The Rip Tides Of My life

Ocean waves

I surrender to this love. I open my arms and let it take me. Let me submerge in it. Let me become one with it. Let it warm my insides. To flow through me and let my whole body lift off the ground.

I want to swim in his love. To be taken by the tide and be buried by the waves. I want to drown in his love. I want to be lost and only have the remains of my being left over, for no one to disturb, for no one to touch as it would be too delicate. That if it was touched it would simply fall apart and disintegrate in to dust.

I want to get lost in his eyes. To only  see the two oceans, the two stars for the rest of mt life would be enough. It would be plenty, as every other spiteful image of the world that I have come to see in my life disappears one I look in to them. I want to close my eyes and whenever I open them his to be waiting for mine.

I want to never feel lonely again. I want to him to hold my hand. I want him to hug me and hold me until it’s alright. Like somehow his touch makes all the bad demons vanish.

I am going to stay in his presence forever. In his smell, his warmth, his touch. I don’t want ANYONE else as they would only ruin this illusion. The illusion that everyone else is like him. So kind, so generous, so loving. But they’re not. They are cruel and merciless. They don’t care about anyone else except themselves. They will do anything for popularity and success and stand on the rubble they leave behind with pride and achievement I lay beneath the rubble with them trying to wedge things between us but I am under here with him. Happy. Content to stay the rest of my life in his eyes. With no one else. Soon the rubble will fall when everyone else is rapped in the comfortable, gentle, tenderness of loves tight grip. There is no Him and I do I want it? Yes. Do I need need it? No.

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Monday

I woke with a start; I’ve been having very strange dreams lately. Like one about a boiling kettle that brought me to court for staring at it for too long and the jury found me guilty because they thought it was an awfully rude thing for me to do. However the dream I just woke from was much darker than that; in this dream I was sent down to an empty room that was painted in a beautiful shade of sky blue. I was sent down there by the brother of an old friend I have and he told me to pick off all the paint on the walls and when there isn’t even a spot left on the walls I will be able to leave. Of course in my dream that sounded like a perfectly normal compromise, so for hours and hours I picked off the little bits of wall paper; some of the bits would prick the inside of my fingernails or would be so hard to peel off the wall my fingers would start bleeding or make a sound like a nail against a chalkboard and make me flinch for a couple of seconds. But finally there was only one bit of wall paper left on the wall so with pride in my shoulders I picked it off rather easily and started to walk out of the door but before I did I saw from the corner of my eye that the spot was still there. Or else was another spot that I had just missed. Never the less I peeled that off as well; however each time I turned to leave the same spot somehow grew back over and over again. And then I woke up. It was the most frustrating dream I have ever had and, even though it was a dream, my fingers somehow aced.

I got out of bed and put my slippers on. My slippers are always on the right side of my bed, in the exact right place where my feet would be when I sit up in bed. I put on my dressing gown which is hung beside my door to my bedroom and start down the stairs to the kitchen for some breakfast. I like my little routine; these are the things that bring comfort to me every morning. Knowing that I can’t help the poor man on the news who is in the hospital for the car accident that just happened but I will always know that there will always be a fresh box of corn flakes in my second top cabinet from the left in my kitchen, ready for me to eat a bowl of for breakfast. These certainties are what make me happy. Almost nothing in life is certain, you could decide to go to the bathroom one minute but change your mind at the last minute. The only thing that is certain in life is death and that scares me. I want to be certain of what I’m going to do today and tomorrow and the next after that but I don’t think I can so I am trying my very best to make as much as possible certain for me at least.

I eat my corn flakes quietly, sometimes chewing to the beat of jingle bells or something like that and then put my bowl in the sink and quickly wash and rinse it before putting it and the corn flakes back in the cupboards. I went back upstairs and switched on the light on the mirror in the bathroom. I squeezed my chubby tube of Colgate on to my toothbrush and slowly started swerving the bristles against my teeth like I was trying to paint a picture with it. After a few seconds of this I spat it out and repeated the same thing another four times; just enough times for all the toothpaste on the tooth brush to be used up. I go for a quick shower and shampoo my hair and wash my body. After 10 minutes I got out and put a towel on and started blow drying my hair, I have always kept my hair quite short so it is easier to wash, however I inherited my mother’s curly hair so short hair never looked grew out right for me but I never cared much. I went back in to my bedroom and dropped the towel on the ground and started getting dressed. A pair of black tights, a navy skirt going just below my knee, a white shirt and a navy cardigan to match the skirt was what I like to wear on Mondays and I laid everything out the night before neatly on my dresser. I never bothered wearing makeup either, so I put my hair in a tight bun and then leave the house.

I work at a management company for lots of different people, like singers, actors; things like that. Art always fascinated me when I was younger but I soon found out the silliness of the whole thing once I got older. Usually I file documents for the actual managers but sometimes I come in to meetings about how we can improve the company and I even give my input sometimes which makes me feel good about myself. There are also a lot of men in my office and a lot of the other female secretaries get flirted with, by them, but not me. I don’t care that much to be honest though; I’ve only ever been with one man, which my mother said for 36 is ridiculous, but he was a very lovely man but asked me to move to England with him and I said no. I don’t like regretting things because it’s a horrible feeling, especially the simple ones where it was so easy to avoid the regret, but this is quite hard to push out of my head.

I arrive at my office and place my briefcase on my desk alongside my phone, computer and the documents I have to go over and copy today. This job is also very stable money wise. It pays 2,000 a month, which for a lot of people nowadays would be like winning the lottery, so I should count myself lucky. That amount of money is also perfect for me because it’s just enough for food and other necessities I need for the rest of the month. I also send a lot of money to my parents because they don’t like excepting the pension that they get sent because they say it’s just charity and we should all work for our money. However they have no problem excepting my money, I never really understood why exactly.

I get off work at 5:30 but my boss has asked everyone to go home a half an hour early today for personal reasons. The thought of getting home a bit earlier makes me jittery for some reason; just the thought of having to wait for the news for 45 minutes instead of 20. What am I going to do for 45 minutes. I don’t have anything to do. I get in the lift and check my watch and see that it’s exactly 5 o’ clock and feel good that it’s not any earlier, at least now it’ll be a little less than 45 minutes. I walk out of the building listening to the sound of my heels clicking against the pavement. But I stop dead in my tracks. “shit” I say out loud and some passer-byres lift their heads to see me. I’ve forgotten my brief case up in my office, I never forget anything and because my stupid boss made us leave early everything is messed up.

I start crossing the road again to go back in to the building. I was so distracted I don’t see the speeding car coming for me to my right and BANG.

I’m on the ground and I feel excruciating pain all over my body. I don’t look but I feel that my leg is in a place where it shouldn’t be, my elbow is broken as well…I’m not even going to try and move it. What just happened? I got hit by a car, that’s what happened. I start shrieking at the realisation of that and I see heads peering over me to see. I wonder if anyone has called an ambulance yet…it’d be silly if they didn’t. Some feeling at the bottom of my stomach can tell that it doesn’t really matter if they called them or not. It was the same feeling that told me to say yes to the man that asked me to go to England all those lifetimes ago. I’ve learned to trust that feeling so I stop shrieking and just silently cry. What if I do die? God has to pick some people to die in the world so he picks the people who don’t necessarily mean much to the world. The thought makes a sob get stuck in my throat and I start coughing. I realise that it wasn’t a sob and that blood comes out of my mouth instead. I wish I had a tissue. I wonder if anyone at the office will miss me or even realise that I’m gone. I wonder if my boss will feel guilty and use one of my ideas. Like the one about the Christmas party I wanted to have later one this year, just for fun. I wonder if my parents will miss me giving them money; they probably won’t tell the difference and just get sent a pension again and think it’s from me. Why am I so calm? I should be fighting, I should want to get up and be carried away to safety but do I really?

My breaths start getting slower and my crying starts to stop. There will be my slippers left at the side of my bed for no one to wear them, the corn flakes to go stale and for no one to eat them and my briefcase forever lying on my desk waiting for me to come and pick it up and bring it home. My life is unfinished but I’m just realising that 36 years too late. In the next minute or two my body will shut off and I will be nothing, just a body. No one will ever talk to me ever again and I will never talk to anyone ever again. And my heart stops and then nothing.

slippers-by-bed-II

The eulogy of a fairy tale

I didn’t understand why it mattered to me so much. The very idea of it was silly and ridiculous. This portrait of how life is meant to be, telling us that if you don’t live this way you will be unhappy, that the rest of your life will probably fail as you are so scarred and hurt from the destruction of this so important fabrication. It didn’t matter all that much to me. Until I saw them smiling together across the road. Something so alien and strange to me made me pause and watch with eyes full of want and longing. As she walked up next to them I wanted to scream to her, to tell her not to take it for granted. Not to say cruel things about it or complain about it to much because even though in that very moment I still new I didn’t want or care for it anymore but even since it was taken away from me all those years ago, ripped out of my hands before I could even let my mind process what was happening for my finger tips to close on it for one last time, I still needed it. I remembered the warmth of it, the security of it, the comfort that it was never going to leave…Until it did. I’m not saying it is gone. I’m saying it has been broken and split and rearranged in ways that mean it can never be fixed. However I still have the pieces. The pieces in which are too small and sharp to be ever broken again in to smaller pieces.

I do not miss it because I know other people have had better results from it. They could abandon it and leave it and move on with their lives without noticing the people still trapped in it. The people still stuck on this sunken ship. It was like a horse with a broken leg and there are so many of them out there that need to be shot. Just taken out of their misery. The horse may die but for the people who knew it, who cared for it, they should feel relief maybe even happiness that they know it doesn’t have to struggle anymore. Happiness that they can move on, with it still in their mind. You mustn’t let it hurt you, you must go through life knowing that it wasn’t your fault. That it started with good intentions, that it started with a mother smiling down on her creation. That over time it turned in to  a fabrication that was uncontrollable. You must leave it as your past and not let it define you as a person because at the end of the day it is not about the world, it is about the people in it that held your hand while you watched it crash and burn to the ground and helped guide you away from it. slowly but surely.

1950s_Outdoor_family_meal

Just my opinion….

When we are born we are sculpted and made to believe certain things. The people telling us these certain things finally feel important and worthy enough to stuff this information down our throats while we look up at them with eyes full of amazement and awe soon to vanish when we are old enough to develop a lovely new addition to our brain called “common sense”. It is something that is becoming rarer and rarer in man kind and when I’m long gone and my children are long gone and my children’s children are long gone so will common sense and I hope in that very second the world blows up because it would be useless anyway.

We are told first that there is a god. That the clouds are his whipped cream and the buildings and houses and skyscrapers are merely his doll houses. Then we learn that you must be perfect in order to live in this world. That if your not perfect already you have to not eat or stick your fingers down your throat in order to look it. Then we must act fake and start doing stupid things in order to have friends that will end up working in Tesco or Super value when they’re old enough. All this and for what? We are all going to get old and get grey hair and hunched backs. We’re all going to look back on our days as adolescents and not remember the mirror reflections or the friends that left you after a year. You’ll be thinking about the moments that you felt truly happy in your life. The moments where you can honestly say I am happy in my life and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

We are also told that life is about success. About money and greed and that the best way to get anywhere is if you get the help that you need from others and then proceed to spit in their faces; but it all comes back around whether you like it or not. Even if it takes longer than you anticipated you will still be the lonely old lady or man in the nursing home with no one to visit or bring you flowers. I never want to be a nursing home, therefor I won’t be a bitch to get where I want to go in life. Simple as.

My outlook on life is very simple and no one will disagree with it because no one reads this anyway. I think life is just pitch black and white the only reason we make it colourful is because we bother to open our eyes. The people who don’t open their eyes are the people who think being gay is a choice, that women should stay at home and not have a voice and that all children born outside marriage are automatically perceived as bastards. Those are just very little of the examples….I could go on for much longer. The bottom line is we are all just people. No one ever told us that it was paranormal to love the same sex or be a different colour or what was attractive and what wasn’t. We will all die one day and even if we did something amazing that gets in our history books, that will also be forgotten one day as well; just buried in the ground a long with our unconscious bodies. I have learned to be completely with one with this idea as I know there isn’t a straight up logical point to actually living but before our bodies switch off and our hearts stop beating and our brains stop working look around and see how impossible life really is, stop speculating                   it and just live it because it’s fucking amazing.

Made of Brass

Image

My greasy, dirty body agitated me as I sat in the dark cash till. I have been handed around and passed along to different people everyday since I was first made. Us coins know what our lives are going to be like even before we are old enough to understand. The paper gets a bit battered as well but not anything over 50 euro. They’re the lucky ones…the 100s and anything over that. I’ve never even seen anything over 100. I sometimes dreamed of what it would be like to meet one. What I would say, What they would look like, Would they be nice? I’m not the worst of the worst. I’m a 1 euro, so we do get used a lot but we get treated with more respect then some of the other bronze coins. For instance the 1, 2 and 5 cents are completely battered. Most of them end up inbetween sofas or on the floor in streets, never in hope to be picked up. they’re usually very tired and quiet. I feel sorry for them, even though I’m not in the best circumstances but its still better than theirs.

By some stroke of luck I have been tossed in the same till then pocket then till then pocket and then till again with the same 2 euro and 1 euro. they aren’t that nice but we’ve gotten close from spending so much time together. When you get to spend so much time with other coins, we are brought up to never take it for granted as it is such a rare occurrence for us. We talk about our past and some of the times we were dropped and lost. The 2 euro said she was dropped and not found for over two years because she had fallen under a bed. Two years was a long time to be lost for that amount round here, so I was quite surprised at the story. The 1 euro had the best life I had ever heard of. She had stayed in a house with a woman who used to polish her money and not spend them at all. She would be cleaned every couple of days and then placed in the same shiny coin purse everyday. The 2 euro and I were very puzzled but the 1 euro didn’t seem to care and continued her story. She said this woman had a baby and when she turned around 4 or 5, the woman gave the 1 euro to the child who then kept her in a plastic box for another 4 years until she bought a pencil case with her. While telling the story the 1 euro stammered on some of her words so I could tell she missed this family. The idea of being raised like that was too blissful to even dream. I was born in a factory and then picked up at the bank by a nice french man. He had me in the same pocket for approximately 3 months before I fell out while he was folding his trousers. He then went to an airport and put me in a currency machine and swapped for another type of money. I then got taken to an airport in America and then Japan if I’m not mistaken. I got tossed and thrown in to so many currency machines that I actually got used to the painful fall on top of all the coins after the winding ride on all the bolts and screws. Then finally last week I ended up in an Irish girls pocket and got tossed around with these two.

The loud click of the register made me snap out of my daze. This was the worst part, not knowing if it will be you or someone else taken out to god knows what. the till opened quickly and made us all shake and flip. I could never get used to that feeling. The cashiers hand came plummeting towards the 20 cents and as rush of relief ran through. But then her fore finger and thumb quickly grasped me before her hand left the register. Panic rushed through me as I looked down on my two friends who were the first friends I ever had in my life. They gave me sympathetic looks back and I was happy I had met them. As I was handed to the costumer I hoped with all my heart that this was going to be good. That I was going to be safe for a while and not dropped around or lost behind sofas or in jeans. I dropped in to their hand and saw that it was an old man who smiled down on me.