We are the patches of our parents, teachers, heroes, villains. We’re the quirks we picked up from old friends, habits we learned from family. We’re a little bit of everyone we meet, by being what they want or being what they don’t. We’re touched and moulded and changed by every little thing, some more than others.

Beneath this all there is a pattern to our absorbtion, the things we choose to be. There are influences that are stronger than others, are there not?

We are patterns. We are a legacy of a life lived and a journey undertaken, the final product of an unfolding story.

I remember a glorious time, beautiful, painstakingly wrought. It was not complete, but the foundations were laid and I knew where I was going with it. The story had begun. Then I lost it. After an appropriate period of mourning, I spent forever imagining it and telling everyone who would listen of its beauty. And it grew in the telling, until even in my mind, the pearls were turned to diamonds, the rough edges were smoothed away. Where there was age, I saw comfort. Where there were cracks, I saw character. Everywhere the work of the hammer was softened by memory to the delicate work of a GrandMaster’s chisel.

Today I pulled out that book. Flipped through the pages. Read some of those words that I thought were … just beyond description. And the pages crumbled beneath my fingers, and even my memory turned to dust. The words that remained were painstakingly put together, true. The attempt to be mysterious made them merely opaque. And none of it had the magic I wove into the memory of my beloved.

–

I found an old “manuscript” today. Needless to say, it makes my dead writing look good.

Much that once was, no longer is. My mind cannot wrap itself around all that I have lost, or perhaps willfully set aside.  Most people grow. I seem to have devolved. 

Maybe that is just as well. Perhaps it’s easier to fix the flaws on a lower model. 

Maybe it’s sour grapes.

I just miss the edgy, vivid ALIVE feeling that used to accompany writing.

I’m really uncoordinated today. Worried about the tan shoes, pink tank, brown sweater, black coat, giant black bag. It doesn’t go. This irritates me. 

I’ve run out of food in my room, and the wind is somehow cutting through my multicoloured scarf. I’m catching a cold. Hot boy walking next to me is talking, but since he doesn’t have more than two brain cells in his head, it’s easy to tune him out and just look at him. A dimple flashes, and I nod at him. Satified, he natters on. No doubt about the last time he got drunk, or this weekend’s game. Seriously, does no one have stories outside those two?

My career is heading downhill, I can’t seem to hold on. I know nothing, less than nothing, and what I know is probably wrong. Mendel’s laws are overthrown, stupidity is upheld as a virtue, epigenetics and cancer. My horizons are broadening, the land shifts beneath my feet and I am barely keeping my head over the water. Nothing fits right. I’ve hit the dreaded 60kgs. 

The world is changing. I want coffee. No one makes chai here, and I just want to return to the womb. But here I am, sharing personal space with a random guy who has nothing but a few genes and a whole lot of harmones going for him, politely pretend-listening, but really cataloguing everything that isn’t the way it ought to be.

Patch of ice. My head was turned towards the hot guy. On the sidewalk, looking up at a flustered, concerned him, ice below.

I don’t think I have the energy to pick me up again. 

—

Not quite fiction, but it isn’t all fact either. The boundaries blur.

It’s a bit morbid to hold on to the past. I always expect the smell of corpses and filthy clothing to waft past me when I start feeling sorry for myself, or start missing the wrong things or people. That isn’t to say that there haven’t been happy times – that’s what my giant stack of photo albums are for, diving into the happy times.

It when the sadness, guilt, unhappiness and sheer loneliness blindsides you on an otherwise perfectly normal day from a past you thought was buried that you need to start thinking about getting that shovel out and beginning an excavation.

Who knows? It might turn out to be prettier than it seems. And even if it isn’t – well, at least now I know what’s there.

Always and forever, my family. Friends – you know who you are and if you don’t know that it is you, then you ought to know that it is… Nanowrimo. Patience and acceptance where I didn’t expect it.
Genral basic luck from birth – a decent body, a working mind, health, food and shelter.

Bad things happen to people, and I’ve stayed mostly safe.

Every time I dream of him, he gets more and more real. This is the fourth time that I remember that I knew it was him, and now I don’t even know that he’s any different from all the others that populate my imagination.

He’s ruining me for real life, for the run of the mill nice guys, for the assholes. 

I’ve always been terrified of seeing his face, because once I did, it would be IT. Ka-splash. Camphor falls. End of story.  So why do I feel bad that he doesn’t exist?

My life is quite the most interesting imaginary toy I possess, and I’m taking it out for an experimental joy ride. My inner observer is back. I was watching today as we nagivated the complicated and infinitely interesting minefield of akwardness. A bit of hesitant maybe-maybe not. A smile, but not a frown, because that would make it even more messed up. Keep it nice, yes, friendly, yes.

There’s nothing quite like what might have been to make one doubt the intentions of another; nothing that can erase the slightly bitter tang of regret that comes of doing nothing.

And yet not having the courage to do something. 

You’d imagine that wearing red would make you feel confident. Bold. Vibrant.

It just feels like a giant bullseye painted on you, and like you’re screaming – victim here, please attack!

Did you know that the night sky isn’t black, it’s a rich deep velvet in blue? And the stars that sparkle in its midst are hard – blue diamonds too. I love the vivid orange, the burnt tangy feel of it. And the warmth and happiness that a lemony yellow gives. Calm me if you can, whisper the many shades of green: the carpet of the golfing sport is a hushed melody. I’d tell you how every colour feels, for they  are tiny keys. Unlocking the way I look at life, and offering a sneak peek: see, every soul is a collage of many swirling eddies (of current or color, it’s same thing). But I have not the time to tell another, I have yet to learn – so many things, so many shades (no, it’s not an acid dream!)

Oh!
Tell me why you think it strange that I touch and taste and feel colors? 

Well, she’d love colors too if she could see them, but she sees only in black and white. And as for colors – well, they are but shades of light.

I want my poisons to be prettily packaged, please. Enticing with its smell, or it’s amazing texture that makes you want to touch. And maybe it’ll do interesting things, just so I won‘t get bored..

I wouldn’t be amenable to one that appears unattractive.

Not at the beginning, anyway.