Am I being mean if I’m waiting for the day I get to be alone again? Selfish, I admit. To be responsible for and answerable to myself and no one else.
Tired of playing grown-up. Because being a grown-up means so many things I don’t want to be.
Responsible. Stable. Rational.
Waiting for the day I get to cry again. To not have to care about how my emotional state affects another.
Anger, sorrow, frustration, despair.
Waiting for the day the reflection turns true again. When the water is still enough to flow unchecked.
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.
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.
When every light feels too bright, make friends with the shadows in your mind. Wonder if that love will last forever. If they will be by your side in every tomorrow, or forsake you for easier prey. For you fight even as you give in. Put up walls that turn hollow. Leave scratches in the nothingness.
You cannot hurt that which does not feel.
You wonder if betrayal is coming. You wait, and you hope, and hide thoughts of what you are hoping for.
Do a good job at work, and you just get handed more work by the boss. We’ve all seen it happen, right? And there comes a point when you start to wonder if you should have just done a sloppier job, because the additional pressure is too much.
Interestingly, things work exactly the same way with masks. Do too good a job of hiding yourself from others, and they just give you an extra push or two or ten. And you start to wonder if you should have just done a sloppier job, because the additional pressure is too much.
Let the scars show and they are scared enough to leave you alone.
The problem with that, though, is trying to answer the question of whether you would be able to stand at all without your mask. Or will you be naked and crying on a cold stone floor.
Maybe the pressure isn’t that bad after all.
Weightless. Happy. At peace. Surrounded by tenderness. Hazy dreams of dim lights and soft edges, gentle caresses of souls.
I am floating, through time. Floating through reality.
What is now? What was then?
Silence, and the freedom that comes of the silence.
Meandering through dreams of nowhere and nothing, wrapped in love, and care, and kindness, and friendship – I am safe.
Books. Clothes. Gifts. Photos. Where does it end? How many things do I have to get rid of before it’s done? Before I feel sufficiently sanitised to take “clean-up” off my to-do list?
Each action, each deletion kills a part of me. So many holes now that I don’t know whether I’m more here or missing.
I do wonder sometimes how is it that I am still alive, how is it that I still breathe, and walk, and even laugh on occasion.
I do wonder sometimes about how little is left of who I was.
What do people see when they look at me? Do they still see me or has enough of me vanished that they just look through me?
The gold is gone. Today, tomorrow, or next week, which will be the day that someone realises the worthlessness of what’s left?
At least it will free me of the burden of having to stand any longer.
I’ve never been good at decision-making. Except when it is really important. Any time it isn’t absolutely critical that I make a decision and that I make it quickly, I delay. I can’t make up my mind. I flit from choice to choice. The question of what to wear takes on astronomical proportions. Ordering food turns into a mini nightmare. Choices that don’t really matter. Choices I don’t have to live with for more than a few hours. Choices that don’t affect my tomorrow, unless I’ve chosen to have some really bad food.
For the choices that do matter but aren’t very time critical, I usually know what I want in the first few moments, but I often get caught between the “what I want” and “what I believe I should want.” Unable to choose between the two, I vacillate for as long as I can, either till someone makes the choice for me, or till the moment when I can’t delay the decision any longer, and then I make a well-analysed and considered but still spur-of-the-moment decision.
Why? That is for another time.
Today, I need to decide between the logical choice, the comfortable and convenient choice, and what I want. Accepting, and admitting, what I wanted all along is the first step. Step two is acting on it. Step 3 is living – and celebrating – the choice.
Working on Step 2 right now. Hopefully, the future is right around the corner.
Beginnings would be perfect if they did not always come alongside endings. Should I celebrate the ending or the beginning? For the choice between celebration and mourning has already been made.
Places have memories. Every scene is populated by friendly ghosts. But ghosts are all they are. Emotion dies in the same second in which it is born. The only way to hold on is to recreate it every moment, answer every second if it is worth it. Or give in to the comfort of familiarity.
It is hard to admit. I’d always thought of myself as a fairly strong, independent woman. Someone with her own identity that went beyond being someone’s daughter, someone’s sister. And yet, at some point, without even realizing it, I had become that girl. So intent on making others happy that I was convinced that those were the things that I wanted. I was on a road where I believed I was making my own choices at every turn, but I was really only making one choice – to walk the path someone else wanted me to.
The scariest part? I didn’t even know I was lost. I didn’t even know I wasn’t myself anymore. That I had changed into someone I didn’t even like. Someone who didn’t know how to be happy.
And I’m left wondering just how bad a place I was in that I feel so free now.