Love is a curious thing I suppose, for it turns perfections from one thing to another. The curly haired boy with porcelain skin and dirty knees and eyes like the sea that we sail on, becomes the boy with big gentle hands, and dark eyes and dark skin and a dark heart who always smells of cocoa.

Does that make love fickle, or all the more magical?

I would say magical, because the world is constantly in flux, and so we are too.

I thought I ought to paint my castle yellow, so that someone would find us, because we are lost.

Spinning silk.

I saw a moth fall into a crystal glass of milk, blinded by light. He tried to flutter but failed. The dust from his wings swirled around him and he was gone.


Another moth flew in, I tried to rescue her to dry her in the sun, it wasn’t too late. But she threw herself off my fingertips again and again, I gave up trying when I realised she had to be with him.

The hot breath from the beast’s mouth curled into the frozen air, light glinted off his great fangs and fresh blood dripped from its mouth onto the white snow.


He looked up into its merciless black eyes, pushed up his spectacles and said “I’m sure we can sort this out amicably.”

We are mystified by the things around us, and we want to capture them to keep them forever.


The magical vibrations of water, how it runs lightly under your fingertips with the calm flow of rivers, yet mighty waves would sweep you away in ire, carrying your body into the sea.

The dancing colours of red, orange, yellow, white and blue. The speed it takes to run through flames without getting burned, before the fire catches you, how can man make such a creature that would bite its master?

The darkness that never existed, the darkness of not knowing, what things could lurk in dark places? Strange monsters, and furred beasts. If darkness is lack of light, must we have darkness inside us? You can’t catch darkness, but it can catch you, surrounding you in its smoke and how it runs only from light.

The same light that draws our eyes and lifts our heads higher, light that could blind us in its brightness and burn us in its warmth. This light in the north will dance across the night’s sky reflected in icicles and polar bear eyes.

The moving entities of other creatures all around us, how strongly we crave their touch, we wish to envelop them and possess them. To catch a bird and keep its song in a cage, to command a hound’s loyalty and to keep the love of a boy.

They could crush us, and we could crush them. We play with them, because we’re in love with danger and that which we don’t understand.

Little lonely polar bear wanders around what is left of the icy kingdom. Hunger clings to him, and he finds the greater beasts fighting brutally among themselves, the young ones huddle together finding comfort in warm white fur, licking lips with blue tongues, snowflakes on their eyelashes as they weep for winter.

In cold morning air we walked to the park to fly our kite. It was always cold when we flew it, and the air stung our eyes, and jabbed at us under duffle coats. A slight mist hung over the grass, and our kite lit up the grey skies with blue, green, yellow and red and a secret smile lit up our faces. I tied it to a bench that said, ‘For Arthur and Rose. We barely knew them, but they sat here and they only needed each other.’ And I hoped we would grow old together like them.

Under the duvet cover propped up by the chair and dressing table, he whispered while he held up the torch,

“You won’t need a parachute if you’ve got me.”


“That isn’t the problem, my love. It seems people are trying to put holes in my parachute, and I’m bad at sewing.”

Papa sits at the typewriter all day long, writing serious things. One day, I’ll have that typewriter and I’ll use it to write stories about love and nonsense.

I shall read myself to sleep, finding exhaustion in adventures with compasses and spectacles and forgotten castles. And I shall eat toast, and get crumbs in the bed which will frustrate me so that I cannot sleep. So I shall stay awake all night to watch the sunrise, and Perceville my cat shall walk in and confide in me that the other cats do not accept him, because his whiskers are eccentric and I shall sympathize most sincerely.

You take out your little blue boat as a child, and you stand confidently on the seats commandeering a whole fleet of the imaginary sailors with white shirts and brass buttoned coats and you believe without a doubt that the water will take you anywhere in the world and that you’ll always be free.

There are in our existence that person who warms your heart and your insides like the cups of hot cocoa made in brass sauce pans, they are usually the ones who burn our tongues as we gingerly take our first sip. We have had that friend who is always there, playing hide and seek in our garden, having secret tea parties and hiding our chocolate eggs, they wait behind high wooden fences and we run to them when we are sad because they say the right thing and wipe away our tears.

I remember sitting in cotton socks playing with the doll which that faceless relative had given to me, and Mother taking the doll away and scolding me. I looked out of old glass windows, my breath steaming up the squares and rubbing the cloud of escaped breath away, and wishing hard that I could play outside in the rain, but Mother says it is compulsory to wear boots and coats out into the rain, and I shall wet the carpet. I should like to have explored that forest behind the house, for you can see the whole world when you climb a tree, and there are paths everywhere and you can follow whichever you like to get lost for a while, but Mother says dangerous men with long coats who steal children to make pies lurk in forests (not that there are many children to catch in forests) You aren’t allowed to break expensive dolls, you aren’t allowed to dance in the rain wearing pyjamas, you can’t spend your afternoons in a forest, and that’s why we wanted to grow up.

I walked past the woods on the grey cobblestones with a warm sunset upon my back, there were great stone houses all around. The orange light was supposed to make everything look happier, and I knew Sun was trying to comfort me, but how could I be comforted in his embrace when I walked past that house with the old white fence and the cat perched upon a wall, watchingwatchingwatching? She purred, her dappled tail flicking and with her eyes told me:


“Your little love doesn’t live here anymore”

The Sun makes no difference, when ice climbs like ivy over your heart and freezes the blood.

There are matches in a match box.

A slight lick of flame, a tiny spark and we could all catch fire, and together we'd burn gloriously until we fizzle out with memories burnt into our eyes of fast lived lives filled with light. They tell us we couldn't possibly escape from the walls around us and we must stay as we are, stay safe, stay sleeping.
When will we realise it is only cardboard and break free?

I'm very conscious of how I want to die.

I think you can live fast, without dying young.
I want to love while I'm young, and why should I close my heart to any form of love?
Who is to say that love cannot last?

One day, I want to sit in an old leather arm chair with grey hairs and watch the one I love give a wrinkled smile from the arm chair opposite and warm my heart more than any fire. I'll remember a lifetime with that person.
And the day that arm chair is empty, I'll die of a broken heart.

Post virginity,

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly love forgets.
These days, most people have distorted what beauty really means.
We are all doomed.

As morose as I may sound, remember that to balance a dark side, there must be light.
If anyone bothers reading, I might stop talking in ridiculous mysterious sentences.

Mazmo.