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15/07
Jul 16, 2014 5:19:06 GMT 8
Post by ashroseberry on Jul 16, 2014 5:19:06 GMT 8
Salt. Sweat.
Scorched skin, wind burn.
Sticky caramel, tacky.
A film across my teeth.
Pebbled feet, loosely tousling over one another.
I hear my name but I do not turn to look.
I dare not tempt my nostalgia.
Squinted, sunlit, eyelids fluttering.
the pungent smell of burning rubber
battered knees, pink flesh exposed.
Dried sappy blood.
Tears. Sweat.
Saltiness underpinning everything that is within
and that is spilling out of me.
I hear my name, I know they have lost me.
My thoughts waiver, I hesitate, I breathe, I lick my lips.
They have lost me, but I am not lost, not yet.
but still, I do not turn to look.
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15/07
Jul 18, 2014 18:38:19 GMT 8
Post by serena on Jul 18, 2014 18:38:19 GMT 8
The dual dangers of nostalgia: that of forgetting, and that of remembering.
Somewhere in the middle, we plant and replant ourselves, one foot forward, the other in the past. Only the body exists between these two places, that which we carry with us and patch together composed with fragments caught out of the corners of our eyes. As we navigate through the matrix of memories and encounters, we negotiate a path aiming to arrive at that ever-elusve present - seemingly so easy to catch, and yet its very recognition is snatched out of our grasp and vanished into the milky past. So we travel on, boats against the current, skittering across the waters of your awareness.
One foot striving forward, the other tied precariously to the past
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15/07
Jul 19, 2014 14:02:14 GMT 8
Post by jacq on Jul 19, 2014 14:02:14 GMT 8
Senses exposed
Away, away, away, away
No not today
I want to feel and see
Taste the salty and sweet
A long way away
Calling I will not hear
The release of drowning in the cries of my own tears
For I only know what will take me back
But not now
I choose not to turn
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15/07
Jul 20, 2014 7:48:49 GMT 8
Post by daisysanders on Jul 20, 2014 7:48:49 GMT 8
Every time we'd go on hot holidays my sister would want caramel fudge. Sickly sweet and thick. She'd burn her back on purpose and the skin would peel and brown immediately. Smoke would curl uncomfortably from my brother's thin fingers and he'd cry and shout shaky to defend himself. My father would stay quiet, seemingly calm, the torrent of pain and hurt and frustration hushed within thin shoulders. Occasional outbursts (so fierce and frightening) were deserved by us, by her, in such relentless hostile heckling. Tears and late night TV. Strange smells in motel rooms and disappointments. There's a sourness and a sadness, a sickness deep in the pit of my stomach. We were starting to get lost a long time ago. We may have been slightly found in the interim. Now I cannot hear my name back there. I cannot hear it far ahead either, so I hesitate, afraid.
But I will not turn back.
Sanguine.
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15/07
Jul 21, 2014 18:02:09 GMT 8
Post by michelle on Jul 21, 2014 18:02:09 GMT 8
Saltiness underpinning everything that is within
and that is spilling out of me.
Like the ocean, like a catch of salmon flopping on the deck of a boat.
Drowning like the salmon are drowning:
In the open air,
Fishermen waiting for the
pink flesh.
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