Scarlet

Hers was a tragic life, a tragic story full of sad songs and broken desires, and people letting her down. She was abused, used and thrown away more often than any person ever should be. Yet she dreamed, and she dreamed full and bright. She took chances and she ran free, following whims that led her down dark streets and into studios in LA. We used to talk online, chat about philosophy and life and the people we'd known. And I loved her art.
We were so different, opposite in so many things. And yet she understood some part of me that I could never really explain to anyone else, and maybe I did for her too. Maybe she got tired of the things that made us different, or maybe she just moved on. I wish that she were still here, reading this. There was this beauty in her heart that appealed to me, amidst her brokenness and weariness and questionable lifestyle, this poetry that pulled out pieces of purity and bliss, and also a little bit of the ugly things no one likes to talk about. And it made her who she was, that honesty.
She knew darkness like few people do, yet she staggered toward the light so often, reaching her hands out in front of her, squinting straight ahead at the little glimmers that came and went, wishing from her depths that she could grasp it, yet always being evaded. She understood so many things, knew what was best, but still found comfort in a darkness, in the twilight between day and night.
Art poured out from within her, from those broken places that remembered abuse and misuse, from the whole places that saw heaven up ahead, from the heart where fires burn in love and hatred. She could be in movies, she could stand on the stage unafraid, all the while wondering if she was good enough for any of it. And if any of it was good enough for her.
So now she sings and plays piano, and I hope she never goes back to the life before that, where she wandered and questioned and fought. I hope she still fights, though, in searching for the truth and for shimmering things lost in the murk of lies, fights for herself against those who can't appreciate what she does and who she is. I hope she wanders back into my life, because I miss her and think of her often. Most of all, I hope we walk together in heaven and find the pure art, the way it was meant to be all along.