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.
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.
People want to believe that life is good. That there is hope. And promise.
So when you tell them that you are okay, they want to believe it. Sometimes, they need to believe it. Because that lets them believe that they’ll be okay too.
Much used. Much abused.
It hides when you don’t know what to say.
It hides when your heart is screaming something, but you don’t let yourself say it out loud.
It hides your opinions, melting you into agreeable agreement.
It hides whatever you want it to hide.
I’m OK, thank you for asking.
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.
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.
The truly beautiful soul will never know its own beauty, never be comfortable with its own praise, never believe in its own greatness. It will resist, even going so far as to reject, what it deems to be undue praise, even that which is far less than what it actually deserves.
No soul can be deemed beautiful unless true humility forms a part of it.
A soul that shines brightly as the sun must needs be blind to it. This is one area where self-awareness should fail. It is not for you to see how brightly you shine, it is for others to wonder at, and respect, and love, and aspire to.
You don’t know who you are. The intensity of your glow is untempered, your heart untainted by any thoughts of greatness. You are one of us. And yet, you are so much more.
Your essence brings light to the universe.
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.
How do you stop someone bleeding?
How do you hear the pain in their voice and not want to destroy the universe that let them hurt?
How do you deal with the powerlessness of being able to do neither?
Hear the screams echoing in the emptiness. Hear the screams drowned by something too dark to name. Scratches on the walls, the monster rises to protect its own.
And you watch. And you hurt. And you weep for what is lost in the tower.