Back Pocket

Love.
I want to share with you something
brought to my attention by a constant section of life
called hate.
It's something that looks at me day after day from my mirror.
Haunts me in the looks of those whose approval I seek.
And I have a problem with that word, "approval".

I use to think love is something small and fragile
Something to hide away in your back pocket
Keep it safe, so no one unworthy would see.
So no one could hurt.

I use to think love is a special word,
That I mustn't give it to anyone before I'm sure they'll give me theirs.
Because there always has to be at least one love in your back pocket.

I use to think you can only love the people
You knew for a long time, someone from down the street.
Someone you grew up with, but no.

It took me years of pain and heartache
A thousand offers of other people's hearts, and my offerings as well.
It took me a long time, but now I understand.

Instead of a pinpoint I thought love was, it is actually a never ending pit.
Instead of hiding it in my back pocket, I now know I can give and give and give because of the infinity of feelings like pine needles under thick snow just when the sunny smile melts it away.

And if you take the leap and start falling into that pit,
You just might fall in love, and that's ok.
I started digging that infinite hole of love
And the moment I found out it has no bottom
I started sharing. I started loving all and everything.

And if you find someone to love down your street
Then you're lucky, but if not it's ok.
I fell in love with Aragorn at the age of 10
... Ok maybe I had a crush on Legolas as well.

But what I am trying to say is that love comes
In all shapes and sizes, all universes and feelings
And don't be scared to give everyone your love
Because I promise, you won't run out.

But... Just in case, keep a little bit of that love
Down in your back pocket.

Cicmila

Definitions.

Define.


Love - a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.
         - a person toward whom love is felt; beloved person; sweetheart.

Memory - a mental impression retained; a recollection.

Faith - confidence or trust in a person or thing.
        - belief that is not based on proof.
        - belief in anything, as a code of ethics, standards of merit, etc.

Wish - to want; desire; long for
         - to entertain wishes

Story - a fictitious tale, shorter and less elaborate than a novel.

Elephant - either of two large, five-toed pachyderms of the family Elephantidae,characterized by a long, prehensile trunk formed of the nose and upper lip.

Home - a house, apartment, or other shelter that is the usual residence of a person,family, or household.
          - the place in which one's domestic affections are centered.

Definition - the act of making definite, distinct, or clear; a defining:
               - the condition of being definite, distinct, or clearly outlined

Cicmila

The Storm

"There's a storm coming." said the old man, holding firm to his tall staff. He was looking up to the skies, though he could not see.
"How do you know this?" asked the boy standing next to him. He admired his grandfather, so old and wise.
"Look around you, son. I needn't see to know that the storm is on it's way, because this is not a storm of wind and rain. This storm is much worse... It will come when we least want it, and it will never leave. It is a storm that affects not land and crops, but us. It is a wind of hate and selfishness. A rain of insults and curses. It will wash away all happiness and love, leaving only sorrow and bitterness. No umbrella can save you from the rain, not is there a boat strong enough to survive he flood. All that was once pretty, now will become ugly. The good will turn to bad and the once honorable men and women will turn to thieves and liars. Mothers will not care for their children, nor will brothers for their sisters. It will spread so fast, like a virus, and will infect everyone. No one is immune to it, nor is there a cure once it has spread. It will be a sad day when that storm comes. I fear that day."

"But... Why don't we do anything about it?" the boy asked "Why do we just sit and wait for the storm? Can't we stop it?!"

"Tell me, boy... do you feel love? Are you happy?"

"Yes, I am happy. I love nature and music, I love how the sky turns pink at sundown, and how the snow sparkles in winter. But... I am afraid to show that. Everyone around me is so sad and miserable, so bitter that I fear any thing I do would just be rejected. It's so much easier to pretend I am sad as well, to blend in..."

"There, my boy, is the problem. Inside of you is a sun so bright, wishing to be set free, but you conceal it. Do you think you are the only one that feels this way? And other people, with suns as bright as yours, hide it inside, not showing it out of fear of rejection. What would you do if you saw someone happy? Would it inspire you to be happy yourself?"

"I.... I think it would."

"Then be that first one! Don't let the storm come! I am old and fading way, but you can still stop the storm! Let your sun shine through and others will show their own happiness! Be who you really are and how you feel. Do not let others dictate the way you will feel! Only once the sun in every person alive is shining out, will the storm leave forever. Now go, my boy. Go, and shine."

"I will, grandfather! I love you!"

The boy ran away, with a smile so bright. The old man sat on a stone nearby. He looked to the sky, though he could not see, and quietly whispered:

"Go, my boy, and shine. I made you see the storm, now I'll be watching you stopping it...
...from the stars above."

Don't let the storm come.

Cicmila

The Second Chance

I was a sad person. Most of all, I wanted to die.
I remember going on the bus. I sat on a seat next to a window, and I soon fell asleep.
The next thing I remember, there was this excruciating pain, I think a thousand pieces of glass were stabbing me form all sides.
Then there was just nothing. There was me, without any pain. But there was nothing more. I was dead.
But...
No! How? There is so much I didn't do!
I never told that special one how I feel, even if there was never a "right time".
I didn't say I'm sorry to the one I hurt.
I've never heard my favorite band  perform.
I didn't tell all my friends how much they really mean to me, I just pretended I didn't care, when, actually, I don't know how I would manage without them.
I didn't find out all the things I wanted to learn, nor did I master all the skills I wished for.
I didn't finish the drawing that has been laying under my bed for weeks.
I didn't help out the ones most dear to me.
I didn't get rid of my fears and doubts.
I didn't repay the ones I owe, nor did I thank the ones who wanted nothing for the help they gave.
I have so much thoughts I want to share with the world! Please let me go back!
I wish to go...

 - Go where?

Go LIVE. All I ask, is for another chance to live.

Cicmila

Grey

It's dark and grey. The whole world, washed out of color. The people, washed out of emotions.

A grey girl with a grey scarf walks past a grey boy, with a grey cap.

A man sits on a grey bench, next to a grey stone.

A grey sky, with a grey sun. Grey birds, silent. The grey world, lost.

A grey girl in a grey room, with a grey notebook opened before her. A grey pen in her hand. A grey bow on her head. She wishes to write, but the past four notebooks she could fill with only one thing: emptiness. She dreams of something more, but there's nothing more to dream of. 

Or... What if there is?

She ran to her bedside table and opened one of the drawers. Inside, a grey candle in a jar. She took it out, putting it on the table near the window. She lit the candle, shining out bright, grey light. She took her grey pen and started writing.
Her hand was flying over the papers in all directions, writing out words she didn't know the meaning of. Then she took the papers, folded them, and put them in the candle jar.
It burned, oh how it burned! In colors of red and orange, yellow and pink! Oh how it burned!
Then the wind blew from the window, swirling around the room, getting in the jar and out, carrying the ash with it.
It flew.
The girl opened her eyes, and lost her breath. Her rosy skin, green eyes and pink cheeks were looking back at her from the reflection in the window.
Hope. Happiness.

It flew.
The old man spotted a red rose and picked it up, placing it next to the silver stone. "Goodbye, my love. I will see you soon", he says.
Freedom. Trust. Loyalty. Strength.

It flew.
A girl ran to catch the red scarf that got carried away by the wind. It lands before the feet of a boy with a yellow cap. He picks it up for her. "Is it yours?", he asks. "Yes. Yes, it is. Thank you.", the girl replies. "Please, it was my pleasure. My name is...."
Beauty. Confidence. Love.

It flew.
The sun shining with unimaginable colors, the blue sky and colorful birds singing all around them. The once grey world, now colored. The people once washed out, reborn, full of life, happy.
Color. Emotion. Music. Nature.

It flew.
What did it fly over to you?

Cicmila