I am suspended, trapped in this emotional black void. I cannot cheer myself up when I know you are so sad. I want to call you and fill your mouth with kisses and remind you that your track record for surviving bad days is 100%. I want to fill you up with happiness like fuel at a gas station so that you can continue this unmapped journey. I just really, really want you to be happy.

When I was little my mums friend had a piano, I remember going to her house for dinner one night and I was so excited when I saw this huge upright instrument, I'd never played with a piano before and I just thought it was magnificent. Uniquely, like most things I did as a kid, I used the piano to tell stories. I thought the deep notes on the left represented goblins and monsters and the high, light notes on the right were the fairies and princesses. I would mash the lower keys and say things like "then the big bad goblin came into the woods" and as I fiddled with the high notes I would talk about how the magical fairies saved the day. Its funny how black and white things were when you were a child, there was good and there was bad and everything had a happy ending, now as I fumble with my own keyboard years later I realise that the most beautiful music comes when both high and low are played in unison. Like ying and yang no story is ever soley good or bad, but a mixture of the two, true beauty comes when  highs and a lows are shaped as one, and that I think is the beauty of life.

I feel everything bubble up through my soul like carbon dioxide, filling up all the empty holes to the outside, and then I bleed, I bleed dramatically, I bleed emotionally, seeping emotions pour out of me. I am not normal I am a little more porous.

I wake up, instantly groan at my existence, look at all the messages I haven't received and re-read the ones I've sent. I look at poetry, the sad kind that makes me feel just a little understood, I think of 10 impossible, unlikely and outrageous things that could happen in the next few hours. I sigh and wish I could go back to sleep, I think of all the life I want to be living but am not, I think of how sad I am not fulfilling anything, yet pressured into always working for something menial. I roll my eyes and think of death, before stretching my arms and remembering, ahh its time for breakfast.

There is a room in every child's mind, we call it home,those coloured walls bright, bash, comically fashionable, Ageing but never old. We cling to them and they mould us. Home! where we seek when we wander. A room is home for a child.