I was so angry for so long. Furious. I couldn’t understand. I still don’t understand. So I took that anger out on us. Both of us, because there was only so much I could do to you. But to me…. no one can ever hurt us as well as we’re capable of hurting our own selves.
I thought it was anger. I thought I was looking for protection. I thought you had turned my body into nothing but a pile of meat, so why not treat it that way myself?
But the fucked up truth is that some part of me felt guilty. Guilty that somehow I had hurt you. By simply existing in my body, I had hurt you. Because I had given you something you could never obtain.
So I tried to find you in everyone else I could. Anyone else I could. To seek your forgiveness. Reaching out, trying to experience as much as possible. Letting my skin feel whatever was on offer, whether it was love or hatred, because I wasn’t sure what the difference was between the two anymore. Because I wanted to understand what it took for you to do that. What reason you could have had. Why?
I had to feel it on my own skin. The pain and rancor you must have felt in order to do what you did.
And you think you’re twisted.
Twisted mirrors only show twisted reflections. So all I can do is try my best to untwist.
My coffee cup looks like a clown. I take a sip and my smeared lipstick smiles back at me.
Some days it’s mocking, some days it’s kind.
But like a clown, it just reminds me not to take things so seriously. To look at life with a sense of humour.
Everyone is someone else’s clown. Why not be your own as well?
I had another strange dream the other night. Of many. I don’t know what draws me to write about some of them, and not others…
In this one my chameleon terrarium was on a high shelf. There wasn’t anything I could use to reach it aside from the lower shelves themselves. His terarrium is tall and has a door that swings outward, but in the dream his tank was horizontal and had a lid that opened on top.
I needed to feed him but I couldn’t figure out how when he was so high up.
I grabbed one of the egg cartons full of crickets from the cricket container, climbed up on the shelves with one hand and managed to dump some crickets in, but all of a sudden there were crickets in my mouth. I climbed back up and spat more crickets into the container, but by the time I got back down my mouth was full of crickets again. They started to fill my mouth more and more until I finally woke up.
I think I had far too much to drink the night before. Whiskey tasting nights are dangerous.
People often make fun of me for being too distracted. I constantly lose things, I’ll leave restaurants and not remember my purse, I will talk for far too long and forget I had that meeting booked at 2pm… It’s a source of constant entertainment for my friends.
“What did you lose this time?”
Re-reading a lot of my old posts I realize how patronizing some of them sound. How often I sound like I always know what the hell I’m talking about and I have it all under control.
The truth is, I write the things I write because I’m trying to figure it out myself. Whatever it is I write, whether it’s abstract or a little more concrete, I write because I just want to piece things together a little more clearly. I write because I’m confused, because I don’t know, because I haven’t figured it out. I write as a reminder of how I would rather be. What I would rather do. Things I need to remind myself of about life.
I write because I don’t have anything under control, and I have no idea what I’m talking about.
We are the dogs who wound up living with cats.
The ones who feel with all our soul. Who pull out our insides every moment. Every day.
While cats lick their paws from stepping on the blood we’ve spilled.
We are the ones who fill a room with all our being. Swallow the world through every pore.
We are the ones broken apart on the floor.
While the cats remain intact. Gripping at our skin, so they can stretch their backs.
My two favourite holidays are Halloween and Carnival.
But so often I feel like these celebrations get distorted. Somewhat ironically.
I love public transport in the winter. Especially during rush hour.
I’ve already posted a long rant on extraversion vs introversion, so my comfort in crowds probably comes as no surprise. But this pleasure is a simple one.
The first day I didn’t think about you went by without much notice. I was stressed, anxious, and excited, but I woke up the next day and I felt so free.
Free of the burden of your memory. Free of the pain it always brought me.
And I didn’t even know it was you. That’s how much I had forgotten. I didn’t realize why I felt so light, until your memory crept back in. Until its weight brought to light all the darkness I had been feeling. Until I realized just how long I had gone without you. Without even the thought of you.
You were gone. And I was free.
I shared this guy on my facebook but I thought I’d share some of his work here too. Currently fascinated by his pieces, even though the concepts are relatively simple. I feel like he tows the line between vulgarity, cleverness, and humour incredibly well.