Upon a hilltop deep in the woods, there lies an iron box. Red and rough. They say that all the worlds secrets lay in this iron box. But no one knows for sure. Many have tried to open this box, all have failed. Men and woman. Boy and girls. All have tried to open this box. There is nothing to show for it though. Not even the tiniest of scratches have been left on the box by all the tools that have been used to try to open it. Today there is yet another crowd surrounding the red rough box that lays on the hilltop deep within the woods. People with axes and crowbars try their luck. Still, the box remains whole. A young boy makes his way through the crowd and stands before the box. An older man chuckles at him and holds out his crowbar. "Want to try?" asks the man.
The boy shakes his head and steps closer to the box. Gently he lowers his hand on to the top of the box, his eyes flutter closed. The box glows under his hand. The soft yellow light flows over the box until the whole thing is glowing that soft yellow. A click sounds and the boy pushes the top of the box off. The whole crowd is silent as they watch the boy. How he opened the box with a gentle touch.
"How did you do that?" the man with the crowbar exclaims to the boy.
"I just asked the box to open." the boy responds before he slips his way back through the crowd away from the box.
Quickly the crowd pushes and shoves, trying to get closer to the box to see what is inside the box. What the world's secrets are. But when they get to the box all they see is a single white feather.

There is an empty space. In time. In me. And in you. It's a type of emptiness that's hallow and distant. But still in reach and full. Hallow of empathy, distant from warmth. Full of disdain, and close to the cold. It lurks on the very edges of what we hold close and dear. Waiting. Watching. Ready to take a hold of you.

I can't say these words I want to say. They lump in my throat and I am forced to swallow them once again. Why can't I say them? They are just words after all. I can't say them to you or anyone else. Not even a whisper of them to myself. So I keep them locked up in my head where they swirl around making me dizzy. Being dizzy on your own words is the worst kind of dizzy. A fog clouds your mind. In this fog is the words you want to say, along with possibilities of the replies you would get from them. The conversations swirl and swirl until your sick. Sick of the words. Sick of yourself. Sick of the world. Don't swallow your words until your dizzy, sick. Until your head and heart hurts from all that you can't say. All the possibilities of what could be because of those words. Don't become dizzy, sick.

Blue smoke swirls around me filling my lungs with despair.
My eyes burn as the tears that swell threaten to spill over.
The smoke is heavy and pulls my body to the floor
Knees. My mind floats to somewhere else.
Palms. The tears drop, racing down my cheek.
The smoke closes in, heavier and heavier
until I'm coughing up blue as an ocean opens up below me.

Fall or Fly?
Earth or Sky?
Fluffy clouds that disperse throughout the bright blue sea.
A chill breeze that rustles the leaves on the trees
which flourish in the cool earth.
Water falls from the clouds in the sky that build the sea
which nourishes the earth.
Earth or Sky?
Fall or Fly?

Green was the soft lush floor that cushions the feet.
Green was leaves that rustled in the warm breeze.
Green was the waves of the roaring ocean.
All of which were beckoning me home.

Only with clear leaves can we see the sky through the trees.