Terra Incognita

Is the first poem I fell in love with. I forgot the exact reason why—perhaps it was the sirens that haunt my dreams as well, perhaps it was the ship sailing, perhaps it was simply the words "uncharted waters."

Uncharted. I fell in love with that uncertainty.

I have tried to recreate that mood, but without much success. Something about it did not sound right, and so I gave up poetry, because what good was poetry if it could not express my uncharted waters?

Whatever they were. I am not sure I know what they are to me.

. . .

Going back to my old stories, I can find a couple recurring characters. Nate, Allison, and of course Syrena. She of the sirens. I had not realized that when I first named her. Her name came from Syreille, which itself was some blend of French and inspiration.

Syreille and Carenallie. Some mismatch, and there was Syrena. My siren. Who was a hymn angel, who sang, who could bend wills with her songs.

That I realized she was a siren in disguise was much, much later.

It was the same with Allison Carter. I realized he was a musician after I realized every piece I wrote about him described him either in a band or playing an instrument. A guitar. He played the guitar. There was no intention, these Allison Carters were not supposed to be exactly the same, but they were. They were all guitarists, and I only realized that after three stories.

Some characters are real, even if they are not rooted in reality.

. . .

I drew yesterday. Started out with what I knew worst, hands. I drew a hand and changed it into a glove, because I did not have the courage to add the arm.

Eyes. Turned into a mask worthy of any masquerade. Pearl necklace with a nautical-themed charm. Sea shells. Feathers. Perfume in a bottle, tickets to some unknown world, rope in a noose burning on one end.

Lipstick. Powder. Camera and ink, pens and pencils and pencil shavings. Nail polish. A photo of the past, earphones and an iPod. Knife with blood. An eraser.

"I love you, and I know you love me. But I can't stay. I'm sorry."

. . .

Absurd. All absurd.

No more turning back.