Georgia has written an evocative poem below. Her use of repetition to build a rhythm is fantastic, as is her imagery – well done Georgia.
Something will come from nothing.
You feel rooted to the ground,
Rooted to the place where you once felt belonging.
Clutching at nothing but misty, blurred air,
You gather your jumbled thoughts.
You need to hang on something. Anything.
To ease your mind.
To make sure the powerful wind doesn’t whisk you off of the ground and into a dark, colourless oblivion.
To make sure that everything, this soft, painted-pastel terrain,
Which could disappear within the blink of an eye, with the slightest touch from a finger-tip,
That you’re real,
Not a ghost that occupies an empty, paper-white space.
Where you can see nothing.
Nothing but white.
Everywhere you turn, all that will come into vision, like before, will only be one colour.
Deathly, pale, white.
You clutch, and you clutch, you grab, and you claw,
But you find nothing. Nothing. Nothing but air.
Air everywhere, but that’s it.
You should be relieved by this fact, but you feel nothing.
Nothing, nothing but a deep emptiness in your stomach.
Nothing, nothing but air pushing against you. Threatening to whisk you away once again.
It sings, it whistles.
Air once used to be something you used to seek with desperation and heaving lungs.
You seek nothing.
You feel nothing.
You see nothing.
You hear nothing.