My Head is Full of Nothing

Title by Anonymous
Story by j.f. hawkins

“I woke up really late last night, to try and see if there was a story, but when I turned on the light, there was nothing”

I recall it exactly.

I was standing in the building and looking down stairs that lead to the main entrance. At the end of a long gray road, past the small crowd I seam to have generated…. there she was.

Caught in a moment of time, somewhere between summer and autumn, on the cusp of an end and at the start of a beginning. There she was. Standing just as casual as the suburban lane that brought her.

That’s how it was the first time I saw her, and how she reappears to me in a dream. Each time we meet, it’s like I still see her for the first time.

She was foreign and unfamiliar, but there was a sense of always having known her. She’s an old friend already. Even though every time is new. "We click", she said while doing a kind of dance.

I asked her if she needed a lift from the place we were at. Unfortunately, for her, I only had my bike. Still, she was happy to ride it with me.

I can’t know how she felt about the journey, but the way I recall it, it was perfect. Her little hands wrapped around my waist. It was cold out side, so to escape the wind, she buried her face into my back. She spoke and then giggled, I haven’t a clue what she said, all I knew was that her little voice boomed inside my ears. I was worried she’d hear my racing heart.

I dropped her at the station and I kissed her on the cheek. It was such an awkward goodbye because I wanted to stay longer. All our goodbyes are awkward because I never wanted to say them.

We spoke on the phone. I asked her where she was, she said ‘in the bath’, we talked.

My head is full of nothing.

jf. x

Untitled

I sleep with my window open.

Finding all the warmth I need from my blankets,
I entertain the cold world,
I like the Security of a quilt,
I hide behind my sheets,
It's a cold, self-inflicted pain,

Ill-tempered air,
And idolized duvet,
Idiocy at it's best,

There's a reminder there,
Of a life that could be better,
I save myself, night after night,
With a refuge that wouldn't be needed,
If it weren't for my own doing,

I may be better off,
I knew it was possible,
But for some reason,
I chose the struggle,

Fighting for comfort,
Battling for a sleep uninterrupted,
By wind, element, rain and raging strata,

It's my own doing,
The destruction of the life I've been given,
The cold kept me human,
That's how I wanted it,

Pretending it was possible for me to exist,
With nothing but what I had bought for myself,

I choose to believe,
That life would be no better off,
If I were to just get up
and close the window;

That is my great misfortune.

jf. x

When We Grew Up.

When we grew up, I had hoped we wouldn't change like this.

Where once a field was bright green, joyous, and opportune, I now see a pointless space that reminds me of the scars we left, we left each other.

I had thought we'd still be there, in the lush green plane, still playing with each other.

When you fell in love, my heart sank.

When I went away, I looked for the friendship I always had with you.

Others, those who refused to change, are no better off; they are incomplete and alone.

They deny it happens, but they too lament the past.

Our Golden years ended too soon, but here are no seconds of regret.

All the time spent with you was not wasted, though it might be now.

We were journeying along our own paths.

I'm so glad I got to be apart of yours for the moments I was; I'm sad to see us part.

With so many places and corners, I pray that we meet again.

Maybe during transaction on an intersection, we'll remember what we once knew.

I thought I'd left you behind, but when I turned to find you, I saw your back.

We'd both gone in a different direction.

Can you blame me for trying?

jf. x