Too fast. Too blurred. Too many.
Eyes tearing up from the strain.
Follow the thread. To the end.
Search scramble struggle through.
The labyrinth. Dark corners. Sharp edges. Falling. Soft. Even the blade gives no light.
Walk. Can’t stand. But walk.
Sleep filled with fire. Watching dreams burn. I burn. Feed others.
What’s the difference?
Clothes. Coals. Houses.
Smoke up. It is everywhere after all.
Watch the fight. A step away. Above. Untouched.
Watch the edges singe. Paper curls as it burns. Do you?
But it is just candlelight.
What am I afraid of?
Fire or water, they asked.
Fire or water, they said.
But they both chose me.
“The past has always been my happy place.”
Something I wrote just 4 months ago. A little surprised that it is no longer true. My feelings towards my past have not changed. But my present… Warmer, rosier, more gold than anything else. Peep holes turned into doorways, chains pulled away, windows that have been unlocked, fingers that have been unclenched. Reached out.
It is always scary when you realize how much power one person holds over you – your happiness, your time, your state of mind. When you let someone in, it is wonderful and terrifying and intoxicating at the same time. Manage to hold the fear in, and it is the warmth of someone’s hand on yours, the touch that says only one thing, “I am here with you.”
And that is the most important thing to say after all.
Flying and floating. The wind, a friend.
Waves in the sky. Cold that can’t touch me, can’t wake me. Dreams that are no dreams.
Pure. Untempered. Untouched.
The colour of peace. The colour of my happiness. The glow around me.
The sunrise that is soft light and music and warmth stealing up on me.
I dream, while the shadows sleep.
10 months and counting. But the tears don’t stop. The pauses sometimes get longer. But that is all, and that is sometimes.
Always just under the surface. A thin layer of paint, a thin layer of pretend-forgetfulness holding them in. All it takes is a scratch. And I bleed. Red flowing away. Me flowing away. Where do I go to? The dark river carries away the question. Brings back no answers.
Will what is lost ever come back?
Pieces of me that are missing. Gone forever. A hole that will always be there. Always incomplete. Always searching. Always yearning for something that wasn’t.
I’ve looked at the past for a long time. Not long enough, and yet… Long enough.
I’m not ready to look at the future. Except for cautious sideways glances so brief that the brain can’t catch up with what the eye sees.
Forced to exist in the present, I’m not really sure what to do. It is a little scary, and a little thrilling. It has also forced the question – where did I live earlier? I know I’ve never lived in the future. No grand dreams consumed me, not every step I took was to lead me down a predetermined path to a predetermined goal.
That left the past, and the present. And that is where it got a little confusing.
The past has always been my happy place. Good memories bathed in a golden glow that probably made them more beautiful than reality, and bad memories with angles softened till there were no sharp edges – and enough soft haze to blunt out the pain. This is not to say that I don’t have painful memories. It is just that those are more like memories of memories. Enough distance to make it not hurt.
And the present? The whole “living in the moment” bit has never been my thing. But is “the present” bigger than “the moment?” I hope so. I’ve almost always been happy with my circumstances, never looking back on past riches (whether real or perceived) with regret or a sense of loss. Maybe just a little wistfulness. I’ve never really mourned lost friends. Out of sight equals out of mind. Or lost opportunities. Might have been great but this isn’t too bad either.
So, then, what? Where? Am I just floating along on the clouds? Is any part of my life real to me? Or is it all just dream-haze?
Listicle. A hot new word I learnt at my hot new job. What better way to celebrate a new job, a new city, and, hopefully, a new phase in the life of my blog, and, even more hopefully, a new phase in my life, than a new type of blog post? Well, honestly, I can think of a few but mentioning those here wouldn’t really go with the flow, would it? So much better to ignore that thought. So here is my first ever listicle – 10 Reasons I Hate Being Told I’m Pretty.
- Because I don’t really believe that I am.
- Because it brings up the thought that I’m not really pretty, and that makes me a little sad because I like pretty things. Of course, if I had to choose between pretty things and functional things I’d almost always go for functional, but pretty AND functional doesn’t hurt, right?
- Because it makes me feel like I’m pretending to be something I’m not, somehow fooling the other person into seeing something that doesn’t exist. Why? See point No. 1.
- Because any time I do believe it, it makes me blush.
- Because I’m uncomfortable being judged for something I have no control over.
- Actually, I’m just uncomfortable being judged.
- Because I have a problem with labels. “Hey, pretty girl!” or “Hey, Cool/ Smart/ Loving/ Intelligent/ Wise/ Funny/ Caring girl”, I’d just rather do without the label.
- Because despite point No. 6, if I had to pick a label I wouldn’t go with pretty. Wise sounds pretty good (unless it is used sarcastically), as does funny (unless it is used sarcastically.) Hmmm… maybe there is a point there after all.
- Because I’m scared of stereotypes, even as I recognize their necessity. And the “pretty girl” stereotype isn’t one I am comfortable with.
- Because prettiness fades. And I’m scared of what happens when it does. If all you see when you look at me is pretty, what when the pretty no longer exists?
- Because deep down, I’m just a shy little girl, who, suddenly, for one moment, wonders if she is a princess after all.
A butterfly on your palm. A dog at your feet. A cat curled up in your lap. Me, reaching for you in sleep.
Love, and trust. Your soul warming mine. Your promise glowing in my heart. Hold the threads of my life. Hold me.
The sound of your voice my guide through dreams. Your hand on mine my shelter. Weave me into you. Absorb. Consume. Hide.
Keep me in shadow. Your love shines too bright.
What hurts more – when love turns to hate? Or when love turns to unconcern? How can you and I have changed so much that we longer even care enough to hate?
It takes too much. Too much time. Too much energy. Too much space in my mind. Too much that I don’t have to give. Too much that I don’t want to give. Is it the same for you?
A little bit of hate. A little bit of sorrow. A little bit of anger. Just so I know you matter. Just so I know I matter. Just so I know we remember.
I hope someday you think of me and smile and miss me just a little.
Shards of glass. Beautiful diamonds reflecting light. Transparent. Look through and see that there is no heart. Childish faith in innocence. You cannot hear it break.
The pieces surround you. Even the screams make no sound.
You are here. The start of the puzzle. Remake and live. But can you remake belief? Flounder, then, in scattered existence.
Don’t look. For that will bring fear. But it hurts anyway. Colour spreads and the bowl fills with red. If only the pain would flow as easily.
Come to me as a friend. Hold me in your embrace. Strip away everything. Till there is nothing left to do but cower quietly, and watch the pieces fall as they may.
It is so easy to forget that you can fly. Earth-bound for long enough, you forget that you have wings, and that they can take you wherever you wish. Build a nest, get comfortable. And it begins to feel like home.
Is it fear that holds you there?
Why must you take flight?
Why should you stay?
I did not ask. Questions lost in the softness of complacence. Floating away in a stream of familiarity. Intoxication.
Show me some kindness. Push me over the razor-edge of decision. Take my choice away and save me.