One year. Sometimes it feels like I still haven’t woken up from that dream. The mysterious dream haze of that day and that week and that month…
It’s just you and me. The world and everyone in it – intruders all. To be kept out. Away. Just us.
Sometimes I still tremble when you kiss me. The way you can turn me on with just a glance. The way your touch can make me feel better anytime, anywhere. How it means so many things. Comfort, ownership, love, companionship, desire.
I love how you are willing to fight with me to protect me. Even though you hate fighting. I love the ring in your voice when you tell me, oh-so-matter-of-factly, that you would do anything to protect me. Even though I wouldn’t want you to.
I love the whispered words that never reach my ears, the kisses in the night while I sleep, the way I can melt into you with no awkwardness of elbows and knees.
A perfect fit.
You learn something new everyday. Yesterday, I watched a video on Facebook and learnt how to make home-made cough drops. Today, on a phone call, I learnt that 1 is greater than 7.
I learnt that when you push the pain out of your body, the expulsion is physical. Tears. Vomit. The inability to breathe.
That there is a point beyond tears, filled with nothingness. It is a quiet place to be once the violence is over.
That what has once been broken can never be fully fixed. It will always be a fractured thing, cracks showing in weak spots.
That numbness might not be such a bad thing after all. Okay, I’d learnt that one already but a reminder is always good.
That “Okay” might be the most painful thing to hear. That it can be the one word to change your life.
They say that when you stop learning you stop living. But what if you don’t survive the lesson?
“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.
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.
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.
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.
The flames are pretty while they last. Torrid heat that melts even as it burns.
The embers are warm and comforting, familiar, welcoming.
But what is left after the fire burns out?
Don’t die yet, there is still some warmth to be had. Don’t die yet, make the flames flicker up again if you just try hard enough.
Don’t die, you scream, even as you know that it is too late.
Ash. The colour of death. The inevitable end to the beginning.
Cold. Dark. Lonely.
Is this where you are meant to be in this moment?
What hurts the most when something breaks? Is it the sense of loss? The jagged edges digging into your skin? The sound of shattering, a silent scream in your heart?
No, it is the realization that something that was once beautiful and precious has now become valueless. It is the realization that what was once your comfort can now only give you pain.
Slow drops, rolling down to the ground. Blood mingling with tears. Convulsions. And silence.
You scream, and there is no longer anyone to hear, anyone to care. No hands to reach out for, no breathing next to you to calm your own.
Everything dies. You know, you accept, but you don’t believe. Not really.
Bury it deep, because I am scared. But is there deep enough to hold the ghosts? Silent witnesses to my silent death.