SanctuaryHave you ever noticed the way water recedes from the sand at low tide? The way it traces delicate patterns that look like trees or vines as it slips back into the ocean, only to come crashing and try again. It's always reaching for something... for anything.
At the end of the day, everyone must have a sanctuary. It is a place you return to where you can just close your eyes, breathe in, absorb everything, and breathe out, ready to go on the next day. You might not be strong, but you are able. I've always been told that ones home is their sanctuary. But I've spent too many nights with my back pressed to the wall and my head between my knees, trying to muffle the screams from fathers who forget their children and mothers who only want to be noticed, or maybe just loved.
It seems that a sanctuary is a place one goes, but my sanctuary is the body I melt into when I think I've lost my will to go on. My sanctuary is the eyes I unfold into when I feel like crumpling, and he never hesit
The ConductorSometimes, she wishes she could paint her sadness onto paper sparrows and let them fly away. But thats not the way it is with him. They have conversations with the words they never said to each other over coffee cups and crinkled letters. He holds her when her skin feels loose until the record finishes playing, and they have to go on with their lives. She has a place, and so does he, for the entire world sleeps.
She returns to the rooftop, closes her eyes, and begins. With swift movements of her hand, the bustling city wakes and she hears the music. Cars screeching, laughter, bus doors opening, and footsteps. Millions of footsteps. Some running, some strolling. Each footstep resounding with thoughts of people, places, things, but none of her. She raises her arms as if conducting a symphony of instruments without musicians and the sky opens up. Her hands twist and move in circular motions, pouring rain from the skies and people with long bodies open their hands over the earth. The