Old Flames

We're friends now. Now that we are no longer together. Now that the fire has burnt itself out. Friends who take long walks and go out for coffee, stay on the phone for hours saying nothing. That kind of friends.
"Remember when I told your mom I'd marry you?" Brown eyes crinkling at the corners, full of laughter at the memory.
I do. We were 6. I also remember when he changed his mind. Sometimes there's no stopping life.
"Remember that dinner we missed entirely because we were busy talking?"
Hours and hours of plans. Do I always want the things I can't get? I shiver.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I reply, "something walked over my grave."
Shaking his head at me. "You're so morbid."
Do you remember when I wasn't, I want to ask.
There are other memories. The first time he tousled my hair affectionately, a non-verbal 'hey buddy' and me blinking, wondering at the change. When had we become buddies? The first time I looked into his eyes and saw the complete absence of all the old excitement. Where had it gone? The moment of acceptance, it would never be the same again. Somewhere along the way I had been left, irrevocably, behind. And that silent moment in your living room, so innocuous and mundane, when you first spoke her name softly to yourself, as if your thoughts were far away, while I stared at the TV and held my breath so you wouldn't hear it changing.
"Give me your hand."

I stiffen, abruptly called back to the present by the demand. "Why?"

"Give it to me." Laughing at me, like its all a big surprise.

I extend it reluctantly.

He picks it up, makes a fist and turns it over. Then he picks a fallen eye-lash off my cheek and places it on the back of my hand, where it quivers helplessly in the wind.

"You always wished on them. Remember?"

And suddenly I hate him. A tidal wave of hot burning anger that has me almost shaking. I remember, I want to say, but why do you?
I say nothing however.
Instead I close my eyes and pretend to be giving my wish some thought.

When I open my eyes, he's looking at me intently. "Well?"

"I can't tell you or it won't come true."

He rolls his eyes, half-amused, half-annoyed.

"Well, I hope it was good."
He takes my arm.

"It was." I gently disengage myself and smile vaguely. "Feel like coffee?"
Thinking we have to be the strangest friends in the world, one so heedless, the other so yielding. One whose eyes look to the future, the other constantly trapped in the past. Life is not as simple and easily planned as it is at six. Life is not only light, but sometimes a blinding dark. And very often it is many shades of grey.

Damages

Sometimes I feel sorry for myself. Not in the way that most people would think. Not from grievance or resentment. Nothing passionate there. No flashes of feeling, burning red-hot. But coolly, calmly. Even remote. Like it's all happening to someone else.
And now there are two sides to me. The one with the flayed skin, the flesh wounds, struggling hard to hold on to some modicum of control. The other, the spectator. So rational in the midst of a personal storm.
It'll be fine, I can hear me telling myself. It'll pass, it always does. In a hour or two, the tears will stop and then you need to think of tomorrow, cold compress to help with the puffiness round the eyes and a strategy, to look and sound normal. How about reading that book now, a little distraction? You'll forget then. Oblivion, while there are still pages to turn.
Horrifying, that little voice. A clean split. I'm no longer who I used to be last year or the year before, the good years. Instead I'm six again. A terrified six. Or thirteen. Fifteen and lying in bed, feeling all the horrors of a forgotten dream, deliberating on the damages.
Now the headaches are starting again. Once more, my body is turning against itself. It must suffer because in my head is a clean split. And the calm me? It is not concerned with scars, nor with splits. Even the self-damage, even that, remains remote. And for that, I'm sorry.

Between pages

Life is strange like that. The long journey in which many things are forgotten. Then a half-turn and suddenly it's just as if you walked back in time. Like picking up a book you haven't read in years and finding a faded picture inside you'd forgotten was there. Or a pressed daisy, crumbled leaf and all.

This is my crumbled leaf and all.

"Sometimes it is possible to feel such grief that you think you cannot go on. And yet know you must. It is possible to see what's coming and then tell yourself I am prepared, I am prepared, I am....
Sometimes it is possible to build walls around yourself and think it is strong, it is strong, it is.
Sometimes it is possible to deal with a secret sorrow by reminding yourself that I've had practice, I've known worse, I've known worse.
And yet....how easy it is for the voices of your heart to drown out all the things your head is saying.
While trying not to think of the one thing you should be telling yourself...I have been a fool. Such a fool."

Someone once said that to be taken for granted is the highest form of compliment. That what it really means is that you have become such an integral part of their lives that they cannot imagine one without you, they expect you are always around, just like one expects the sun to rise at the start of each day and darkness at the end of each one.

What this really means, among other things, is that people tend to get accustomed to anything. What a good thing it is, and how convenient, that our hearts get used to things. People and places, love and loss, joy and sadness.

I stare at my handwriting, heavily smudged and sloppy, my turbulent feelings apparent even without the words. I try to remember when this was written. And why.

I know what it means, can even guess at the circumstances. But when I try searching for the particulars, I find I draw a blank. I'm more unsettled by this than by the finding of the note. For it means something. Of that I'm sure. But what?

Am I stronger? Or merely reconciled?
Is this self-delusion? Or was it wising up?
Are these walls? Or am I free?

The answers however, whatever they might be, will never change what someone once said. That our hearts will get used to things....

Such a very good thing.

Screaming

I read a story a while ago. While reading it, my over-riding feeling was one of horror, like someone watching an accident happen in slow motion. Awful to witness but you can't look away. You're thinking oh my god, someone do something because the sense of helplessness is paralysing. And once I was done reading, I found I couldn't put it out of my mind. It's nothing concrete that you can effectively pin down, just this swirl of feelings in your head that doesn't let up and gives no peace. Phantasmic impressions that delight in eluding you. It was clear the author understood the power of words very well. And once I was done I thought I wish I could write like that.

The thought itself is not new, or even unique. It happens every time I am faced with a blank page. The need to tell a story, and tell it well. Sometimes it drives me crazy, this need. I stare at the words in front of me and it's my handwriting I see, and yet strangely enough they aren't my words at all. They don't feel mine. The thought behind it is mine but the words itself are those of a child just beginning to communicate. So I have to polish and sand, chipping away a word here, a word there. Throwing out everything that is superfluous. Worrying about saying too much, not saying enough. Trusting that ultimately what I feel will interact with the pen I wield and it will be as I ask. That ultimately I can use words not just to a sastisfying conclusion but to paint a picture in the mind that never quite fades.

Just lately my concerns have gotten more basic. Lately I stare at that blank page and find I have nothing to say. Nothing at all. Something that was as easy as breathing has now suddenly become impossible. There's a lack of emotion and a lack of inventiveness that scares me because I don't know the reason behind it. It's like trying to scream when you have no voice. In desperation I turned to my other long-forgotten creative outlet and sketched yesterday, for what just may be the first time in four years and it was awfully mundane. I sat there staring at the end result and trying not to panic. I make no claims of superior skill. My writing, just like my art is mainly for me. Other people may shake their heads at it but it satisfies me, it keeps me sane. I don't want it to go away. I don't want to think about what will be left if it does. A vacuum? A giant black-hole? And while my eyes absently moved over the grey, neatly pencilled wine glass and table, I wondered why. I wondered what happened to screams when you hold them in for too long.

Kay Sera Sera

There's a moment of silence when she stops talking. I can sense her nervousness, her need for my approval. Best of friends, even with ten years between us. Her hands are toying with the napkin on the table, as are mine. Except that, on my part, it's a delaying tactic. Playing her words over again in my head. "He's a very nice guy. Good to me. We both know it's not going anywhere but....for once, I find myself removed from all the other drama happening in my life. When it's time, we'll deal with it."
Finally I look up. Because I can't not say something. "It's not as easy as you think."
"I know," she says, as only the young can. Pushing a strand behind her ear, relief that my reaction is so low-key.
No, I think sadly, you don't. Suddenly feeling old, so old. You can't know. Until you're there. It's never easy to walk away. Or be walked away from. You think you can 'deal with it' but only with an awful lot of bruising.
I've been there. Not that long ago either. The need to experience the stuff of poems and songs. The desire for flight. The thrill of excitement, of anticipation. Taking that first step off firm ground onto thin ice. Or a deep chasm. Nothing is as blinding as the illusion of control.
I can handle it.
Breathless with a new kind of excitement. Slipping and sliding, always gaining momentum. An almost fall. Heart pounding as you catch yourself, pressing a hand against your stomach, laughing nervously because wow, that was close. But then....
If I slow my pace a bit, I can handle it.
The fall comes too fast for comprehension. A blur of motion, till you hit bottom. Struggling for breath, feeling your bruises in bewilderment. How it all hurts.
I didn't know it hurt so much.
"What?" she says sharply, breaking into my thoughts . She's getting wired up again.
"I.." I stop. How do you tell her? I have half-formed ideas of locking her in a room until she's older, keep her safe from all hurts.
"Don't invite complications. There's no sense in that." I can tell though that she's not listening. She hears what I'm saying, but she's not listening. I fall silent.
"I know what I'm doing," she says, re-assuringly.
No, I think, you don't.
But there's nothing I can do. Her wings are eager for flight.
"Well, I'm here if you ever want to talk."
A glowing smile. "I know." Flicking her hair back again, in a smooth confident move.
What will be will be.

My favourite mistake

It felt like spring was a long time coming. But it's here now and it doesn't disappoint. A perfect day. An explosion of colors. Clear blue skies, wild flowers of every hue dancing to the whims of an impish breeze, all manner of living things crawling at our feet, buzzing in our ears. Never is the world so full of hope as in spring.
It's infectious, this sense of gladness. I see it translated in the way people are walking, a bounce in their steps. You can see it in the way they absently raise their faces to the sun, the deep breaths they draw, the way they linger outside....concrete has lost its appeal. Only a precious few are cognizant of the magic in the air. But even unaware, we are touched by it. The never-ending cycles of birth and re-birth. Life growing leaf by leaf and the world, its enthralled witness.
Spring is hope. Spring is new life. Spring is to be finally free of you.

I sit on the park bench and watch you watch her. Maybe its her legs, maybe her silken hair. Maybe it's because she's greener grass. Maybe it doesn't matter why. Or maybe it does, and I don't want to know. Taking deep, trembling breaths to keep the hurt at bay. Still, I can't help watching.
As I think, I've been here before. Countless times now in our past. A never-ending cycle of depair and self-directed loathing. Nothing you do can make me leave. And you don't have to do a thing to make me stay. A craving that won't be stopped...but oh, the bitter taste. Now here I am again, watching you watch another. My favourite mistake.
It's been a long, long winter. Never has spring been so long coming. When it comes, I wonder..will Spring disappoint?

Labels

I'm many things to many people. An introvert. An optimist. A passivist sometimes, a fatalist. I've even been accused of being an idealist.
And they all agree I'm a dreamer. Apparently that is a very bad thing.
Feeling little-girl whimsical because someone told me, as if I don't already know, that I dream too much. A habit, I'm told, I have to break if I'm to make it in this big, bad world. All my fantastic, impossible, silly, 80" queen-sized dreams....brushed away like invisible specks of dust.
On the phone with my mother, convincing her that I'm not going to settle for anyone described as being suitable. Prince Charming was a lot of things..tall, dark, handsome but 'suitable'..? I think not. Holding back a sigh as I tell her I'm not waiting for unrealistic dreams to come true, I just want to be happy.
At lunch with my friend as she spiritedly waves her fork in the air, in complete agreement because 'happiness,' she tells me, 'is everyone's goal. That's what all this mad rush is about.' Gazing at people rushing about, watching life pass us by while we lunch. Reminded of a class years ago and the professor's slow pacing as he said 'Very often in our relationships we're saying I don't want to be happy, I just want to be with you.' Thinking there's a contradiction there somewhere and an important lesson waiting to be learnt. Grasping at the intangible. Surely a job for the dreamer?
Watching students file out after handing in their assignments, smiling and murmuring until one of them gets my attention about the assignment they were given. 'I find it strange that people desire to feel a certain way. Life is about experiences. Live, then let go,' while smiling sweetly at me. Dazedly smiling back, feeling my gut clench and lunch-time reassurances withering away. Am I so wrong then that I desire to feel a certain way? He doesn't understand the 'I'm glad you don't know my mom' remark but smiles politely anyway.
And now, lying in bed, feeling the burden of my thoughts and the weight of my decisions, past and present...hesitant and unsure of the right answers. Feeling panic because I'm not sure I even know the question. Knowing that I can make all of this go away simply by clicking off that mental switch and withdrawing to a secret place where there are no questions and no answers. Where lines between reality and unreality blur so easily.....but no, I'm trying to break the habit. Thinking that everyone is wrong. I'm not a dreamer, I'm an escapist. But who wants to argue semantics?

Tuesday nothings

Feeling trivial today...I wonder if that's even a real mood. Made a statement earlier in the day that I just know is going to come back to haunt me later. Arrghhh. What I really should have gotten for X'mas is a time machine. Also learnt something new. If you stick the word 'mouldy' in google, among other things it will lead you to J.K.Rowling's website, which I personally find very strange. Felt the need to let off steam because I have a really big test in two days so watched TV for 5 straight hours. Right. Makes perfect sense.
A random stream of thoughts lead to the topic of apologies and who I would ask for forgiveness if I could. And damned if I couldn't come up with anyone. This was shocking. Either I've bought my own public image. Or I'm due to sprout a pair of wings in a year or two. I wonder if you can wear pink with a halo.

The taste of metal

Sometimes I sit there and worry about not feeling. And at others this appears as high comedy. Because really that isn't my problem at all. That has never been my problem. The trouble is I feel too much. My cross is that I wound too easily. Who knew words can be as acid on the flesh?

Sometimes I think I have no instinct of self-preservation. I remember a long time ago, watching in silence and some contempt, moths that couldn't seem to resist the flames. Now I understand better the fascination they can hold. Who knew something so pretty can be so deadly?

Sometime I lie at night listening to the sounds of distant laughter, to the faint strains of music carried on the wind, gay chatter muffled by walls that seperate. And the loneliness is a tangible lump inside me that restricts my breathing. Who knew pain has a taste like metal?

Lists and things

Ever noticed how useful lists can be? Not just shopping lists and to-do lists. The other kind....lists that tell you who you are and how you got there, what you want and why. I like such lists. They sometimes teach me surprising things. Of course they work best if you ask surprising questions. My most recent one is headed "When am I faking it?" Different is not always normal. And normal is rarely interesting. My lists then aren't particularly meant to serve any purpose. They just exist..crystallized forms of my mind's meanderings. My soul's pilgrimage.

1. I fake attention when people are talking about sports. (I'm a girl, I don't 'do' sports.) And string theory, because..really, who cares.
2. I fake sympathy when I see someone who has so much, whining over petty nothings. I really just want to plant them a facer.
3. I fake concern when someone is telling me how they're too buzy to do a certain task because I'm too buzy dreading the request that follows.
4. I'm faking it when I tell people stripes look good on them. Or the color yellow, which I hate. Or both.
5. I am faking indifference when someone I care about is being delibrately mean to me, so they won't see how much it really hurts.
6. The look on my face that says 'whatever' when the people I love are telling me things that are good for me? Fake. Usually I'm plain mad. I hate when they are right.
7. I fake laughter when people on the ladder above me make innane jokes and remarks that I consider inappropriate and/or lacking in intelligence.
8. I fake politeness and curtesy to people who have stabbed me or my friends or my family in the back.
9. I fake understanding when the conversation is about the 'situation in the middle east'. (I'm never sure what that situation is exactly. As far as I know, there's always been a situation there. But maybe I'm just missing the finer points.)
10. I fake confidence because it seems like everyone around me have plans for their lives. I don't have a 'plan'. Unless you count eating breakfast and feeding the cat 'plans'. Where are they all going, I wonder? How do they know that's where they want to go? And who gave them a map?

Me? I live my life strictly on a day-to-day basis. Any day I haven't been run over is a good one. Any day I'm actually prepared with an umbrella and it rains, is a day marked with a red letter. I wander around...down blind alleys, unmarked streets, and sometimes losing my way. Turning corners and crossing bridges. Building sand-castles, watching them collapse. Crying because I really thought this one could stand the tide, I really did. Breaking the faith. Making friends and gaining enemies. Watching the relationships in my life change with time, distance, circumstances. Keeping the faith. Hurting and getting hurt. Trying to find myself, only to lose myself a little more.
But if you have lists, they can serve as markers on the journey. When you've lost your way yet again and you're really wishing you had that map, the lists can help you remember. Small things. Unimportant things. Things you'd forgotten. Things that will make you smile. Things that will shock. And it might not be a map but they're darned good at reminding you of what you've left behind. And the long way you've come. And somehow, knowing you've been there before or somewhere like it, and survived, makes it a little better.

Essay: In praise of days

It's been a while since I last took pen to paper. Sometimes that scares me more than anything else does. Because very often it means I've run out of things to feel. I only write what...when...I feel...and when that stops, your mind becomes a scary place. You become aware of the vaguely formed bogeys silently holding a vigil on the edges of your consciousness. And the recycled thoughts. Like a tape that's stuck so you hear the same tune over and over again. And in 2/3 rds indifference and 1/3 rd fascination you watch to see how long it will go on this time. If nothing else a degree in psychology teaches you to catalogue well and keep good records.
When the lights have been turned off and along with it all the noises of the day, it's easy to believe that I'm at the bottom of a very deep well. From where I am, the surface seems a long away off and the sky even further. If I squint I can almost see the brighteness that lies just outside, barely visible but as beyond my reach as the stars. And with horror I see that my hands have been digging deeper into the earth, as if by their own accord and most definitely against my will. No, I tell my hands, that's not the way to go, it's up I want. They don't seem to care but I still do. I think. Then I wonder if maybe they've pledged allegiance to an invisible enemy. Why is it so hard to get your mind to listen? But then the sun comes out and you find it's another brand new day, with so much to do, so much to accomplish, a schedule to stick to..so you can cheat a little and not listen to your mind either. You may never win the war but there's a measure of satisfaction in knowing you're not making it too easy either.
And that is why I like days best.