We are all.


Floating through a sea of opinions, facts, thoughts, rumours. Everyone having their say and everyone pushing to know everyone else’s. Everyone thinking that theirs is self farmed, unique to their brains, to themselves. Observe one person be an individual, only to discover they have copied someone else, and have been copied. Originality is distinctly difficult to find, almost impossible. Everyone is a reflection of everyone and no one has the riotous option to be an individual. We are forced clones of the good and bad in light and dark. We are not separate.  We try to convince ourselves we are different, some indifferent, but we are not. We look out into a sea of faces and pick out flaws and imperfections to distance ourselves from the fact that we are all the same. Kind and loving, hopeful and positive, heartless and selfish, cold and lost. We are products of our surroundings.


Like a boat, sailing out to sea. The cream sails breathing in the salty air that nourishes their thirst to thrive, the curved wooden planks of the hull showering in freedom, the welcoming rays of the sun, persuasive and restless. The immerging lust from element to element, both craving each other like an addiction, their fuel. The word spreads and the secret is out, their bonds and established connection publicly displayed, embarrassing the warmth but entwining the stars. They shine as to guide all to a distinct point, a destination to traffic need. It is a beautiful circus of flawless illegality, for under the sun’s disappearance, a common hand is extended.


It is warm buzzing coming from deep within, so much that it is dulled on the journey. Like a summer day dream, the kiss of sunshine melting at your skin, the lick of salt ever present on your taste buds like a consistent state, the indistinct mumble of the busyness of the ocean, the people, the air. The looming sense of fingertips running over your body, across your back, down your legs, hair standing on its ends. The tingling in your spine and the longing for eternity to be a singular moment.

Nostalgia; a part of your soul fragmented away from one’s complete being yet trapped and internalized by the senses through memory. The foundation to emotion, to thought, to action. The dramatized epitome of glee, a basis for all. Love. For even on the darkest days the sunshine in your soul, those trapped rays, the warmth you can feel deep inside of you if you focus, shines through.

Iridescent Insanity

Hold me like the Universe has no control

Take me away from the masks

The Images invading the minds of

All the multitudes of innocence

Throw me from the sun until I hit snow


Now, splintered like the hands of a squirrel

That Fate is lost and you are found

You are my Universe

Behind the Mask

Invasion of Minds

The Multitudes

The Sun The Snow



The force, the one that breeds emotion and instinctively pulls two together. The one that cages butterflies and leaves one at a loss for words, breathless. A touch, a soft brush of heightened sensitivity, searching for security. The force pushing them together, both and neither, equally and unequally.  Equal amounts creating trust and respect, bright and vivid memories, futures. Unequal amounts only implying heartbreak, guilt, pleasure-less sensation. This can also imply the magnetization of one side, pulling the other in whilst remaining immobile. Compelling a screen of met expectations, not necessarily truths. In all cases, shards of the soul have been shed, through loss and pain, to seek comfort, never to return. No matter how evolved the force has become, it radiates injury.

Anything begun has to conclude, the force cannot continue for eternity. As much as they hope, wish, pray, convince that there will be a time when this force can detach from the soul, be that as it may through deafening silence, betrayal, oblivion, it cannot. Greed clouds its intent, the soul with be snatched. If only this was not to be, maybe it would not rain shards so heavily.