Drag

No waste, no waste. Every breath counts.

Inhale exhale inhale.

No waste, can’t waste. Don’t let it burn up unused. It’s such a luxury.

A few minutes and then it’s gone. A few moments of warmth in the lungs. A few moments of warmth against the cold of the world.

What a waste. I’ll miss it when it’s gone.

I, By


I work next to the smell of the sea. 

And sometimes I think that I can understand, just a little, the longing sailors feel when separated from the ocean. 

I grew up next to the sea. 

I know the sound of waves, of gulls, of water slapping the side of boats. 

I grew up watching the sea. 

To be inland, I feel a sense of loss. As if a vital part of me is missing. That sense of endlessness has disappeared. 

Take Me Away

There’s an old train track that spans much of my neighbourhood. It’s in the middle of being taken apart, which is good because it means much-needed infrastructure is going to replace it.

Christine Fichtner train tracks

On the other hand, there was something nice about the old, overgrown tracks. Walking along the wild, untamed plants and exposed metal. They will be missed.

The Window

Christine Fichtenr Window

It’s a day where all you do is sit in the window and watch the wind blow through the trees.

Where the rustling is accompanied by your music.

Where your cat curls up on your lap and sleeps the hours away.

Where you can look over at your partner and share a smile that conveys all your love.

Where the sun grows golden among the green of the trees.

Where perhaps you read, or sketch, or write.

Where all the words you speak are soft in nature and in tone.

Where there is tea that steams in warm cups.

Where the day passes gently, busy outside, but calm in the bubble of your window.

—-

Happy Monday! I hope you all had a wonderful weekend.

That is

A presence, everlasting.

Love and wisdom. Knowledge in their eyes.

With each word, we change. Slightly, subtly.

Sometimes it is blood that binds us. Sometimes it is choice. Love transcends blood; cements what choice connects.

Nature’s hold is tangible in the increasing lines and slowing motions. But even She does not hold back our souls.

Sometimes a single glance. A clasping of hands.

“I know.”

Is all that is needed.

Come Home

I long for your sweet serenades. Your claims that peal like bells from the tallest towers. Awaken me with your melodies. Fill the air with possession.

Winter was long and silent in your absence. The air had not the warmth of your sound, the world lacked the colour of your songs. The sun could not break through the clouds without your calls to guide it.

Come home now. Bring with you the blossoming flowers and green winds of life. Let spring smile upon our faces.

—-

I started painting a couple weeks ago. Now I have all these ideas to go along with them.

Art sourced from my deviantart account.

Photograph Me

   “Photograph me,” she said with a secret in her smile. So I did, to immortalize the moment.

   “Photograph me,” she insisted through tears and red eyes. Her face was blotchy, her lips turned down. So I did, because I thought that perhaps it would make her smile.

   “Photograph me,” she said with cold eyes and thin lips. A thin flush traced her cheeks as she looked down at me. So I did with the barest tremble to my hands.

   “Photograph me,” she said through coughs that seized her whole body. That drove blood from her lips, so dark in contrast to her pallid skin. Her hands, skeletal, gripped my shirt. So I did through tears that blurred the images until I could not see what it was I had taken.

   Photograph me, I remembered her words as I stared down at her lifeless features. Her words drowned out the sobbing that surrounded me. So I did. But only a cold detachment allowed me to raise my camera. Only bitterness allowed my finger to press down. And only longing kept the rolls and rolls of film hidden away in boxes, cobwebs like memories draped between the canisters.