Sometimes I think she can see me.

I stand next to her and I can almost convince myself that I can feel the heat from her skin, smell the perfume she always wears. Sometimes I stand directly in front of her and I could swear that her eyes meet mine, and that the spark of light is actually recognition. I stand in her shadow, and try to believe that she feels me there.

But maybe I’m making hopeful wishes.

It’s hard to walk and accept that you don’t really touch the ground, or have a shadow even in the bright afternoon. My tears never reach the ground, nor do my words leave an imprint in the air. My touch can never feel anything true. I’m just a faded watercolour painting; once bright with colour, but now the paint is washed out and you can’t see what it once was.

All the people you left behind still walk, talk and exist. They breathe. They leave footprints and hug other people. It’s painful to not be able to touch them, or talk to them. The kind of talking where they can hear you, and answer back. You exist in their dreams, their memories, their words. But I’d never have guessed that I’d still walk by their side, wishing I could carry them. Wishing they’d see my footprints.

By leaving her behind, I left half of myself behind as well. She was my twin, my sister, my best friend. My reflection. So here I walk next to her, both of us in different worlds. Both of us feeling the split down the centre. Somehow still together, but more alone than ever.

I try to convince myself that she can see me. One day, I know she will.

Sometimes, we tell ourselves the things we need to hear.

Watching my own funeral was surreal. A time created to sum up our lives, yet we are not able to be there to account for it all. I sat on top of my own coffin and pretended I could feel the smooth wood beneath me. People filed in, in groups, like they were scared to walk in alone – so much black; I found myself rejoicing every time I saw a splash of colour. I saw old friends I remembered but hadn’t seen in years; even mothers of friends I’d never been close to. They sat in pews dripping with white flowers and blue ribbons.

Family mourned and clutched each other tightly, speaking of loss and even freedom. Friends I thought I’d lost cried on each other’s shoulders; the one I’d given my heart to did not cry, but sat and lost himself in the fact I was gone. He didn’t speak, nor did he stand or even appear to breathe. At one point I went and sat next to him. He didn’t feel me, but I watched my reflection in his eyes.

Her hands shook as she spoke out loud, speaking of the times we’d counselled each other and the memories she’d always treasure. Her tears were like crystals. I tried to wipe them away for her but alas, I could barely wipe away my own. Rain fell on the glass roof, showing the grey sky outside. Even the sky was crying.

I missed them, and they missed me. And there was nothing I could do about that.



Joined January 2008

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Artist's Description

Life after Death…?

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