Lyrics- ‘Heather’, by Conan Gray

I still remember, third of December…

You had a habit of keeping things. A keyring, a lock of hair, a stray red ribbon. You held them up to the light like they were treasure. I never understood why, not even when you explained they reminded you of life, so that fifty years later, when you were old and gray, you would look back on these memories with joy. Those memories weren’t even yours, yet you held them close.

The dinner table was set for four. Most chairs were never used, though. Mum still wiped every placemat down. Dad still buttered his eggs and fried his toast in front of the television. I gasped. The air pressed down.

No one smiled or shouted. Words became kindling.

When I dropped my spoon, Dad looked up. Mum raised her eyebrow.

A match was struck.

The start of something real again.

But then, they looked away again. The house fell silent.

Sometimes, I think we’ve burned, and all that’s left is the ache of ash learning to breathe.

Signing off…

You know, I’ve always thought of fame like a mirror- clean, polished, ever-so-perfect- a perfect reflection of joy and wealth and all you could ever want. But anyone who has ever watched Citizen Kane or Strictly Ballroom may just think that it’s a hall of mirrors- distorted, maybe a little dazzling, perhaps pretentious and sometimes incredibly ridiculous. And yet, for those reasons we rarely admit, we keep wandering into that hall, hoping that one of those mirrors will one day, show us the version of ourselves we secretly want
to be.

Lately, there’s been an onslaught of news about plane crashes. Not just an isolated incident- a strange pattern. Different countries, different airlines, different reasons, but the same quiet fear that rises every time.