... a reason to fly.

The picture is just so you're sure that you know.

We stand upon a tower looking onto the city below and we take a deep breath in and I think of all the things you've ever told me; taught me.

And I'm back in that moment; the moment that we sat with our arms side by side, touching for the first time in a year, when you told me that “people like average because they can relate.”
It was then that I realised that if I ever wanted another shot then I would need you to relate to me.
I'd need to be on your level.
At the top of perfection.
But I thought about it and it became apparent that perfection doesn't need perfection.
Perfect needs average as without it, it would cease to exist.
It balances, counting on the average to stay in the middle, drifting as their support as the justification for it's title.
So I took this theory and I decided to attempt to prove how much you mean to me in the only way I know how; in the mediocrity of my writing.

This is how we got where we are now.
This is why I stand by your side and lower myself onto my front with my head overhanging the edge of the tower so all I can see is forward. The forward that is actually a seemingly endless drop straight to the ground; to inevitable death. With only mist in my eye line, obscuring me from seeing too far down the line.
You look at me and smile and the only certainty of my life doesn't seem so bad.
As you bend onto your elbows to raise yourself up again, you offer me your hand to help me back to your level and it reminds me of how I would have nothing without you.
Even though you left me in the middle, on average ground, you taught me the importance of climbing.
So here I am, at the top as I look straight ahead, into the endless blue that is divided by a rope that hangs in front of me and you place one hand on the rope and you wrap the other around my fingers.
I turn back towards you; the only person I truly respect.
The only person I've ever loved and I whisper into your ear;
“You taught me how to climb now I'll teach you how to fall.”
You laugh at me and my tendencies for the cliché because you know me too well.
“You can hold onto the rope and lower yourself down, checking your every move but the weight of us both will just leave you with raw hands and rope burn.”
But you're stubborn.
Always so stubborn.
You hold onto the rope and push off but with your hand tight in mine I stay planted to the tower and you hang there in the balance.
I ask you “Do you really want to live without risk?”
You laugh yet again.
“You won't feel the burn until you're at the bottom and you look back up. I'd rather let go and fly and not have the chance to look back and regret.”
I stand at the top of the tower alone, with both hands on yours and we laugh at each other.
“How did we get here?”
My last laugh turns into a sigh and I tell you “I will jump and I will fall but I don't want to go through my drop without you. Don't let this be the choice that you regret at the bottom of the rope.”
That was the look. The look that makes me leap.
The look where you took your eyes from mine and you stared through the mist beneath you; the look when I knew you wouldn't jump.
So I let go and your hand slips from mine. I half sigh, half laugh at the sight of you hanging in front of me then I look up and shut my eyes.
I step forward as I say “It will always be you.”
With my arms outstretched either side of me, I take a step back and a deep breath in.
Then I run and jump off the edge without you and I plunge through the depths of the mist and unknown.

One year later and I'm still falling.
Still waiting for you to take that risk and jump with me.
Now fly.

And with this i give you a reason to fly.
(For M.R.)

... my fingerprints.

The Moulder's Palms.

I hear a crack.
I look to the ceiling through blurred eyes. All I can focus on is the tiny spider pattern of broken paint sprawled within the 1cm² of the upper left corner and I let myself wander as I imagine.
I try distract myself from the salt water taste in my mouth, the lump in my throat and my hollow torso by imagining the creation of life from destruction; the spider splits into two, exploding into a million new babies that form trails of new carnage across the ceiling. As the paint chips off I see the ghost path of a delicate silk web fall down to the floor. I think to myself;
"If I can find beauty in this then I could create an enduring, incorruptible optimism through delusion."
The spiders fork their path, signalling me to make a choice; to be happy or unhappy, or in other words to be sane or insane.
It's then that I hear a noise that shocks me out of my trance and I blink through my tears to focus on the shrinking spider, back in it's corner. I panic as I hear another crack that pulses through my ears. It's so loud that I feel the vibrations in my throat. My heart beats. Half beats. It's struggling to to pump through the leak. Pumping twice as fast to try and make up for it's loss. The pressure building, building and splitting further and I grab my chest in desperation to save myself and my breaking heart.
I have the overwhelming urge to rip into my own flesh so I can squeeze the hearts cracks back together like play doh; but it seems everyone but ourselves have the ability to mould. With every one, imprints are left from its various encounters and its shape changes forever and constantly to fit into its new moulders palms.
I succumb to my bodies wishes as I allow myself to choke on my tears with my supposed 'love muscle' betraying me; spiting me for letting it's endeavour get away from me. I fall to the floor with my heart in my throat, pounding and soaking in a puddle of my own tears.

And as I wake, I can't help but smile as I focus in on the green beneath me, spreading and growing across the damp spot on the floor, drenched previously with my unhappiness but now the food for my delusions. The grass stems out towards the walls and blossoms into a thousand flowers; from spiders to petals to beauty and I'm happy. Happy in my phantom forest where I'm shielded from the light that allows me to see the cracks and imprints that you left behind. So I swallow my heart back into its depths and my tears follow with it. Whilst staring at the ceiling, my eyes follow the path of spiders that leads to insanity and as they scatter, they reveal one word embroidered in their silk webs;
"Smile".

And with this i give you my fingerprints.

... a spill.

Faux Red Rose

Tonight I choose to be in love.
Tomorrow morning I will be back to monotony.
If I am the one with the slapstick, placing the skins before I tread forward, then I am choosing when to fall into my fate.
Like the sleazy guy at the bar who falls in love with a different prostitute every night; I choose to be the person I am.

The time is 11:00am.
This morning, I was waiting for the bus as I do everyday day.
The direction may be different, but the transportation always the same.
The time is 11:02am.
The bus stops at my feet and I look up towards the advertisement on the side; another generic love story with the tag line “you can't help who you fall for.”
Now I don't give this a second thought until a lady behind me steps up onto the bus and sighs loudly so her friend has no choice but to ask;
“What's wrong?”
You know the kind of sigh I'm talking about; the kind of sigh that is deliberately blown your way. The kind of sigh that either a) you have to respond to and listen or b) you can ignore but will labelled a bad friend.
Now take your pick. Personally, after hearing this lady talk on I would have looked at her, blinked unresponsively then walked in the opposite direction.
But that's just me. I'm a bad friend.
The kind of friend that passes up hanging out to go and hand out red roses to any lucky somebody that walks my way.
Today is her lucky day, she walks by me and sits in the seat behind me. Unfortunately, she won't be getting one of my faux hand picked gifts.
“It just frustrates me when I see the phrase 'you can't help who you fall for'. It's offensive to everything I believe in.”
Oh do please go on. What she doesn't know is that she's about to offend me and my drive-by love attitude.
That's the problem with speaking in public; the domino effect of offense.
“There are so many things wrong with that phrase. The first thing being that it is an implication that love is an unavoidable accident, like spilt milk. The kind that you're not meant to cry over. The kind that could have been avoided if you'd never bought the milk in the first place. If you'd never set eye on that milk, then you would have no milk to spill. You should never think of love like that. Love is a necessity. Life is like a cake and love is a vital ingredient, you need it to make your life cake worth eating.”
Well that's true, well half true.
Love is avoidable for me, I plan when to fall in love. It's my unsuspecting victim who spills their milk over me. Yeah don't worry, I'm aware of how that sounds.
“The second part is the word 'fall' making it sound as though the inevitable outcome of being in love will be pain.”
So far I'm following, I understand her point but it's a little old fashioned perhaps.
“Love is meant to be something you enjoy, yet that phrase dismisses the happiness that love brings.”
Well here's my stop. Unfortunately for her friend she has to stay on and listen to the ramblings.
If only more conversations worked out this way for me.
The time is 11:11am. Make a wish.
To fall in love.
I walk ten steps down the road then take a left and enter the super market. The same directions. Monotony.
The same supermarket I go to every single week.
The time is 11:12am.
I walk into the fifth aisle and down to the dairy section. I could see what I'm looking for if it wasn't for the man standing in front of it, he's staring at the floor, blocking the shelves from my view.
I'm four steps from my destination and I'm so intent on my purchase and the curiosity of his movements that on my next step I slip.
And I fall.
And I look up to see the man apologising with his hand outstretched.
I reach out with my hand, dripping with his spilt milk and I think to myself.
The time is 11:15am and tonight I am going to be in love.


And with this i give you a spill.

... your personal survival instinct.

Survival of the Fittest

“Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3.”
Okay it's recording.
“Survival Instinct.”
I look deep into the lens of the camera; into the eyes of the viewer.
“The majority of us have it because we have the power to. If you're not planning on dying then everyone has it. Every living thing has it. Just like a virus does to us, we do to the animals. A virus wipes us out to survive; or at least that's its story.”
I look past the camera into her eyes.
“There's always something keeping us alive; whether that be a person, an object or a fear.”
She smiles at me and I can feel its warmth. I look back at you through the camera.
“They say that if you're being shot at, your best bet of survival is running around a straight line. Dodging and weaving. When we think of our lives; our futile, monotonous lives, we think that all we can do is move forward rhythmically. If you're living the same day everyday, continuously walking in a straight line then you're bound to be shot at. You're an easy target.”
I drop my head for a second and rub my face with my palms, hard into the hollowed out sockets of sleep deprivation.
“Always run in a zig-zag. Make sure you make as many turns as you can because it will save your life.”
I lift my weary head and I fix my gaze on yours.
“But when you're staring down the barrel of a gun what instinct do you have left? You're too scared to make a move. When you're looking death in the face you can't blink for a second because you don't want to miss a second of what you have left.”
I look back at her and see her smile.
I see what my survival instinct is fighting for.
Was fighting for.
The sun shines through the window behind me for just a second but it's enough to make me squint as it reflects off her photo; off her endless smile frozen in time.
The smile that is now buried deep in the ground. Colder than it has ever been and getting more so by every second that I acknowledge it.
“As long as you don't come face to face with your gunman then you'll survive.”
She looked hers right in the eye, now I'm looking into mine.
“Live everyday as though you're being shot at because at the end of it, we're always in the scope just trying to avoid the end.”
Who knew she would be my survival instinct and my gunman.
I look back at you for a moment and nod.
“The day she killed herself was the day she killed me”
I look back at my wedding photo; into her eyes.
I lift the barrel to my head and with no second thoughts and no remorse...
I squeeze the trigger.
And the viewers stare into the socket once hollowed by lack of sleep but now hollowed by a smoking bullet.

And with this i give you your personal survival instinct.

... a not-so-formal introduction.

So i decided that a good way to introduce myself was to record a video. I was told it would be a good idea to plan what i was going to say but at the last minute i decided not to.
I also realised after filming that i said non-fiction, but i guess the majority of my writing is fiction so ignore that mistake. So this is my horribly improvised and very boring introduction.

And with this i give you a not-so-formal introduction.

... a new type of gold.

Insane Sane.

Every Monday, my friend and I go down to the beach before sunset. We kick off our shoes and lay back in the sand so we can watch the black turn to navy turn to orange then turn to the seemingly tiny spark on the horizon.
We watch the stars in the black.
The moon in the navy.
The birds in the orange.
Then we bathe in the sun that shines on the both of us, alone and nothing else matters.

It's then that we stand up and walk along the shore with the metal detector in hand, searching for that hidden treasure. We do this because if we can find treasure then we can find perfection; it's the same odds.
Like metal detectors, friendships and loves are one of the only things in life that can maintain your childhood optimism; the thought that somewhere, out there, there is something or someone better waiting for you.

“What can turn the sane insane would turn the insane sane.”
Now my friend and I, our friendship has a common bond that ties us together and that is the belief that the thing that makes or breaks your mental state is the uncertainty of people.
It's the belief that with relationships, every time you think you've found something it just turns out to be another bottle cap in the sand. You hear the beep and your heart skips a beat but at closer inspection you realise it's just not what you're looking for.
You're looking for gold. For beauty. For rarity.
So all you can do with the bottle cap is to recycle it; send it off for someone else so that they can find a better use for it.
And so, you keep on walking, coming across new bottle caps and small change. The optimism keeps you going, but let's face it, everything worth finding was found years ago and all that remains are the recyclables.
But then again, it's man who decided the worth of gold and the worth of the bottle caps.
We have this built-in ideal for beauty and function but the stakes are getting higher and higher with every turn of every decade.
It seems to be forgotten that these recyclable trinkets serve a purpose yet gold no longer does.
We rid ourselves of people because they can't compete with what we think we deserve. But nothing in life is easy, so what should make love any different? Besides, no one likes simplicity, if everything was easy then we'd have nothing to talk about because nothing would surprise you. Communication plays a big role in friendship and love, so if it was simple, then we'd have no need for other people.
Because of man and everything we've done, gold comes at a price that isn't deserving.

This is why my friend and I walk. We walk to remind ourselves to stay close to the ground.
We walk for the company.
We walk to find gold because we know we'll never find it.
And if we never do then I'll be perfectly happy knowing that I have already found my treasure.
In him.
My bottle cap in the sand.
Non-recyclable.

And with this i give you a new type of gold.

... a weather forecast.

The Weather Man.

My next door neighbour controls the weather.
He's an old man who mentally still lives in the year 1987.
I live in the year 2009.
He is 102 years old.
Now we all know he's knocking on deaths door, we can tell because on his day off the weather is always so neutral. It's not sunny but it's not gloomy. At least this way we know he's not in pain, but with each week that the temperature drops just a little, we all share the same look of a sad uncertainty.
The weather man has been around since before I was born so the story of how his gift was realised is a little blurry. Some say that when he was younger he asked people to challenge his gift by sitting in the centre of the town square listening to the stories and jokes of the towns people. They say that with every story heard, rays of sunshine would pour onto them shortly followed by rain until the whole sky was lit up with rainbow upon glorious rainbow.
Others say that he confided in a friend and the next morning was greeted with such scepticism that he burst into tears while the heavens opened and threw down drop upon drop of water.
There's no way of knowing, he doesn't talk much these days.
The town works in shifts; Six days a week, eight people will visit him, an hour each. He spends the rest of his day sleeping.
When we want the sun we will read him happy stories. When we want a warm glow we speak to him of our love endeavours. When we need the rain for our reservoirs we have no choice but to miss a few shifts because no one has the heart to watch him cry.
He doesn't respond physically any more, we have to read the weather in order to read him.
On Sundays we leave himself to himself because of his religion. He takes the day off to thank God for his gift.
So every Sunday we sit in our houses because we're scared to leave; no one wants to feel that it's gotten that little bit colder. We dread the uncertainty of what will happen without our weather man.
My shift is on a Monday morning, I'm telling you this story on my walk over to his house. Every week I knock on his door three times then place the key from under the doormat into the lock, then turn and enter.
There he is, the Weather Man sitting in his chair waiting for his morning story. I smile relieved that he's still okay.
“Hello Wilfred, I have a great story for you today.”
I open the curtains and edge closer to him. I pull up a chair and I begin reading him his own story. Or as much of it as I could make up of all the rumours around town.
He sits in his armchair and listens. Unaware of whether or not I should continue I look out the window and see rays out light emerge from between the clouds. He smiles at me, takes my hand and squeezes it slightly. I know now to continue so I do.
I finish the last line of the story as I hear a knock on the door; my hour's up. I look into his eyes and thank him for another beautiful day, he smiles again and on the window I hear the sound of soft rain hitting it and sliding down to form a puddle on the windowsill. I turn back to him to see a single tear from his closed eyes running down his cheek and pooling into the dimples from his smile.
I let the next reader in and begin my walk home. The rain bounces off my coat and settles into tiny bubbles, I reach out a hand to let it fall into my hand but as I pull my hand back in towards me to inspect I see not a bubble, but a tiny delicate snowflake.
It's snowing for the first time this town has seen in years.
I run back towards the house and look through the window to see the other reader on the phone. All I can hear through the window is “come quick... please... no pulse...” I switch my gaze over to the weather man who is sitting where I left him, the smile still on his face.
He looks peaceful.
I walk away from the house with a similar smile on my face, back towards my house with my bags packed and waiting for me in the hallway. I pick them up and start walking to the edge of town, towards my new life. Away from the town that will now forever snow.
Away from the town with the frozen architecture and the frozen hearted people who will always live in the memories of the sun and the man who will forever brighten their days.

And with this i give you a weather forecast.