Goodbye

Goodbye is such a funny word, isn't it. It implies happiness. We say 'Good morning', 'Goodnight', and for some rural folks 'Gudday'. But when we say this we generally want this person to have a pleasant morning, an agreeable night, a fantastic day. But we don't often want to say goodbye to people. Once in a while a person comes into your life that you never want to leave. But if history has taught us anything it's that things will always end. That nothing is forever. And try as we might we must all say goodbye at some point.

Goodbyes can be easier, or they can be hard. If we don't particularity like the person than it's more than easy to say 'goodbye, and good riddance'. But when we love that person then the parting is never good. It may occasionally be sweet sorrow, but it usually isn't. It's that fact that time is marching on; and all that we have left is the memories in our heads. And even they can be eroded away by time.

Often in the movies the hero has plenty of time to say goodbye. The bullet takes time to snuff out the candle of life, or the plane patiently waits for the monologue to end. But life isn't like a film. We don't get what we dream. They may die before we expect them to. The plane might need to leave now. And we never get the goodbye we want. Instead we say bye in a hopeful tone, that one day we'll meet again.

Perhaps that's why we say goodbye, not because we hate the ending, but because we wait the beginning. Not because we fear that we won't see each other again, but we hope that our passes will cross. At the end of the day no goodbye can be permanent if you don't want it to be. While they say nothing lasts forever, a goodbye can be the shortest thing in the world. And if it really is the last goodbye then make it one of hope, not despair. Because you never know when you might say hi again.

My First Poem

A world without you is like:
A film without pictures,
A song without music,
A story without words.

When you laugh I laugh.
When you cry I cry.
And when you smile the world seems less dark.

With you the minutes feel like hours,
The hours feel like days,
And time stops for these perfect moments.

Your problems are my problems.
I am you crutch
As we fight against the storm of life.

Through wind, rain, hail and snow,
I will be by your side
The moment you call.

So when this brief life ends
And if your resigned to Hell
I'll come down and join you.
Because any time with you is Heaven enough.

Friendship

Have you ever stopped, looked around, and wondered where the hell your friends came from? I don't mean the ones on Facebook, that exist as little more than text on a screen and random encounters at a party. No I mean your true friends, your BFFs. The ones you can tell anything to; and you know they'd listen. The closest thing you have to love without all the complication of dating and sex. Ever wonder how your friendship formed? There's over six billion people on this planet; and somehow you two meet. Sure it's a geographical thing, more than anything, but there's thousands of people living around you. Like bacteria in a drop of water, you are a minute nothing surrounded by others like you. And yet this friend exists; and they talk to you. You look back and barely remember how you met. Perhaps you were in diapers, or you just bumped into each other. Why are you friends, anyway? Sure you have common likes and interests, but it's more than that. A random stranger next to you might enjoy Doctor Who, but you aren't going to tell them how you struggle with your sexuality. Humans are social creatures, we form packs. Think about how many groups you have. You have work friends, old acquaintances, Facebook buddies. Would you reveal to any of them that you have a self-harm problem? So what makes you best friend so different, so important that life without them is like a fish trying to comprehend not living in water. A fact the mind literally can not process. Sure they bug the hell out of you sometimes, but that's the point. You can look past their flaws to see the true person. Sure they may never shut up, they might say the wrong thing or act in a manner most inappropriate. But where random strangers see a twat you see the true side, the side hidden from the world. The 'you; that only you and they will ever know about. Friendship is hard at times, irritating, annoying. But would you want it any other way?

The Multi-Universe

The man sat in the bar, sipping away at his beer. He didn't look up, staring intently at the salt shaker. Now the bartender was use to this sort of customer, the one that liked to be by themselves. But it was something about this one that intrigued him; and it was a slow night. He put down the grime-sodden mug and wandered over.
“Another?” he asked, always looking for a good sell.
“Huh,” grunted the man. “A choice.”
“Yeah,” said the bartender. “But an easy one, no?”
“No,” said the man. “There are no such thing as easy choices. Or hard choices. Or choices at all.”
“Oh? And what makes you say that.” The man took another sip of his beer, sitting in silence. The bartender hovered around, waiting to see if anything was going to happen. As he turned the man spoke again.
“I discovered God today,” said the man.
“Good on you sir,” said the bartender. “Found the good book, did you?”
“I discovered God,” repeated the man, “and proved that he didn't exist.” The bartender suppressed a snort. It would be the same sad story of lost love, substance abuse, or crap jobs. And the bartender would be there to help ease the sorrows, along with Jack Daniel.
“Care to explain?” he asked, pulling a beer from the shelf and putting it next to the man. The man wordlessly took it. He looked over to two lovers making out in the corner.
“Imagine if they never met,” the man said.
“I bet they wouldn't be very happy.”
“Really? Perhaps they had met other people. Perhaps she had never been born. Perhaps he had shot himself earlier in life. All those little choices that led them there. Makes you think.”
“Yes sir, it does, doesn't it. The power of love.”
“Love,” snorted the man. “I've been a scientist for many years, and I've never seen a trace of love.” He turned and stared at the salt shaker. Suddenly he picked it up and poured it onto the counter.
“Hey,” cried the bartender, going to wipe it up. But the man stopped him.
“Imagine, if you would, that every one of these grains was a universe. One of them has you rich and wealthy. Another has you on a street. For ever choice you've made in life, an alternate version of you has made the opposite choice. And if life is a series of choices, then there must be millions of you.” The bartender nodded, seeing the man's point. “Out there is a universe where it didn't rain. There was more gravel. A stronger barrier. But those possibility can't exist without this one, can they? It doesn't matter what any of us do, does it. We are dying, all of us, continuously.”
“Naturally,” said the confused bartender. He wasn't use to this sort of banter from his customers, and was far out of his depth.
“You don't understand, do you? I can see it on your face. Never mind, I'll try to explain. You don't own a time machine, do you.”
“No?” said the bartender.
“But there must be a version of you that does. And that version has another choice: 1956 or 1957? Naturally two different versions of you go to two separate time periods. And you have another choice. Should you take your walk-man, or ipod? Again, two versions. A version of you travels to every time period, taking everything.”
“So everyone exists everywhere and every-when?” said the bartender.
“Exactly. As frozen, endless pictures. Like the frames of a film. We just put the pictures together and perceive it as time. You see the salt shaker? See it full of salt? If all those grains were universe, where would they be? Scatter across the bench? Or inside a giant salt shaker, or universe. If the universe is infinite, surely infinity can fit inside infinity an infinite amount of times. One universe that is at once all universes. The Multi-Universe.”
“That's very clever,” said the bartender. “You should publish it.”
“But what would be the point?” said the man. “I either will, or won't. It doesn't matter what I choose to do. It has happened. It is happening. It will happen. A futility of pointlessness.”
“So you're just going to give up?” said the bartender.
“I have no choice,” said the man. “For a universe to exist of my success, there must be one where I fail. All I can do is hope that I get that universe. But I, or version of I, have died millions of times, and will die a million more. It can't be stopped, or diverted.”
“But surely we should make the most of the universe we find ourselves in?” said the bartender desperately. The man said nothing, walking towards the door.
“Hey,” said the bartender. “You never paid.”
“Of course I did,” said the man. “In another universe, that is.” The bartender watched the man go, and went back to the rag. He started to wipe, but stopped and looked back to where the man was sitting. He picked up the bottle.
“In any other world,” he chuckled, “I'm a rich man. Ah well, c'est la vie.” He threw the bottle away and got back on his life, determined to make it the best he could. Screw the other versions of himself. They could look after themselves.

The Doorman

It's amazing how a simple opening of a door can open doors in one's life. The Doorman was the example. A fairly thankless job with little perks, but someone had to do it. It wasn't even a nice door. It just led to the corridor of a room the Star stayed in. The first few times the Star didn't even notice, just saying a quick "thanks". But the Doorman was nothing but polite, always wishing him a pleasant day, And as time went on the small snippets of conversation grew ever so slightly longer. "Hope you had a nice day" turned into "How was your day?", And it was here the Star could drop the stardust. To the Doorman he was just the average man. He went to the loo just like everyone else. The star-struckness had come detached when he realized this man, who had wowed critics and audiences alike, was just another man. Away from the media, from the fame, the Star extinguished to a man. The two's conversations grew to be more intimate, more personal. Despite the string of woman brought home the Star could never find love. Despite the piles of money the Star felt like he was missing something. Despite the critical acclaim the Star always felt alone. And the Doorman just nodded; and listened; and spoke briefly about his own goals and dreams. The two developed an unusual friendship as time went by. But one day the Doorman opened the door to death. The Fan refused the no; and got violent. In the struggle an accident was made. No real intention, or feeling. Just circumstances of luck. No one came to the Doorman's funeral; and the Fan was acquitted for manslaughter. The Star stood over the grave. He never even got his name. At the end of the day it's the people we meet briefly that can impact the most. The people you never know, but could somehow trust. Because there is always a man willing to open a door, if only to make someone's day a little better. The Doorman, like so many other, are overlooked. But as long as you can help someone, even a little, you matter.

Facebook

A man sits alone in his room, the neon light of his computer screen shrinking his eyes back into his sockets. The clock reads 02:00, but time can be misleading. He stares at the computer screen, eyes fixed. For him it is the only world he ever knew. Friends that were little more than words on a screen. Few he had met in real life. Most were just randoms who had drifted onto his page. He took a drink and waited for the next message to arrive, to tell him more about a life he could never lead. He apparently had 258 friends. He cared for only a few. Yet he longed for companionship, someone to talk to, to burden the weight of life. Here he could hear about other people's stories, their adventures through the world. In a few hours he would have to leave for work, sleep deprived so he didn't have to pay attention. A routine so dull that he preformed it in his sleep. An empty life, a hollow shell that could see the strings, but never fought back. Other people fought back though, and were having marvellous adventures. Sarah was going to move in with her boyfriend. Michael was posting his new piece of fan fiction online. And like a true friend the man would read, but was careful not to reveal his true opinion, less he were to lose another friend. People seemed to want to talk to him less nowadays. Oh he put the 'lols' in the right places, and even branched out to 'roflols'. But they were empty laughs, devoid of any happiness. While the computer laughed he just stared, waiting for the next response. Every few weeks someone new would find him, and chat with him. But he would make a critical error, and cut off all ties. Slowly he rotated through his roster of friends, making sure there was always someone to talk to. There was no one online now. The page was empty. He sat, waiting. Surely someone would come on eventually. He was in no rush. Then he'd be able to hear more of Polly's crush, or of Ben's dreams to be famous. Until then he would wait. He had all the time in the world.

The City

The girl wandered as though she was in a dream, but no dream could come close to the dream-like state of reality. Around her people hurried on with their little lives, trying to fulfil all of their self-imposed challenges. She didn't have any. Or none as trivial as others seemed to worry about. Love and work and money. Two out of three weren't bad, and one could be faked. However no one stopped, no one looked. Some people say that the concrete jungle is dead, a barren wasteland. But there was life in the architecture. Tall buildings towering like giants, glancing down at the world below. Crazed sculptures dancing around the landscape, bending and flexing to the will of the world. Landmarks that defined a city more than its people, looking haughty and proud over its domain. Nobody seemed to notice the beauty in all of it. The way the buildings spoke to the world, telling stories to those that bothered listening. The thunder applauded the rain as it did it's kamikaze attack. The people pulled up their coats and ran fast, huddling to avoid the rain. The girl failed to see the point. You get wet, you get dry, you get wet again. It was the purpose of life. You didn't see the buildings seek cover. Instead they stood there and took it, daring the elements to do their worst. The water rolled off her skin, ticking her ever so slightly. She giggled and splashed in the puddles, sending little drops of rainbows into the air. The street grew more deserted, leaving her on her own. She walked, her reflection split a thousand times by the rain. Inside the buildings the people isolated themselves to the world, getting on with their jobs. Forever bemoaning that they were stuck in a concrete jungle. But the city wasn't an jungle, it was a playground. The problem was people just forgot how to have fun. The girl giggled and jumped in another puddle. It was playtime again.