The thing about time travel is that you can no longer belong to the time you came from. You cannot belong to the time you went to. You are stuck somewhere not necessarily between the two, but rather beyond the two. It's like the world you've seen becomes a barrier between you and those that haven't seen it.
I shed my wings, and a hurricane on the other side of the world is killed before it's born. The people sleep a sleep that only ignorance may permit. But what of me? What is a butterfly without her wings? You ask me to make a sacrifice. But is the erasure of an identity lesser than the erasure of a life? When you die, you die human. But what do you call me now? I'm someone without a name. Again. An anomaly incompatible with life and yet, I live. I try to find who I am stripped of the identity I was given, stripped of the destiny I'd clawed towards all my life. My uniqueness attracts researchers, collectors. They offer to make my life easier. They offer me materiality. They do not see, I left that behind when I surrendered my wings. I do not want your touch. I do not want your glance. I do not expect your love, for you will not receive it back the way you left it. I only offer you my wingless vision, take it or leave it. There is a flight greater than wings can know. In every flutter of my mind is a dancing beam of light. Clouds fall into the sea and melt into rainbows, the trails in the woods trip upon each other and confuse their travellers. Pebbles shiver to the tune of dead dragons and their vibrations pull stars out of their slumber. They speak their history to the soil wherein I lie, wherein I listen. There is a flight greater than wings can know, and I'm almost at its edge.
Um eine Sprache zu beherrschen ist mehr als ein Kreuz auf einer Checkliste, mehr als ein Bestandteil von einem Lebenslauf. Nein, was genau definiert das Wort, 'Sprache'? Es ist ein Anschluss. Zwischen Gedanke und Ausdruck, zwischen was man sich nur vorstellen konnte und was jetzt auf seiner Zunge liegt. Aber es ist noch mehr. Wenn in jeder Person eine Welt existiert, ist dann Sprache die Brücke zwischen Welten. Die Sprache ist der Unterschied, zwischen jemandes Welt flüchtig zu sehen und sie anfassen zu können. Es macht mir traurig zu sehen, wie Menschen vollständige Gespräche führen können, ohne ihre Herzen zu öffnen. Gibt es nicht bereits zu viele Grenzen in dieser Welt? Was benötigt wird, sind vielleicht Brücken. Eine Sprache muss nicht immer kompliziert sein, nicht etwas, das von Regeln gewogen werden muss. Es kann einfach sein. Vergessen wir nicht, dass Stille auch eine Sprache ist, wenn auch eine Sprache, die langsam ausgestorben ist.
For a second, shone a beam of sunlight so powerful that it turned the entire coach a glowing yellow, and everybody stopped what they were doing. The people on their phones stopped looking at their phones, the people with their books and magazines stopped reading, the college kids stopped their playful chatter, the old couple looked out instead of at each other. We all did; we watched the world whooshing by in a blaze of light.
In the next few seconds, an entire coach of people shared something collective, something hypnotizing, something so connecting. Something we wouldn't have a name for, not even after that beam of light passed and left us in relative darkness. So when it did, we looked around, almost a little confused, as if a spell was suddenly broken. And then we looked at each other, each one a stranger to the other, and yet maybe only for this moment, not really a stranger. Everyone looked at everyone else, no one spoke. We just exchanged smiles.
I do not look for kindness in April. I do not ask for rain. Life begins to bloom outside my window, and scars from last year begin to ache again. I freeze time with the click of a button, and time holds its breath, the rain, suspended eerily in the headlights of a car it hasn't yet been hit by. There is so much we'll have forgotten in the years that'll come. There is so much we'll only pretend to. This is a city that has taught its waves to break quietly, what to speak of crashes.
Sometimes, you find yourself walking the streets at 6 AM, when the sky is still dark and there is no other soul in sight. Your feet sound unnaturally loud and a smile travels from the edge of your eyes, down your cheeks before dying at the edge of your lips.
It is a kind of wildness that exhilarates you, sending a surge of dopamine flooding into your brain. For a few precious minutes, the city is your oyster, and you are a king who doesn't know the first thing about being a ruler.
Sunlight falls gently on the old buildings, and the shadows are strangers, shifting swiftly from one church to another. You don't say anything, because there's nothing to say. You simply wait and watch, as the new day takes its first steps.
Time slows down, imperceptibly. Before the deadlines come crashing down, you must find the split second of silence, that evanescent peace that exists between the end of one song and the beginning of another. Your heart must live in that moment, before if flits away like a mockingbird embarking on its last flight.
This is the conversation between two strangers who Crossed paths beneath a random lamppost in an unknown city. To the strange traveler who voiced his regrets and hopes, I became the girl by the lamppost.
Sometimes it rains candles. and the flames never touch the ground. The wax molds itself around your feet, the flames float back to the sky like freed helium souls.
Sometimes it rains answers. Kings fall on their swords and a nail polish brand uses that three hundred years later as their logo. You do not know the history behind your nail paint. Would you like to? Or that your father fucks your mom's best friend? I suppose not.
Sometimes it rains pigs. You call your life full of shit just the day before. The universe conspires to play on you a shitty joke. Because guess what pigs really love? Exactly.
Sometimes it rains antennas. It impales your ass *cough* (whole) while you are sunbathing, face down, by the Dead sea. Well, good news? You have a super power now. Super sensitive (ity) (to) (other) asshole (s).
Sometimes it rains screw drivers. But they are all of the same size. You can't unscrew your past (girlfriend's psychotic tendencies). Every screw you come across is either too small or too big. It just doesn't FIT. (That's also what she said) But well you know what. Screw you too.
Sometimes... it doesn't rain at all. Not even tears. Because they keep falling inside you. And it isn't enough to quench the famine in your mind, where nothing will grow because all you've sown is guilt and regret. Someone calls you a shield. Like Captain America's shield. And you kinda hate Captain America.