Licence of Ink.

The crinkled roads at the side of your eyes when you smile looked like the start of a journey. It was the page one of a children’s fairytale I opened, episode one of a highly raved about Korean drama, and the boarding pass tucked snuggly in my passport. I’ve always loved traveling, the way I could be someone unknown to the big world out there. But the same way I was a mere tourist in these temporary places, it slowly became clear that

There are vultures in my chest delicately tearing out strips of flesh. I just laugh and say nothing fresh is left; except tears that preserve this heart that used to cause earthquakes Ritcher scales of 9.0 in my chest the number of times I imagined your sunshine laugh but now there are only thunderstorms and I’ve had enough of rain. My hair is blown onto my face, ravaging, I claw them away but my tears plaster. There is no silver lining; I feel like a solitary rain cloud streaked with smudged mascara, a walking thunderstorm except I’m physically home in my bed, drinking from skulls and reapplying rouge to convince myself I’m alive.

Train ride zooming past scenery, comfort and slumber of the journey interrupted by a dock at the transit station, I get lost among the blurred faces, unknowing of where to go next - I am stuck in between the responsibility of an adult and the recklessness of a youth, the desperation to shake off the reins and the scurrying back to the safety of home, the rush to grow up and the fear of growing up because tears should start to dry, to continue on the next big adventure they call adulthood, but I am not yet ready.

The subtle passing of days, where I wait for seasons to change despite conversations about the weather staying the same. Everyday’s repeated routine creeping up on time, the soft yet aggressive treading of the clock’s hands. I glance at my own, the pale nails hissing as they inch upwards day by day.

In a war, all around's bloodshed; that's the nectar, laced with red. In a war, wounds are pride shielded with hatred; that's the flower, strewn on the bed. In a war, weapons are birthed; that's the thorn, stabbing with mirth  In a war, buried alongside fear is love; that's the silent scream, deep from the earth. In a war, there's only one victor; that's the rose, left with a petal.

She stared at her palms, turned them outwards as if in a trance she pressed them against the glass panes, the palm lines branching and crossing; some faint like fingerprints, some etched deep like childhood scars that never faded, she pressed them against the glass. The cold traced the lines, travelling, speeding, branching, crossing It extended up her fingers and left a tingle, like electricity mild and gentle...lightning flashed! She flinched. They were dancing in the rain, so soaked you can't tell shirt from skin their clothes cling on to curves and edges like wet plaster. She shivered, not from cold but from nerves, from being so close, there was no distance: they were shirt to shirt, skin to skin, not an inch apart. Her hands were in his, and on his shoulder; his hand were in hers, and on her waist. They fit, he said, they connect like palm lines like fingerprints like fingerprints like childhood scars They fit snugly on the same wavelength, he said and spun her in a waltz to rain's melody and thunder's bass which fell perfectly into step with the singing in her heart. She smiled. Lightning flashed! The sky shook in a silent blinding scream. The storm blew over yet she remained staring blankly, her palms she pressed against the glass as if in prayer but rain and storms they never did last, and the song went out of tune.

I want to travel around the world with just me and my suitcase, just for once following my frightened heart determined to cure this bad case of wanderlust. This season the stores are stocking up on coats again. Coats that sweat in this humidity. I want to travel out of this year-round summer heat, plunge into cold wrapped up, delightfully thick like peanut butter on toast. The feel of the suitcase's leather handle in my grip, gravity is pulling on my suitcase; the comforting weight of luggage. Sometimes in the dark you regain your sight. I want to travel away from this city of light. This fascinating powered generator with humming streetlamps and white lights barging out tinted windows, the land throbbing with exhaustion of employees who are tattooed with productivity; The tattooists they don't get a break. Tungsten it burns out too. I want to travel out of my skin with new identities and exotic names that change with the weather, walk as though time is on my side, close my eyes and listen for laughter, watch the people, smile at the lonely, meet a stranger with twinkling eyes and a honest heart, lose ourselves in inappropriate hysterics over a faulty compass. I want to travel beyond this space, this limiting claustrophobic place, empty my thoughts on the midnight canvas holding stars that never shared their secret but give gleeful, knowing, taunting winks for they knew which way to Neverland. I promised not to sleep till the stars do and in the morning I'll be new.

Barren, piles of grey gravel, stretches of soil and sand and soil and sand. Rusted paint on tractor overlooked by waning streetlight and hustle of polished cars passing by. A single curious crow descends to the fenced up area from the open sky, then takes flight again as it finds nothing of interest.

If we were flowers we'll burst from the choking ground, beneath. We'll repel the darkness and fade night into day, we won't resign ourselves to be trapped in the dirt; we're our own symbol of hope, we're buds born to bloom. When the sun is muted in a dull solemn glow we see where we're headed; when the sun melts our petals we'll keep moving up even though it fucking burns, emerging as a charred crater of dancing yellow flames - ever so victorious.