digging my watery grave

I used to believe I was a mermaid, and that is why the sea had such an almighty grip on me. Why I had this unexplained need to be intimate with the water, tip-toeing around its shore and caressing its current. I revered the ocean to the point of fear. The sea was neither bad nor good, but rather omnipotent and unmerciful. I dared not awaken its anger, and even my earliest recollections involve the insistence of life jackets and wary wades.

Yet I have not grown fins. I have not begun breathing while submerged under the murky waters of my bathtub. Mermaid, I am not. But I cannot deny the allure of the ever beckoning salty air. The answer seems so frighteningly simple: I must be some backwards reincarnation of Annabel Lee.

Am I the only one? Are you Annabel Lee too? Do our hearts thump and thud so wildly inside our chest only because our secret souls are searching for our star-crossed other halves? Oh, I’ve often suspected the angels had qualms with me. My consistent ill luck could only be the work of some sinister cosmic intervention.

I am not very brave. If I was, I’d slip out in the quiet of the night and escape to a kingdom by the sea. I’d let the tempestuous storms whip my hair into a million tangles. I’d correspond with the ghosts of sailors and pirates. Watch your mouth in front of the lady, they would all grumble and scold at each other. I’d revel in their company to such an extent that I’d withdraw completely from the living brand of humans altogether. A nautical citadel full of souls drowned and drowning still.

I am an Annabel Lee, and you are an Annabel Lee, and so is every other girl who is equally in love with the sea and the schoolboy she never will meet.

"Often I wish this would all be over, Liesel, but then somehow you do something like walk down the basement steps with a snowman in your hands."

the book thief.

of ticks and tocks

I’ve wanted to write. I’ve wanted words to drip out of my ink pen and onto the unblemished white page. But it has all gotten in the way. The books, the work, the incessant cuckooing of the clock. There are days I’m afraid I might go mad with all of it. Until I am cuckooing myself, faithfully on the hour.

I’m clinging onto the shards of sanity by refusing to neglect the inner workings of my own private little world. Going on adventures with Daisy and Piper, and mourning for My Tess. Angel’s in his heaven. Eating white chocolate ice cream out of my Chesire Cat mug. It was as white as snow, you know. It had me wishing for December.

Do you know what would be ever-so-lovely? Going to the cinema in a town where not one soul knows my name. I’d smuggle in candy hearts, gooey popcorn balls, and a giant thermos of tea. When you go to the cinema by yourself, you don’t have to be afraid to cry. You can rest your head in your hands and sob the whole way through (which I always do, especially when we went and saw Finding Neverland. I didn’t even stop when we went back to the car, cried the whole way home).

sping awakening

I'm reaching out for Spring. April mornings that begin with squishing your bare toes in the dewy grass. Bike rides that bleach your knuckles white and leave tangles in your hair, that exhilarate you more with each lusty inhale. I want to eat berries until my fingers have turned every shade of purple. I want to take off my coat and feel the warm air lick at my skin.

Summer is swollen ankles and feeling restless. Summer I can live without. Spring, however, I need if I am to be revived from this Winter's coma. I yearn to thaw out, to once again become reborn.