Jamieson Wolf's Blog, page 78

We Are All Part of the Same House – A Poem

While I was

getting my coffee

this morning, I

noticed the barista

was wearing a

locket. Looking closer,

I read the

word “Slytherin” in

a flowing script.

Underneath, the serpent

that represented the

house was curled,

as if lying

in wait. I

pointed to it.

“Where did you get that?”

She looked at

me with shrewd

eyes as if

taking stock of

my worth. She

nodded, assessing me

as one who

was completely worthy.

“I got it at Comicon, but I’m sure there is an Etsy shop.”

I held up

my right wrist

and showed her

the scar that

was tattooed there.

She reached out

to touch it.

“Is it a real tattoo?”

I nodded, smiling.

Like recognizes like.

“What house are you in? Did you get sorted on Pottermore?”

I nodded, smiling.

“I was one of the first million people allowed to access the site.”

“So what house?”

“I got sorted into Ravenclaw, but I think I belong in Gryffindor.”

“Oh, no, you have to trust the Sorting Hat. It knows.”

“But I have the scar…”

She gave it

another hungry look.

“That’s a symbol for the whole series. It’s Harry’s story, right? But if the Sorting Hat and JK Rowling put you in Ravenclaw, that’s where you belong.”

I must have

looked put out

so she sang:

“Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw, if you’ve a ready mind, where those of wit and learning, will always find their kind.”

I recognized the

song. It’s what

the Sorting Hat

first sung when

Harry was sorted.

She looked at

me with a

strong, searching look.

“Are you wise? Do you crave knowledge? Are you drawn to air? That’s the element associated with Ravenclaw, you know.”

Something occurred to

me and I

pointed to the

necklace she wore.

“Were you sorted into Slytherin?”

I asked her.

She nodded, a

spark lighting up

her eyes. They

looked as if

they were filled

with glitter magic.

“Yes, I was. I wasn’t happy about it at first, I wanted Gryffindor, everyone does. But we’re all parts of the same house, you know. However, it’s our differences that make us strong.”

I wasn’t sure

if she was

referring to Harry

Potter, or something

deeper than that.

I took my

coffee and bade

her a nice

day. She put

her hand out,

catching my wrist.

“Trust in the Sorting Hat. It knows where you belong. We all have to belong somewhere.”

I nodded and

made my way

to work. I

looked online for

a Ravenclaw necklace.

My acceptance of

my house within

the world of

Harry Potter was

a small thing,

but  at the

thought of stretching

my wings like

an eagle, and

soaring into the

air, my heart

soared with it

and I knew

where I belonged.

Living Words – A Poem

I woke one

morning with words

etched into my

skin. I tried to

read them in

mirror, but the

writing was backwards.

My friends noticed

the words and

asked why I

had tattooed myself

with just a

fraction of a

sentence. I woke

the next morning

to find the

words had doubled

on my skin,

snaking down the

inside of my

arm. I went

to the doctors

and they asked

why I had

marked myself with

words. They didn’t

understand when I

told them the

words had just

appeared there on

their own. They

sent me home

with a mild

sedative. When I

woke on the

third morning, I

found that both

my arms were

now covered in

looping black words.

I tried to

read them, attempted

to make sense

of what they

said, but I

could not see

all of the

words. Looking in

the mirror, I

saw they had

started to appear

along the back

of my neck.

My mother was

the one who

explained it to

me. She read

the words, running

her fingers along

some of them,

turning my arms

in order to

read others. She

looked at me.

“Don’t you recognize this?”

I shook my head

no. I shrugged.

“I haven’t been able to see all of them to read them. What does it say?”

“You should know. You wrote them.”

I was shocked.

“What do you mean?”

She pointed to

the words that

ran along the

inside of my

arm, then ran

her fingers along.

“As the cards flew from my grasp, I knew I had made the right decision. I was the Broken Man no longer.”

She paused for

breath, and to

point to another

set of words.

“And this here? These say: I had let a piece of my past go and looked forward to what the future would bring.”

I shook my head,

not knowing what

to say. My

mother took my

hands and held

them in hers.

“Your life is a living poem. A wonderful, exciting, awesome living poem.”

I wondered at

her words, at

what they meant.

What the words

on my skin

meant. She could

see my confusion.

“You put so much of yourself in your words, it is only natural that they will mark you even as you mark the page. Do not be afraid of them.”

“How do I get the words out of my skin?”

She looked at

me with a

half smile and

that wise look

she got in

her eyes, deep

and somehow comforting.

“Write. More words will come and you will always be marked by them, but you are a living poem. It has always been this way.”

I nodded and

pulled a piece

of paper towards

me. I put my

hand down on

the paper and

watched as the words

on my skin

began to slip

and slide off

of it. I

looked at the

page to see

what they had

to say.

People From My Past – A Poem

We were walking

back from the

coffee shop, drinks

in hand, when

I saw him.

I gestured to

her and made

sure she had

seen. I pointed

to him, saying

That’s my ex-husband.

It was the

first time I had

seen him in

six years. Later,

I wondered at

his appearance.

He was but

the latest in

a long line

of people from

my past that

I had seen

recently. I had

come across people

I used to know,

ex-boyfriends, ex-friends, ex-lovers.

I was wondering

at my lack

of a reaction,

at the absence

of anger that

I felt, that

had carried with

me for so

long. I had

worn my his

betrayal as if

it were a

hair shirt, or

a stone around

my neck. Instead

of reacting in

anger, I felt

oddly buoyant and

light. I walked

over to her

and asked her:

Why aren’t I reacting more? If this were last year, seeing him would have depressed me for the day. I’ve seen all these people from my past and they aren’t affecting me as I thought they would if I ever saw them again.

I paused for

breath and for

what I really

wanted to ask.

What gives?

She looked at

me with that

sage look in

her eyes that

she had and

smiled at me.

You were ready.

She said simply.

You’re a lot better now then you were. You’ve healed. You’re a different person now. You’re on the right path and you’re going where you need to. You wouldn’t be seeing them otherwise.

I nodded and

thought of all

the emotions that

these people had

caused me, all

the hurt, depression,

sadness, angst, rage,

despair and malaise.

I realised that

what I was

feeling right then

and there was

simple, unequivocal happiness.

I let go

of the pain,

of the heartache,

of the self-degradation,

and stopped judging

myself by how

other people from

my past had

seen me. All

that there was

now is me

as I chose

to be and

the emotion of

happiness. I choose

to be happy.

All the rest

is just stardust

and the possibilities

of the future.

The Mind Garden – A Poem

I came upon

a doorway. It

was tall and

narrow and was

made from old

wood painted red

that had faded

over time in

the sun. The

doorway was unremarkable

except for two

reasons: It stood

in the middle

of a parking

lot and from

the open door

there came the

sound of laughter.

A boy came

out and looked

at me. He wore

round glasses and

had a dark brown

mop of hair.

He smiled, the

smile filled with

gaps. He let out

another loud laugh.

“Do you want to come see the garden?”

I looked around to

see if the

boys parents were

around, but there was

no one. He

laughed loudly again.

“Don’t be afraid. You’ll be okay.”

“Where are your parents?”

I asked him.

Surely, he wasn’t

alone. He grinned.

“They’re close. They’re your parents! Come on!”

Beckoning with one

hand, he raced

away from the

doorway. He stood,

looking at me,

a smile still

playing upon his

lips. He was standing

in what looked

to be a large

meadow surrounded by

trees. I went

around to the

back of the

doorway, but there

was nothing. Only

a brick wall

and some grease

stains. I went

back around to

the front and

looked inside again.

The boy still

stood there, looking

at me with

twinkling, bright eyes.

“Come on! There’s nothing to be afraid of!”

I nodded, not

trusting myself to

speak. Stepping over

the threshold of

the door, there

was a loud rushing

sound and my

ears popped from

sudden pressure. Then

I was through,

and my ears

cleared. The boy

reached for my

hand. When our

fingers touched, a

wind began to

dance in the

grass and flew

upwards. I looked

at the boy.

“What was that?”

He took his

time before he

answered my question.

“The meadow remembers you. Come on, the garden isn’t that far.”

He pulled me

along and within

moments, we were

at the entrance

of a small

garden. There were

orchids and roses,

petunias and chrysanthemums,

tiger lilies and

ivy. There were

flowers of every

kind, but they

were all relatively

small, as if

they had just

started to grow.

I looked beyond

the small garden

and saw another

one behind it.

I pointed with

a shaking hand.

“What’s over there? What’s that garden?”

The boys face

darkened. He looked

sad all of

a sudden, as

if the other

garden held nightmares.

“That’s the dead garden. Nothing grows there anymore.”

He could see

from my face

that I wanted

to explore it.

So he led

the way, keeping

hold of my

hand. As we

walked, a question

occurred to me.

“If this garden is dead, how did the new one grow?”

The boy laughed

again and the

breeze responded in

kind, laughing among

the grass. The

boy looked at

me with strangely

serious, mature eyes.

“Do you really not know?”

I shook my

head, but an

answer came to

me moments before

he said it.

“They come from imagination. From ideas. All you have to do is think of it and the ideas will grow.”

He led on

until we came

to the dead

garden. It’s plants

were all dead

and none that

I could name.

It was filled

with spiky plants

that looked as

if they were

ready to draw

blood should we

touch one. I

looked at the

boy, trying to

find my voice.

“Did ideas grow this garden too?”

He nodded, a

tear sliding down

his cheek. He

made no effort

to wipe it

off his face.

“Yours. It was your ideas and imagination that caused both gardens to grow.”

I was shaken

but his words

had the ring

of truth to

them. I asked

the first thing

that came to

mind, letting the

words spill out.

“How could I grow this?”

“You were unhappy. The thoughts that you have hold power. What’s inside your mind takes root in the real world.”

“Then why does the other garden exist?”

The boy let

out a hearty

laugh and squeezed

my hand tightly.

“Because your better now. We’re better.”

I looked back

at the healthy

garden, so full

of life. Then

I looked at

the dead garden.

“I want you to help me to do something. Will you?”

“Of course.”

“If imagination caused this garden, maybe new thoughts, new ideas, will make it better again.”

I was pretty

sure I knew

who the boy

was, what he

was. He nodded

and took both

my hands. I

took a deep

breath and imagined

life growing around

us, coming out

of the dark

soil. There was

nothing at first,

but then we

both heard the ground

around us begin

to crack and

rumble. It shook

for a moment

and then grass

shot out of

the ground where

before there was

only black, burnt

earth. Trees shot

up out of

the ground, their

leaves green and

whole. Flowers slid

out of the ground

with small pops,

hundreds of them,

thousands of them.

Gone was the

black earth and

the plants that

looked as if

they would draw

blood. In the

trees, I could

hear birdsong. I

looked down at

the boy, smiling.

“We did it!”

I couldn’t help

letting out a

loud, joyful laugh.

He nodded, smiling

“You did it. You did all of this.”

I looked at

him, really looked

at him closely.

“You’re me, aren’t you? My inner child? You look exactly as I did when I was younger. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”

He nodded again.

“Because you couldn’t.”

“Then where are we? Where is this place?”

He gave me

a big grin.

“Would you believe me if I said we’re inside your mind?”

I didn’t need

to think of

a proper response.

“Yes. I would. It’s the only thing that makes sense. But how do I get out?”

“The way you came. Remember, what you imagine is given life and anything is possible.”

I turned to

walk back through

the doorway. The

boy didn’t move.

“Aren’t you coming with me?”

I asked him.

“No, I think I’ll stay here for a while longer. Now that you’ve found me again, I won’t ever be far away. Never forget me, Okay?”

“I won’t. I promise.”

I turned towards

the doorway, the

trees and plants

swaying in a

soft breeze. As

I stepped back

through the doorway,

I looked back

through the door.

There was my

inner child, playing

amongst the trees

and flowers, with

joy written on

his face and

laughter in his

heart. I closed

the door, knowing

he’d be safe

now and began

to make my

way home again.

My Life Is Up To Me – A Poem

I was lost

inside of myself.

I had forgotten

what it was

to actually live.

I had given

up, had chosen

to hide in

the dark. It

wasn’t as painful

as the light.

I had given

up. I was

raised not to

be a quitter,

but I could

see no other

way, could not

see around the

dark mountain inside

of my head.

I lay down

that night to

sleep and prayed

for it to

be endless, to

not wake up.

I prayed so

hard that tears

coursed down my

face while sleep

laid its claim

on my body.

I woke to a

noise in the

kitchen. I got

out of bed

and walked toward

the noise. My

grandmother, long ago

dead, stood making

a jug of

pink lemonade. She

heard me and

turned, a smile

upon her face.

Better drink up while it’s still cold. If it gets warm, it tastes like piss.

Her smile deepened

and she held

out a glass

to me. I

took it, my

hands shaking slightly.

How can you be here?

I asked her.

You died when I was eight.

She smiled and

motioned at my

glass of pink

lemonade, almost

waving at it.

Aren’t you going to drink it? I came a long way to make it for you.

I took a sip

and the tart

sweetness of it

flooded my mouth.

Now, listen. You need some sense knocked into you. You can’t keep living like this.

How else can I live?

You can stop being sorry for yourself for one thing. You can get out there and live.

I don’t know how.

She gave me

a look that

I remembered well.

It was a

look that said

you had better

pay close attention.

You were doing fine before. Now you’ve been given another chance, and you’re choosing to spend it in darkness?

I tried to

think of everything

I was feeling,

all that I

wanted to say.

I don’t know how to do anything else. I’m lost.

So find yourself again. It’s a simple change to make, a simple fix.

I don’t know how.

She sighed and

poured herself a

glass of lemonade.

Her stare softened.

She took a

sip and spoke

oh so softly.

Look, I know what’s happened to you is hard. And I know that change is hard, that it sometimes takes everything you have. You have to make a change for the better.

I don’t know how.

You keep saying that, but why do you have this?

She pointed at

a small magnet

on my fridge.

It was bright

yellow and had

six small words,

six syllables that

resounded, loud and

strong, even through

my current haze.

My life is up to me.

The words sounded

almost like music

coming from my

lips. My grandmother

nodded, smiling kindly.

Who gave you that magnet?

My mother.

Smart woman, your mother. Always liked her. You need to remember those words, every time you’re afraid of making a change. Say the words again.

I nodded and

did so. My

voice was still

soft and quiet.

My life is up to me.

No, no, that’s not working. Why are you living in such a dark place? You need a little light.

My grandmother snapped

her fingers and

the magnet began

to pulse softly

with light, shining

from the fridge.

Now say the words again.

My life is up to me.

The light from

the magnet grew

a little brighter.

And now say it again, but mean it this time, shout it!

My life is up to me!

The light increased

until it was

almost blinding. I

had to shield

my eyes from

its brilliance. I

heard my grandmother’s

voice again. She

sounded far away now.

Never forget, you control what changes in your life. That’s what gives you courage. I am so proud of you.

The light grew

even brighter, more

luminous. I had

to close my

eyes. When I

opened them again,

I was in

my bedroom, still

in bed. I

shook myself awake,

filled with an

emptiness that just

wanted to be filled.

It was a dream.

I said, not

wanting it to

be so. It

had seemed so

real, so true.

I got out

of bed and

walked into the

kitchen. There, sitting

on the counter,

was a jug

filled with pink

lemonade and two

glasses, half full.

I looked around.

Grandmother?

I said. My voice

was soft. I heard

a sound that

was like the

snapping of fingers.

I turned and

looked at the

fridge. There, the

little magnet with

six simple words

was glowing bright

like the sun.

My life is up to me.

I said, my

voice finding strength.

My life is up to me. 

A Language Upon the Leaves – A Sonnet

I thought I’d try something different. 

I don’t normally write poems with any rhyming scheme or iambic pentameter. However, I thought I’d try my hand at writing a sonnet. I made a comment on Facebook the other night that I felt like writing love sonnets. Someone said I should try, so I did!

I hope you enjoy my first effort.

*

 

You helped me relearn a language unknown

something primal and unspoken.

Our love has bloomed and has grown,

a seed beginning to spring open.

The language you taught me once again

was one that I’d forgotten.

Every touch, caress and every when,

is but a new leaf begotten.

Inside my heart, the language you speak

is written upon the leaves.

The bird takes them in his beak

and brings them to the breeze.

The tree we planted and nurtured still grows

and whispers the words every time the wind blows.

Disraeli Avenue by Caroline Smailes – A Review

Behind closed doors, there are many secrets.

We all have secrets. We hold on to them tightly, even if they burn our hands, knowing that they must never see the light of day.

Released into the light, these secrets could heal one life and shatter another. We will take our secrets to the grave, taking comfort in the fact that no one will hear them, that no one will know them. That no one will know who we really and truly are. This is how things have always been.

On Disraeli Avenue, there are lots of secrets; lots of hidden truths buried like treasure. Some are like soft golden coins, shining in the light and begging to be heard. Some are like rubies with sharp edged teeth, waiting to bite the hand that dips into them and draw blood.

In her new novella, Caroline Smailes returns to Disraeli Avenue, the setting for her amazing debut novel In Search of Adam.During In Search of Adam, we got to know the inhabitants of Disraeli Avenue through the eyes of Jude Williams.

Now, Smailes is giving those inhabitants their own voice. Disraeli Avenue consists of thirty-four vignettes, thirty-four insights into the lives of the people who make up Disraeli Avenue.

I’ve actually read this novella seven times now. I read it three times a piece when it was released in it’s previous incarnations and I’ve read it through again. Each and every time, I’m blown away by how incredible Smailes is. It’s a hard task to give thirty-four individual people their own distinctive voice. Most seasoned authors struggle with this for years and never manage to create distinctive voices.

Thankfully, Smailes achieves this with aplomb. Told in diary entries, text messages, letters, receipts, invoices and more, Disraeli Avenue is an intimate and revealing look at the people that make up a neighbourhood; the people that live close to one another never really knowing who their neighbours are.

For those of you who have not read In Search of Adam, you can breathe easy: it’s not necessary to have read In Search of Adam to read Disraeli Avenue. But I can guarantee after reading Disraeli Avenue that you’ll want to read In Search of Adam to see where it all began. Though the subject matter may be grim, covering topics such as death, suicide, sexual abuse, theft, love, friendship, family and more, the novella is incredibly well written and will pull you in.

You will need to keep reading to find out whom you will meet next, whose voice you will hear. Whose life you will get to see into, just for a moment. You will not be able to put this book down. Each chapter brings a new voice, just begging to be heard.

I found this to be one of the novella’s strengths. Smailes has created a tapestry of people, a real live neighbourhood that must surely be around the corner. You start to recognize the different people that populate Disraeli Avenue as they appear in other stories, other vignettes. What’s more, you come to know them. To care for them, even though we only know them for an instant.

Once again, Smailes offers us a study in human nature, a study in what really makes people tick and comes out on top. She isn’t afraid to pull any punches either. There is a vibrancy to her words that leaps off the page and that makes Disraeli Avenue all the more amazing.

I was incredibly moved by  Disraeli Avenue and it touched so many different emotions. It has been a long time since a book has done that, has reached down into me and pulled at my heart. I feel I know the people of Disraeli Avenue and I know that they will haunt me for a long time to come. The entire novella was a journey.

Smailes herself has been on quite a journey with Disraeli Avenue and you can read about that here: http://www.carolinesmailes.co.uk/wrote-disraeli-avenue-charity Every cent of her royalties will go to the charity One in Four.  You can get your copy of Disraeli Avenue HERE.

Read and be amazed.

Searching for Amber by David Smith – A Review

Jade does not see the world like everyone else.

A photographer by trade, she sees it more clearly through the lens of her camera. She is tough but takes photographs that show people as they really are, stripping the walls down and laying what she sees bare.

Abandoned by her mother and raised by her adoptive parents, Jade has always felt that a piece of her was missing. Only truly happy when she is creating, Jade trudges through the world, looking for that lost piece of herself. She feels alone in her village, unaware that the answers she seeks to her past are closer than she thought possible.

When she is brutally attacked, she is saved by a Martin, a boatyard worker of very few words. Jade is captivated by him and what secrets he may hold in his past. He walks with an air of sadness and Jade means to find out what is behind it.

Jade is drawn in by Martin and becomes obsessed with him. She yearns to dig underneath his skin and find out what is there. As they get closer, Martin finally tells her what happened to create the air of sadness that surrounds him.

Years ago, his sister Amber, left home. He has never seen her again. Also, his father had a tragedy while at sea. He lost both is father and his sister in on fell swoop and has never been the same. The sea took both of them from him. Though he is afraid of what the water can bring, he works at the boatyard; in that way, he is close to both of them.

Wanting to delve further into the mystery, Jade offers to help Martin find his missing sister. What they learn will change both of their lives forever…

I was blown away and left breathless by Searching for Jade.

First, because the writing is so incredible. It’s very literary in style but draws the reader in with the beauty of it’s words. I was expecting a novel I could rush though but the language slows you down as you want to make sure to read every gorgeous word. There is very little dialogue in the book, but that’s one of the novels strong points.

David Smith brings Jade and Martin’s world to life on the page until you feel as if you are inside the book, with the characters in Aldeburgh, Suffolk, London and Essex. Never before have I read such incredible writing. Smith puts more power in one sentence than many writers are able to capture in one page.

It also has pieces of poetry, dialogue and conversation sprinkled through out to serve as scene breaks or internal thoughts of the characters that help bring the reader further into the story. As the story moves from the present to the past, we are pulled even deeper as more of the story is revealed.

The characters are also engaging. Jade is a tough and life-hardened protagonist that is at once likeable and compelling. Martin is almost broodish, tortured and yet kind. You yearn for these characters and connect with them so completely. I felt I knew them, all of them, when the novel was over. Their lives were bared for us on the page as the story moved to it’s incredible conclusion.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been so entranced by a novel. I took my time reading this as I didn’t want it to end. When I finished it, I was actually left with an ache in my stomach. David Smith doesn’t just tell you a story. In Searching for Amber, he has given the reader a journey.

An absolutely incredible book beautifully told. Begin the search for Amber yourself and fall under the books spell.

Holding the Chalice Tightly – A Poem

Everyone has a

chalice inside of

them. That glass

barrier that lies

between body and

spirit. Over time,

the chalice can

break and crack.

I was forever

picking up pieces

of mine. I

would be walking

along and hear

the soft clink

of glass behind

me. I would

pick up the

shard of glass

and let it

sit in my

hand for a

moment as it

caught the light.

Then, slowly, it

would sink back

into my flesh.

It never found

it’s proper place

though, so when

I walked, it

sounded like bells

were singing as

I moved. I

healed my body,

mind and spirit

but the chalice

still remained in

pieces. Though I

was whole on

the outside, I

was still in

pieces. I didn’t

think the chalice

would be whole

again. Until I

met him. As

our feelings grew,

I could feel

the pieces of

the chalice moving

inside of me,

finding their rightful

place, forming the

chalice one more.

They were in

place, waiting for

the moment. When

he told me

that he loved

me for the

very first time,

and I told him

the same, he

pulled me into

a tight embrace.

Rather than break

the chalice, I

could feel the

pieces melding back

together, fusing and

forming. A new music

began to play

from inside of

me. It was

the sound of

bells, made from

a whole chalice

rather than a

broken one. It

began  filling me

with light and

love for him.

He looked at

me and said

“I love you.”

The music of

the bells grew

until the world

around us was

filled with light

“I love you, too.”

I said. Light

poured from both

of us and

danced to the

sound of music

and I was

complete once more.

The Masks We Wear – A Poem

I used to

know someone who

insisted we wore

many masks in

our lives. We

wore one mask

at work, a

different one with

friends, another with

lovers, one more

with parents. I

imagined a closet

filled with all

sorts of different

masks instead of

shoes or clothes.

“I don’t wear masks.”

I told him.

“It’s easier that way.”

He became belligerent.

“Everyone wears masks! How else would we survive?”

I looked at

him with the

strange feeling that

I didn’t really

know him. I

wondered what kind

of mask he

wore with me.

“Would you behave the same way at work as you do at home?”

He asked me.

I nodded yes.

“I am always myself.”

He scoffed at

me, his tone

full of derision.

“Please. At work, you wear a professional mask. At home, you wear another.”

We agreed to

disagree. I thought

he had the

wrong of it,

that you didn’t

have to wear

masks to get

through life. I

pointed out that

you could be

yourself, but just

another fraction of

who you were.

“So it’s a partial mask. That’s all it is. I’m wearing a mask with you.”

He said. I

was shocked as

I hadn’t known

he needed a

mask to be

around me. I

asked him quietly:

“What mask do you wear around me?”

He scoffed again.

“You don’t want to know.”

He was right.

I didn’t want

to know. Later,

I searched my

face for a

mask, a crack

that ran along

my skin. I

saw a thin

line that ran

along the edge

of my face,

down along my

jaw. It was

a thin mask,

almost like glass

made supple and

bendable. It was

almost me, but

I was still

hiding. Still locking

my true self

behind another face.

I dug my

fingers under the

edge and gently

pulled. The mask

came away easily,

the glue holding

it on turned

dry. I wondered

if I had left

it on whether

it would have

just melted away

on its own.

When the mask

was free, I

looked at myself.

There was a

light that shone

from my skin,

bright like the

morning sun. I

thought that this

was why I

had worn the

mask, so as

not to make

him uncomfortable with

my light, as

he didn’t have

one. He didn’t

shine. I resolved

to find someone

else who shone,

who burned brightly.

I went out

into the world,

without a mask,

to see what

I could see.

Other men wore

blue masks, grey

masks, red masks.

They carried the

marks of their

souls on the

surface. They

were hiding behind

themselves. They were

locked behind their

fears, their worries,

their perceived weaknesses.

They didn’t just

wear them as

masks, but as

shrouds, mantles and

cloaks. The only

difference between them

and myself was

that I no

longer wanted to

wear a mantle

of needles. I

wanted to live

as myself, not

behind my pain.

They weren’t ready

to shine as

themselves. I despaired

about ever finding

someone who wore

no masks and

had given up.

It was when

I had given

up that he

found me. I

walked into the

coffee shop, not

thinking anything would

happen but when

he turned towards

me, I was

struck by the

light that poured

from him. I

stood there for

a moment, searching

his face for

a mask, for that

tell-tale sheen of

glass that ran

along his skin.

There wasn’t one.

“Hi.”

He said. I

was almost speechless,

unable to find

words accurate enough

for an introduction.

“Hi.”

I said, thinking

that the word

was lacking. I

had finally found

someone who didn’t

wear a mask,

or he had

found me. That

didn’t matter. What

did was that

we had found

each other. There

were no coloured

masks on his

face, no blues

or reds or

black glass or

or green. There

was only him,

shining brightly like

a star or sun.

There was only

him. He smiled

and the light

from inside him

grew only brighter.

My light glowed

in response and

the air hummed

with possibilities.