Reach for the scars.

This is a story about Living. About reaching for the sky one last time before I go… and feeling the stars brush against my fingers and cling to them for a while before drifting away.

It’s a little about laughing and a little about crying. About holding her in your arms and telling her it’ll be ok, when you know it’s only half a lie. I dedicate it to all you people out there who can tell the world is horrible without ever looking up from your feet.

You won’t really know where you’re going and you don’t remember where you came from. Singing snatches of a strange melody, your hands dug deep in your pockets as you wander the empty streets. The cold October wind racing-flutters around you, teasing the edges of your coat, your hair, before whistling away. You’d like to say you’re pondering over something deep and meaningful, something so philosophically important that it somehow excuses being awake at three in the morning. You’re not. You’ve been awake every night for as far back as you’re willing to remember. Walking the deserted streets of this accursed town, shaking off memories and wishes and fears, perhaps. You’re not even thinking really… not really. You have been avoiding that for such a long time. Thinking, you have discovered, leads to paranoia and sadness. And, if you think for too long, you start to talk. And that makes it so much worse, because no one really wants to know… not really.

“You cannot stand yourselves…”

The crisp sound of your footsteps against the frosted pavement fills your mind, vibrating through your tired frame like the war drums of reality. Once annoying, once appeasing, almost melodious. Familiar. It is to this unsteady rhythm that the song first unfolded. You’re not really sure whether you made it up, are making it up, or whether it simply fit the pace. It’s quite good, in an abstract kind of way, jazzy and sad at the same time; once the words have pried your lips open and drifted away, you will lose them and forget. For all you know, you’ve been repeating the same song over and over again, forgetting the words and remembering them as you go along. You can’t really catch them, but you know that they are good words; they make you feel warm and wanted and maybe just a little sad… but that’s ok.

You know a little about sadness.

She’ll be there. The wind rustling through her pale hair as she looks up at the moon’s silver face. Have you ever notice how old the moon looks? She’s had to watch you, you and your forefathers, live the same life since the beginning of time. She deserves to look old, maybe a little cold. Quietly, you wonder if she knows. She’s pretty, really, almost-smiling down like that. ‘One day,’ you whisper quietly as you walk, ‘one day, I promise.’ Then the clouds move and she is gone.

‘One day,’ she echoes back, and a cool shiver rustles through your soul.

You know a little about promises.

Slowly, you will realise you are thinking. You’ll know that it’s dangerous. That, once you start, it’s difficult to stop and hard to control. You’ll think about the moon and the stars, wonder what they’d feel like, trickling between your fingers. You’ll wonder if the moon would be warm or cold in your palms, whether clouds really feel like cotton. You’ll remember the way life used to be so good when he was there, how every day seemed such a pleasant place to stay. He’d told you all about the moon, and the stars in the night sky, and the clouds seeming a little like cotton. You’ll shiver and remember the way he used to grin when you hugged yourself in the rain, walking stoically alongside… He owned the world in a way. He owned the world and he knew, he knew. When it rains, you get wet. ‘Life is like that,’ he used to say, ‘when it rains, you get wet.’ Then he’d slap you across the shoulder and grin. And then you’ll remember he’s gone. The rain never really cares if you get wet… not really.

And she’d be there. “…and you do not love yourselves sufficiently.”

January’s breath blows pink halos on her cheeks, reddening the tip of her nose. Her pale features glistening moon-like in the night. You’ll wonder for a moment if, maybe, the stars were ever really in the sky. Or if they have always been a pale reflection of her eyes, wide with wonder, looking up. Her breath makes clouds in the darkness. The wind will blow and tug at your coat, and her hair, and rustle the leaves a little, maybe. Pulling another trickle of words from your lips. Feeling them drift away, you’ll wonder if you’re still looking up at the stars, you’ll try to recognise them, maybe, find a familiar constellation… and realise that she’s just looking back. And that you’re walking, quietly. And that the clouds have uncovered the moon, and that she’s watching. And the world will feel like treacle against your soul. Slowing you down, pulling you back. You’ll wonder if it was always like this and you simply never knew. You never knew. He had always known, he had been good at knowing… it was what he did, sort of. It had made it safe and fun and worth pushing on… life is always so much better when you know a little more. And care a little less. Wondering why it’s so much darker, you’ll realise that your eyes are tightly shut. And you can still see the stars through your eyelids. And the moon and the night and the wind. The wind rustles through your hair and the night brushes your cheek, a cool, languid touch. The moon’s smooth, warmth will push featherlike against your lips… and stay there as the night wraps you in her web. Tiny pinpricks of warmth and wonder will brush against your soul and cling there for a while, before drifting away. Her breath tastes of almonds and honey, perhaps just a little brandy. And the clouds will tickle, cotton-like, the palms of your hands.

You’ll open your eyes to find her in your arms, wrapped tightly against you for fear of drifting away. Looking close, you’ll see the tears on her face, frozen silver on her rosy cheeks. Never looking up, she’ll squeeze you closer and her breath will mingle quietly to yours in the night. You’ll watch the faintly glowing cloud drift up and away, wondering where the song has gone, the melody has stopped, the words lost forever. And you’ll squeeze her back and kiss her hair, and wonder who she is and why you care. And she’ll be there.

And he’ll be gone.