When the World Stops Spinning

Loneliness wins - or you do.

I have shared my methods of writing with you - letting my hand guide my pen freely with only an observation or feeling in mind.

But that is not entirely true.

Between posts, notes and writing to the void, I talk to my wife. Always.

From parenting to social issues, from philosophy to the cosmos - she never ceases to surprise me. She doesn’t really need a method at all, yet her way of seeing the world aligns with The Arkive. So it feels only right to stop asking her to quietly leave a heart at everything I publish, and instead include her voice here.

Without further ado - today’s post is written by the brilliant Stine. You might see her from time to time, so wish her welcome!

- Joakim

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It was never quite right. As I emerged from the womb, soft and silky, I found myself feeling like an island. With eyes piercing the water, wavy hair, and a deafening silence in my soon-to-be metallic head. My body was carved out of steel, but my heart stayed composed, strictly made out of tiny bits of glass. I knew she knew how wild it would be to survive within an island.

She held me tightly, pressed me against her chest, and told me to go with the flow. That nature would take her place instead. But I was too stubborn, too odd, too musical for her liking. My body belonged to the ocean. Nurture was reserved, saved for some darker future.

Little feet wading in water - alone.

Building skyscrapers in sand - alone.

Climbing palm trees - alone.

No one to push me through the waves.

My metallic head was filled with serenity, yet my glass heart fractured again and again. It is alarming to live without a soul, alarming to remember her hands tightening around my throat.

I sing of a boat without sails.

I dance with fire.

I draw power from mother earth.

I swear that the trees are speaking.

Feelings arise, pressed to enter my chest, but I beat it back with drums of iron. Pure rhythm, authentic living, no network in sight - I can say whatever I want -

like fuck your assumptions.

I was ancient before I was young, a true trickster in holy robes. I smile, teeth glistening, waving my hand like waves, staring at sheep on corrupted land. An eyepatch strapped to my skull, rowing away, before masses collect me, swallow me whole.

We belong to the ocean.

Before pollution, before heat struck lands, before filthy mouths shouted about growth. Down below, with the originals, where pearls in seashells are allowed to shine.

But it’s never quite right.

Isolation triggers some error up top. They know, I know, how loneliness festers. Without oars, without flare, without a mother’s hand - the world stops spinning.

One stroke for the head.

One stroke for the heart.

Two strokes for the gut in rebellion.

Fight for your place. Or cease to exist.

I might just wander -

an island adrift, steel and glass afloat.

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Since this is my first piece here, I’d really love to hear what you think!

If you want to keep reading what we create together - in his voice, mine, or both - subscribe and stay with us.