I’ve had my downs lord knows I have. But this is the first time in my life I’ve ever felt truly terrified. Abandoned, lost and alone.
I haven’t done anything, it’s not me, it’s not my fault, I’m not ugly, not that fat…. That’s what they say, but when someone says that they haven’t found what they were searching for (and you though that you had) you throw up, you throw up, YOU THROW UP! Nothing else matters but the sickness eating away at you. You start to wrap yourself up inside it and it becomes your bed, a resting place, the only place that you can bare to be. You don’t want to move, you don’t want to speak, breathe, see, hear or feel anything ever again. Just to wallow in the sickness of your heart. Sleep, the only slim hope, but you’re not even sure that you want that either.
If there was an off switch somewhere lodged into the back of your head, well, if it was fused into the back of my head, I’d be screaming, crying, bleeding, smashing my head again and again against the white brick wall, whilst praying to god that the switch would flick and my body fall, slump down, down to the floor. I could smile then.
Well that was a few days ago, I don’t feel quite so melodramatic now, more hopeful for want of a better term. It was certainly a wake up call because I do tend to get carried away. I have nothing if not an overactive imagination blinded by romanticism. That’s a good description actually. I could delve into the dark shadows of my psyche and talk a lot of gibberish of how I have no friends and a distant family relationship and link that to my reasons for believing in fairy tales but I promise you I won’t. There’d be no point in it.
Imagine a fun night in. Are you thinking of a huge pile of DVD’s? Wine? A good friend? A trifle that has the same circumference as the very moon itself? The last one I’ll let you get away with, I was being ridiculously subjective, but I bet that’s what over 50% of you were thinking. That’s what I’d be thinking too and that’s how everything started out, but as the end credits of one film ended… I failed to see the joy in his eyes at the prospect of film number two about to commence, the adventures about to be had.
Adventure, the most important part of a little boys imagination and I’m telling you now if that same little boy doesn’t have that that sparkle of fantasy somewhere within him years later, then he is not a man. Upon reflection it is the quality that I most admire in him and for being so utterly sightless I am truly ashamed.
Me? As he is eagerly scrabbling, prying open the laptop with his fingers, I turn into the spoiled princess, the dark side of all sweet little girls. I crave attention, to be told I’m pretty and for my prince to recite a thousand sonnets before sweeping me off my feet to a far away land (in other words, pure, unadulterated, hardcore sex!) otherwise I’ll stamp my feet and scold. The man is kind and caring and so sacrifices his pleasures, to see the woman smile, to stop an awkwardness from surrounding them, or a simple act of chivalry. Still whatever reason for his kindnesses he feels a prang of sadness; a sense of failure, allsorts of unknown pressures that I was oblivious to.
Fiery temperatures can cause things to melt away. In my unmindful temperament I was melting away a soul, a good soul. His ideas and musings we being trampled on by my keenness to show him the big wide world. The deep blue ocean, the rush of a capital city, the magic of skating at Christmastime (I’d overshot slightly as it was by then January). I wanted to play and share my toys, forgetting that I was forcing him to play with Barbies.
Dedicated to the trifle maker! X x X
Whom I love dearly
I haven’t done anything, it’s not me, it’s not my fault, I’m not ugly, not that fat…. That’s what they say, but when someone says that they haven’t found what they were searching for (and you though that you had) you throw up, you throw up, YOU THROW UP! Nothing else matters but the sickness eating away at you. You start to wrap yourself up inside it and it becomes your bed, a resting place, the only place that you can bare to be. You don’t want to move, you don’t want to speak, breathe, see, hear or feel anything ever again. Just to wallow in the sickness of your heart. Sleep, the only slim hope, but you’re not even sure that you want that either.
If there was an off switch somewhere lodged into the back of your head, well, if it was fused into the back of my head, I’d be screaming, crying, bleeding, smashing my head again and again against the white brick wall, whilst praying to god that the switch would flick and my body fall, slump down, down to the floor. I could smile then.
Well that was a few days ago, I don’t feel quite so melodramatic now, more hopeful for want of a better term. It was certainly a wake up call because I do tend to get carried away. I have nothing if not an overactive imagination blinded by romanticism. That’s a good description actually. I could delve into the dark shadows of my psyche and talk a lot of gibberish of how I have no friends and a distant family relationship and link that to my reasons for believing in fairy tales but I promise you I won’t. There’d be no point in it.
Imagine a fun night in. Are you thinking of a huge pile of DVD’s? Wine? A good friend? A trifle that has the same circumference as the very moon itself? The last one I’ll let you get away with, I was being ridiculously subjective, but I bet that’s what over 50% of you were thinking. That’s what I’d be thinking too and that’s how everything started out, but as the end credits of one film ended… I failed to see the joy in his eyes at the prospect of film number two about to commence, the adventures about to be had.
Adventure, the most important part of a little boys imagination and I’m telling you now if that same little boy doesn’t have that that sparkle of fantasy somewhere within him years later, then he is not a man. Upon reflection it is the quality that I most admire in him and for being so utterly sightless I am truly ashamed.
Me? As he is eagerly scrabbling, prying open the laptop with his fingers, I turn into the spoiled princess, the dark side of all sweet little girls. I crave attention, to be told I’m pretty and for my prince to recite a thousand sonnets before sweeping me off my feet to a far away land (in other words, pure, unadulterated, hardcore sex!) otherwise I’ll stamp my feet and scold. The man is kind and caring and so sacrifices his pleasures, to see the woman smile, to stop an awkwardness from surrounding them, or a simple act of chivalry. Still whatever reason for his kindnesses he feels a prang of sadness; a sense of failure, allsorts of unknown pressures that I was oblivious to.
Fiery temperatures can cause things to melt away. In my unmindful temperament I was melting away a soul, a good soul. His ideas and musings we being trampled on by my keenness to show him the big wide world. The deep blue ocean, the rush of a capital city, the magic of skating at Christmastime (I’d overshot slightly as it was by then January). I wanted to play and share my toys, forgetting that I was forcing him to play with Barbies.
Dedicated to the trifle maker! X x X
Whom I love dearly
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