Tag Archives: confession


every little thing has a consequence and sometimes they don’t go the way you’d like. somedays you meet a stranger in a tea cafe and there is a shift from one end of the spectrum to another. other days you … Continue reading

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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.

Slipping on ice

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.

Confessions, anyone?

When come clean commented on my blog, I found an interesting site. I’ve been meaning to write about it since, but…Anyway, ConfessMail is a website which posts the picture postcards of confessions that people have (snail) mailed the organisation. On a similar note, the SocialMoth application on Facebook lets you say (and ‘heart’ with) stuff you wouldn’t say without the safety of anonymity to buffer you. Some of the lines I saw recently on SocialMoth:

‘What do you do when you know you’re betraying someone and you can’t help yourself?’
‘I know I should leave you but I can’t.’

and a thousand others, some of which I even ‘hearted’, and much of which is (surprisingly) nice. The strange thing is that you can see/feel the trauma/pain that these people are feeling. Or maybe you just think that what you would feel had you been in that situation is what they actually feel.

What is it about being anonymous that sets you free to be what you’d be minus society (which is, admittedly, not very nice sometimes)? And why do you relate so much better when there isn’t a byline? Maybe it is easier to put on someone else’s shoes when you don’t know who they are.

A snapshot of lives and a window to souls:

I've bitten off more than I can chew I'm caught in a web of lies I feel like this insideI want to fly

[from http://www.confessmail.com/%5D