Filled with hope for the first time in years.
No one knows what happened to me,
And they are very content to imagine
I have a good life.
I do now. I am free,
I think as I step off the curb, and into the street.
Smiling at the people,
Loving the feeling of just melting away
Into the crowd.
The shops and the people passing me,
I wonder what they might be thinking.
Of my suitcase packed tight,
Of my purse, filled as much as possible.
I stop walking, and take a minute to myself.
I think of the previous years,
Of the bullying, the abuse, the humiliation
I'd been forced to endure.
Today is my eighteenth,
Today I packed up everything
And left home.
I look at the world carrying on,
Passing me by without a thought.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection
In a passing car, fleeting.
I see a face with eyes
Filled with hope for the first time in years.
No one knows what happened to me,
And they are very content to imagine
I have a good life.
I do now. I am free,
I think as I step off the curb, and into the street.
Smiling at the people,
Loving the feeling of just melting away
Into the crowd.
Sunday 8 February 2015
A Place Where I Grew Up
When I think about my life,
I don't see people, places or games,
I see the books and characters that filled my life,
I see Harry Potter, Eragon, Percy Jackson,
Who where the first characters that I met on my journey.
After that, I met Jonas, who until recently,
I didn't know how important he had been.
I met Ruby, who taught me that people aren't all bad,
And introduced me to Sarah Dessen, who saved me many times,
Through all of the people in Colby.
My real journey began when I met Isabel,
A slave who was trying to break free of her chains.
My eyes opened when I met Melinda Sordino,
Who taught me that the truth is hidden deep inside,
But the people who care will search for it.
I then met Clary, Tris, Katniss and Thomas,
Who helped me through tough times,
Always there with words of wisdom.
I then met Elissa Wall, through Stolen Innocence,
The story of a teenage bride, and a polygamous sect,
Which drove me to hours of research,
On the subject of child brides.
Soon after, I met Erin Gruwell
Who taught me to put my thoughts
And feelings down on paper,
That they matter.
I then met Charlie, in Perks of Being a Wallflower,
However I did not fully understand until I met
Hannah Baker. Combined, they showed me that
People are terrible, but if you let them,
They can be your salvation.
By this point, I had already begun writing my novel,
And Insurgent, the story of Tris,
As well as A Song of Ice and Fire,
Opened my eyes to death of the characters,
And what it means to the author and the reader.
Death was a tool to use to move the plot forward,
Something I should not hesitate
To use.
This journey has brought me here,
To you.
To whom it may concern,
I grew up in worlds bigger than our own,
Not on street corners, or at the park,
But between the pages of a book,
Alongside friends I will have forever.
I don't see people, places or games,
I see the books and characters that filled my life,
I see Harry Potter, Eragon, Percy Jackson,
Who where the first characters that I met on my journey.
After that, I met Jonas, who until recently,
I didn't know how important he had been.
I met Ruby, who taught me that people aren't all bad,
And introduced me to Sarah Dessen, who saved me many times,
Through all of the people in Colby.
My real journey began when I met Isabel,
A slave who was trying to break free of her chains.
My eyes opened when I met Melinda Sordino,
Who taught me that the truth is hidden deep inside,
But the people who care will search for it.
I then met Clary, Tris, Katniss and Thomas,
Who helped me through tough times,
Always there with words of wisdom.
I then met Elissa Wall, through Stolen Innocence,
The story of a teenage bride, and a polygamous sect,
Which drove me to hours of research,
On the subject of child brides.
Soon after, I met Erin Gruwell
Who taught me to put my thoughts
And feelings down on paper,
That they matter.
I then met Charlie, in Perks of Being a Wallflower,
However I did not fully understand until I met
Hannah Baker. Combined, they showed me that
People are terrible, but if you let them,
They can be your salvation.
By this point, I had already begun writing my novel,
And Insurgent, the story of Tris,
As well as A Song of Ice and Fire,
Opened my eyes to death of the characters,
And what it means to the author and the reader.
Death was a tool to use to move the plot forward,
Something I should not hesitate
To use.
This journey has brought me here,
To you.
To whom it may concern,
I grew up in worlds bigger than our own,
Not on street corners, or at the park,
But between the pages of a book,
Alongside friends I will have forever.
Friday 9 January 2015
Knowledge is Power
A reporter walked into my office one day, wanting to do a paper on the effects of depression, and the steps we were taking in order to find a cure. I am a leader in research on the subject, and so my input would greatly aid his article, according to him. He asked questions about my research, about my leading theories on the tattoos, that they are the leading cause of depression.
“One last question; what was your motivation for going into this field of research?”
I blinked. I knew very well what the answer to this question was, but I wasn't sure I was ready to share it with the world. But then again, maybe it was time. I smiled at him, and shared my story.
I had walked into the hospital as I did everyday, only that day was different. It was the day of my twenty-fifth birthday, you see, and I was quite nervous at the thought of getting my first tattoo. I didn't know what the future held for me, but somehow, I didn't want to know. I did not want that kind of burden. I had watched my best friend go through it, and it had almost killed him. It was my first year as an intern, and I was quite overwhelmed already. I did my usual routine, rounds and check-up exams, and everything looked good. We had a new patient on the floor that day, and I usually kept the new patients for last, to be able to devote my time to them, without having to worry about other patients for a little while. I went over the chart before I went into the room. Car accident, brain trauma, but no one knew for sure how extensive. I introduced myself, and she introduced herself as Andrea. I did a routine exam, and everything seemed fine. I told her to call the nurse if she needed anything, and I left the room. As soon as I had left, I felt a burning sensation on my lower stomach. I ran to the bathroom, and lifted my shirt. I starred in the mirror as the tattoo was drawn on my skin. Once the pain was gone, I examined it. It was an old fashion scroll, blank. I knew tattoos were suppose to represent something big in your life, something that would come to pass in the coming year. Everyone, on their date of birth, were registered with the tattoo ministry, and given a date of when they would get their first tattoo, the year something big would happen to them. For some, it was eighteen, others, at the tender age of ten. Mine was twenty-five. Something big was going to happen this year, and it had something to do with a blank scroll. I had no idea what it meant at the time, but today I look back and call myself an idiot for not seeing it sooner.
“What did your tattoo mean?” Asked the reporter.
I told him to be quiet, and to listen. For I was not done.
I walked into work the next day, picked up my charts, and went to see Andrea. I was assaulted by a pillow when I walked into her room. After speaking with her for a little while, I was able to understand that she had no idea where she was, or where her family was. I had to explain to her that her family had died in a car accident, and that she was in a hospital, being monitored after a severe head injury. I wrote it off as a dreamstate. It often happened that patients woke-up on their first day here having no idea where they were. I did a routine check-up, and left the room.
I was woken up in the middle of the night by my pager. I ran to the hospital, where I found the nursing staff being assaulted with various items. I walked into Andrea's room, but stayed out of reach, for she was holding a flower pot. I asked her what was wrong, and she expressed, very loudly in fact, that she didn't know where she was, that we had no right to keep her against her will, and that the only thing she wanted to do was to go home to her family. I explained where she was, and she eventually put the flowers down.
This event went on for a couple of days, until we came to the conclusion that the amnesia was not temporary. We started looking for more permanent solutions. The entire staff was constantly having to get stitches from the various items she threw at us, and we even got to the point of taking almost everything from her room, but she kept finding things to throw at us. A nurse gave me a notebook to give to her, saying it was an idea from an old movie she had watched in history class. I gave Andrea the notebook, and asked her to write her story, as we have explained it, and as she was living it. It might help her remember. She wrote in it everyday.
“What does this have to do with depression?” Asked the reporter, bored.
I smiled, and continued.
I went to visit her everyday, and for a while, she improved remarkably. Her moods were better, the notebook helped her remember what was going on, and she stopped hurting the staff. It was perfect. We had entered a pattern; she would read the diary, cry over the loss of her family, let me do her check-up exam, we'd talk a little, then I would leave. One day, she started showing up at the cafeteria for lunch. I was the only familiar face in the crowd, and so, she sat with me, occasionally stealing fries from my plate. We talked a little that day, about her family. She asked me about mine as well. She showed me the map she had drawn a few days ago, to help her find her way around. It was quite a good one, very accurate. I began spending quite a lot of time with her, trying to improve her moods, but they started to go down. With each passing day, she would grow a little more restless, a little darker, and was no longer the Andrea I had come to love, for I did fall for her.
She was eventually released from our care, and into a more permanent home. I still visited her in the little free time I had, and she lit-up every time she saw me. She had sketched my face into her notebook, so she would recognize me when I visited. I was the only one who did, since her family was all but gone. I tried to visit at least three times a week, and stayed for as long as I could. I always looked forward to seeing her, even if she didn't know me very well. Every time I went to visit her, she was more and more distant, pulling away. The nurses told me she didn't eat much, and slept a lot. I asked them to keep a special eye on her, but they had so many patients that they didn't have the time to spare.
I got a call one day from a nurse that knew me well. Andrea had cut herself with a knife, and seemed to find it amusing. I went to see her right away, and talked with her the rest of the day. She laughed like she hadn't in a while, going on and on about how funny it was that all of our lives were dependant on blood, and how it pours out of us when we get hurt, and if too much comes out, we die. I was getting really worried at this point, as you can imagine, and asked the nurse to take her to go see a psychiatrist.
I stopped my story there, rubbing my hands together. Did I really want to tell the reporter the rest of this story?
“What happened after that?” Asked the reporter, enthralled by my story, that seemed more fictional than realistic.
I told him the blunt version; she died, overdosed, end of story.
After he had gone, I went to the bathroom to look at the faded tattoo of a blank scroll, with the day she died inscribed in it. It had been a clue to her, the page that was wiped blank every day, my blank page, the one fate intended me to end up with.
That night, when I left my office and went home, I stopped by the cemetery where she was buried. I placed some flowers, and told her about my day. For the hundredth time, I asked her why she had taken her life, why she had chosen to die in my arms, blood pouring out of her wrists like a dark river. As usual, the gravestone didn't answer me, and I was left with more questions than answers. I looked at the stone once more, at the faded waterfall that adorned it. It was her tattoo, the only one she had received, the one that gave her the idea to end her life in that way. As I turned away, and walked back to my car, I thought of her, of the different states I had known her; when she was alive, full of laughter, and when she was depressed, a simple shell of her former self. Depression leading to suicide was the leading cause of death in our society, and it was linked to the knowledge of our future.
“One last question; what was your motivation for going into this field of research?”
I blinked. I knew very well what the answer to this question was, but I wasn't sure I was ready to share it with the world. But then again, maybe it was time. I smiled at him, and shared my story.
I had walked into the hospital as I did everyday, only that day was different. It was the day of my twenty-fifth birthday, you see, and I was quite nervous at the thought of getting my first tattoo. I didn't know what the future held for me, but somehow, I didn't want to know. I did not want that kind of burden. I had watched my best friend go through it, and it had almost killed him. It was my first year as an intern, and I was quite overwhelmed already. I did my usual routine, rounds and check-up exams, and everything looked good. We had a new patient on the floor that day, and I usually kept the new patients for last, to be able to devote my time to them, without having to worry about other patients for a little while. I went over the chart before I went into the room. Car accident, brain trauma, but no one knew for sure how extensive. I introduced myself, and she introduced herself as Andrea. I did a routine exam, and everything seemed fine. I told her to call the nurse if she needed anything, and I left the room. As soon as I had left, I felt a burning sensation on my lower stomach. I ran to the bathroom, and lifted my shirt. I starred in the mirror as the tattoo was drawn on my skin. Once the pain was gone, I examined it. It was an old fashion scroll, blank. I knew tattoos were suppose to represent something big in your life, something that would come to pass in the coming year. Everyone, on their date of birth, were registered with the tattoo ministry, and given a date of when they would get their first tattoo, the year something big would happen to them. For some, it was eighteen, others, at the tender age of ten. Mine was twenty-five. Something big was going to happen this year, and it had something to do with a blank scroll. I had no idea what it meant at the time, but today I look back and call myself an idiot for not seeing it sooner.
“What did your tattoo mean?” Asked the reporter.
I told him to be quiet, and to listen. For I was not done.
I walked into work the next day, picked up my charts, and went to see Andrea. I was assaulted by a pillow when I walked into her room. After speaking with her for a little while, I was able to understand that she had no idea where she was, or where her family was. I had to explain to her that her family had died in a car accident, and that she was in a hospital, being monitored after a severe head injury. I wrote it off as a dreamstate. It often happened that patients woke-up on their first day here having no idea where they were. I did a routine check-up, and left the room.
I was woken up in the middle of the night by my pager. I ran to the hospital, where I found the nursing staff being assaulted with various items. I walked into Andrea's room, but stayed out of reach, for she was holding a flower pot. I asked her what was wrong, and she expressed, very loudly in fact, that she didn't know where she was, that we had no right to keep her against her will, and that the only thing she wanted to do was to go home to her family. I explained where she was, and she eventually put the flowers down.
This event went on for a couple of days, until we came to the conclusion that the amnesia was not temporary. We started looking for more permanent solutions. The entire staff was constantly having to get stitches from the various items she threw at us, and we even got to the point of taking almost everything from her room, but she kept finding things to throw at us. A nurse gave me a notebook to give to her, saying it was an idea from an old movie she had watched in history class. I gave Andrea the notebook, and asked her to write her story, as we have explained it, and as she was living it. It might help her remember. She wrote in it everyday.
“What does this have to do with depression?” Asked the reporter, bored.
I smiled, and continued.
I went to visit her everyday, and for a while, she improved remarkably. Her moods were better, the notebook helped her remember what was going on, and she stopped hurting the staff. It was perfect. We had entered a pattern; she would read the diary, cry over the loss of her family, let me do her check-up exam, we'd talk a little, then I would leave. One day, she started showing up at the cafeteria for lunch. I was the only familiar face in the crowd, and so, she sat with me, occasionally stealing fries from my plate. We talked a little that day, about her family. She asked me about mine as well. She showed me the map she had drawn a few days ago, to help her find her way around. It was quite a good one, very accurate. I began spending quite a lot of time with her, trying to improve her moods, but they started to go down. With each passing day, she would grow a little more restless, a little darker, and was no longer the Andrea I had come to love, for I did fall for her.
She was eventually released from our care, and into a more permanent home. I still visited her in the little free time I had, and she lit-up every time she saw me. She had sketched my face into her notebook, so she would recognize me when I visited. I was the only one who did, since her family was all but gone. I tried to visit at least three times a week, and stayed for as long as I could. I always looked forward to seeing her, even if she didn't know me very well. Every time I went to visit her, she was more and more distant, pulling away. The nurses told me she didn't eat much, and slept a lot. I asked them to keep a special eye on her, but they had so many patients that they didn't have the time to spare.
I got a call one day from a nurse that knew me well. Andrea had cut herself with a knife, and seemed to find it amusing. I went to see her right away, and talked with her the rest of the day. She laughed like she hadn't in a while, going on and on about how funny it was that all of our lives were dependant on blood, and how it pours out of us when we get hurt, and if too much comes out, we die. I was getting really worried at this point, as you can imagine, and asked the nurse to take her to go see a psychiatrist.
I stopped my story there, rubbing my hands together. Did I really want to tell the reporter the rest of this story?
“What happened after that?” Asked the reporter, enthralled by my story, that seemed more fictional than realistic.
I told him the blunt version; she died, overdosed, end of story.
After he had gone, I went to the bathroom to look at the faded tattoo of a blank scroll, with the day she died inscribed in it. It had been a clue to her, the page that was wiped blank every day, my blank page, the one fate intended me to end up with.
That night, when I left my office and went home, I stopped by the cemetery where she was buried. I placed some flowers, and told her about my day. For the hundredth time, I asked her why she had taken her life, why she had chosen to die in my arms, blood pouring out of her wrists like a dark river. As usual, the gravestone didn't answer me, and I was left with more questions than answers. I looked at the stone once more, at the faded waterfall that adorned it. It was her tattoo, the only one she had received, the one that gave her the idea to end her life in that way. As I turned away, and walked back to my car, I thought of her, of the different states I had known her; when she was alive, full of laughter, and when she was depressed, a simple shell of her former self. Depression leading to suicide was the leading cause of death in our society, and it was linked to the knowledge of our future.
Wednesday 7 January 2015
Writing, a four-line poem
Nouns, verbs, adjectives,
Words, flowing through my veins
My fingers,
The pens that set them free.
Words, flowing through my veins
My fingers,
The pens that set them free.
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