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.
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!
What happens when you are perfectly at home when you return to four narrow walls that were never yours (nor could be) ? It’s the ohshitohshitohshit, not again! feeling. And it leads to more paper cuts of pain. Mindless work … Continue reading
IF hedonism is the avoidance of pain, rather than the pursuit of pleasure, then are those who avoid conflict cowards, hedonists or both?
What would you?
Seek beauty — happiness –,
or avoid pain?
OR seek it,
thinking you would find the path to the temple of pain cathartic?
Or seek naught but live your life as you will or it comes?
Woven within the lies are little known truths.
Fingers clenched into a fist, thumbs tucked in, insecure,
what does she protect herself from? and how? Foolish.
Nails marking half moons in red on white flesh, in pain,
what is the punishment for? and why?
A child controls and reacts from a full grown mind.
Where does the adult go in these vulnerable times?
Tap tap tap. Thoughts process; run through.
Lists made. To do. But the other hand clenched, still.
The ones from whom she wants respect,
where are they? Can they not see beyond the lies —
to the truths inside?
True, it’s too much to ask: Who sees the truth
woven within the lies?
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: