My knees were shaking. My mouth dry, my mind a blank. I tried again to listen to what he was telling me, but no matter how hard I listened I didn’t hear anything over the mind shattering silence in my head. I listened and there was nothing, and it drove me crazy. Time did not matter as I just stood there frozen. Then, as suddenly as the silence disappeared a question screamed in my head; “Do you love her?”
Suddenly that was the most important thing in my life. His answer. Did he love her? Like it would somehow make it better to know. To forgive though I could never forgive him. Or to leave, though I thought I would never be able to. Yet I was scared, scared that by me asking I would somehow make him love her, make him think of her in a way he hadn’t before and then realize that, yes, he did love her.
Still I whispered my question. Whimpering like a puppy afraid of being hurt by its owner. “Do you love her?” He looked at me, but I could not meet his eyes and looked at the floor, to my feet. The seconds went by as I wondered just what I wanted to hear.
A yes would send me to rock bottom in a heartbeat. I would break, my hart would shatter into pieces so small it would take me forever to glue them back together. But still, a yes would be the end of this chapter but also, in time, a beginning of a new. At rock bottom there would be only one way to move on. Upwards.
A no would be my chance to keep this going. This tango between to people so destructive that anything in its way would be destroyed. Like a hurricane this relationship was tearing me up by the roots, and blowing away everything I had built up. A no would be a prison, the final nail in the coffin for all my values. With a no I would forgive the thing I vowed I could never forgive. A no, and he would own me forever.
He drew his breath as I held mine. “ I don’t know” he answered. As always not doing as I expected, as I needed. What was I going to do with “I don’t know”? Stay and fight? Make him see, as I so clearly saw it; that it was me and no one else for him? But what would I be winning? More pain? More drama? He was the worst thing that ever happened to me, and for that I loved him. I was mad with love – literally.
But I could not live with “I don’t know”. For the first time in a long, long time I dug myself out of the hole that had become my life, the hole he had dug me. A grave for all my strength, moral and self-worth. I reached for my jacket. The room was spinning. The colors turned grey, everything turned gray. My hart pounded in my head. I put my jacket on, taking time buttoning every single button, my hands shaking. Then I took my bag and turned for the door. I needed to go home and cry and rinse myself of all of this. To be white as driven snow yet again. To live. And maybe someday, be happy again.
“Nina…” He called my name in a low voice. In my name, I heard everything. Every feeling, every thought we ever shared. Maybe he wanted to ask me to stay, maybe he wanted to say he was sorry, that it would be only me if I came back. Maybe he just wanted to say good bye. But I didn’t stay for all these words that might have come, I had already overstayed this relationship and the hollow person that was left of me would die in his arms if I did not leave at once. “Nina…” was really all I needed to hear.
-----------------------------------------------
I don’t remember much more of that night other than that I walked around all night in a daze. Tears streaming. No tears for him, but for everything he was not. But somehow I lived through, and after a while, a long while, I found myself again and greeted her happily. But sometimes, even now over five years later, I have the worst bad dreams were we are still together. I wake up shaking; turning to find my fiancé snoring heavily at my side and then thanking God it was just a nightmare.
Thursday 18 December 2008
Wednesday 10 December 2008
Aimless Age
I’ve got this haunting feeling that I am not living my life to the best of it’s potential. I recognize the fact that, not believing in any God, we have merely a given time on earth/ at life. And in times like these, as tonight, I can’t help feeling I’m not making the best of the time I got. I do understand that I am not entitled to know exactly how long I actually got on this earth, yet still I don’t make a best of it.
I am grateful that I have my health, but still I don’t make a best of it.
I’m young, but don’t make a best of it.
I am alive, and don’t make a best of it.
I am as ungrateful as everyone else in my generation. just floating away on the purposelessness that marks this day in age. They call it “Generation X”, I call it “Aimless age"
In England you can’t fall asleep on the subway without getting burned - literary! You can’t complain when kids break in to your car, they will kill you. In France the kids turn to chaos because the don’t have a cause. In Greece the street are on fire as we speak, cause a whole generation is outraged at a stray-bullet, ‘cause there is nothing else to be outraged over.
For the first time in generations, since man walked earth, the young ones have nothing to fight for. And the aimless rage is killing man, woman and child in our streets.
What does this say about us? You and me, not carrying “Molotov cocktails” but with the same sense of lack of purpose, wasting our days??
And finally, the eternal question, what is the meaning of life?
What is my meaning?
what is my life?
I’m sorry to ask; “Is it merely this? “ ( may “karma” strike down upon thee” )
I am thinking that the purpose may have gotten lost somehow between our parent- generation and ours/between God and reality/ heaven and earth/ you and me, and we are just breathing while we wait for an answer as to where to aim said purpose. How else could you explain a whole generation terrorising the streets all over the world?
Burning.
Burning down its self, its being of man, of child, of purpose and life?
Or maybe it is just this; We know, deep down, that we are killing “mother earth” and there is no way of turning back, our children will die of pollution and love is merely a mating-issue within our species ….. maybe the shades are off and the truth is to hard to bare. Maybe our generation buckles under the weight of responsibility.
Oh, give us relief, give us something else to hold on to, something shallow that will keep us in the dark,
with the the fact that there is nothing…
Nothing…
I am grateful that I have my health, but still I don’t make a best of it.
I’m young, but don’t make a best of it.
I am alive, and don’t make a best of it.
I am as ungrateful as everyone else in my generation. just floating away on the purposelessness that marks this day in age. They call it “Generation X”, I call it “Aimless age"
In England you can’t fall asleep on the subway without getting burned - literary! You can’t complain when kids break in to your car, they will kill you. In France the kids turn to chaos because the don’t have a cause. In Greece the street are on fire as we speak, cause a whole generation is outraged at a stray-bullet, ‘cause there is nothing else to be outraged over.
For the first time in generations, since man walked earth, the young ones have nothing to fight for. And the aimless rage is killing man, woman and child in our streets.
What does this say about us? You and me, not carrying “Molotov cocktails” but with the same sense of lack of purpose, wasting our days??
And finally, the eternal question, what is the meaning of life?
What is my meaning?
what is my life?
I’m sorry to ask; “Is it merely this? “ ( may “karma” strike down upon thee” )
I am thinking that the purpose may have gotten lost somehow between our parent- generation and ours/between God and reality/ heaven and earth/ you and me, and we are just breathing while we wait for an answer as to where to aim said purpose. How else could you explain a whole generation terrorising the streets all over the world?
Burning.
Burning down its self, its being of man, of child, of purpose and life?
Or maybe it is just this; We know, deep down, that we are killing “mother earth” and there is no way of turning back, our children will die of pollution and love is merely a mating-issue within our species ….. maybe the shades are off and the truth is to hard to bare. Maybe our generation buckles under the weight of responsibility.
Oh, give us relief, give us something else to hold on to, something shallow that will keep us in the dark,
with the the fact that there is nothing…
Nothing…
Tuesday 2 December 2008
Shhh! No tremors
It is all at a standstill
Life
My life
A house
And I am on the outside looking in
It is built of straw
On sandy ground
With motion
Any motion
I fear it all would fall apart
So
I keep it at a standstill
Life
My life
A house
And I am on the outside looking in
It is built of straw
On sandy ground
With motion
Any motion
I fear it all would fall apart
So
I keep it at a standstill
Monday 1 December 2008
Speachless feelings
An author which stories I am reading right now uses four whole books to paint a picture of true love, and she paints it oh so beautifully. She gives me heartache, makes me cry and long for more. She also makes me happy and grateful for love. Nowadays I can’t wait to get home from work to continue reading and taking another ride of the ups and downs that is love. I don’t want the story to ever end.
Still I wonder, can the picture of love be fully painted with fewer words? Or more correctly, can love ever be fully described? Personally I don’t think I have enough colors to even begin describing the ways of the heart and soul. I dimly perceive the extent of all that love is. The only thing I truly know of love is that I have found the one I lay my soul to rest with. The one who will have my heart and keep it safe until I die.
Pondering this I fell utterly dethatched from the rest of the world. Looking out my office window thinking that nobody else has time to do the same, to take time being thankful for love. The world would be a grim place without it, but too many are blind to this fact, and maybe therefore it sometimes do get lost.
I wish I could take flight out of my window and just sail away distancing myself from the triviality of everyday life. If love is a flower, everyday life is the bee seduced by its beauty and then as it settles, nurtured by it. But trying to pick the flower will make the bee fly away and maybe sting you on the way. To let love be, blossoming under the son, is the only way the bee will stay with the flower. To let love be what it is, not trying to change it is the only way to keep it on our lives, in our reach.
Or maybe it’s the other way around? Maybe life is the flower, constantly growing, facing the sun, waiting and longing for the bee to come help it fulfill its destiny, tom make it whole. Giving and receiving in nature’s companionship. Disturbing love, it will hurt you. The flower would wither as the bee flew away, as I imagine life would without love. Always longing for it back would break even the strongest person. The petals would fall to the ground as the flowers beauty faded away, the sun would set and the cold, dark winter would rise from the east. And in its freezing grasp also the bee would seize to exist. The mutual exclusiveness of it all is nature’s gift and curse.
I am lost for words. But in my pounding hart I keep it close, the thought that I must never let love go, yet keep it free and undisturbed.
Still I wonder, can the picture of love be fully painted with fewer words? Or more correctly, can love ever be fully described? Personally I don’t think I have enough colors to even begin describing the ways of the heart and soul. I dimly perceive the extent of all that love is. The only thing I truly know of love is that I have found the one I lay my soul to rest with. The one who will have my heart and keep it safe until I die.
Pondering this I fell utterly dethatched from the rest of the world. Looking out my office window thinking that nobody else has time to do the same, to take time being thankful for love. The world would be a grim place without it, but too many are blind to this fact, and maybe therefore it sometimes do get lost.
I wish I could take flight out of my window and just sail away distancing myself from the triviality of everyday life. If love is a flower, everyday life is the bee seduced by its beauty and then as it settles, nurtured by it. But trying to pick the flower will make the bee fly away and maybe sting you on the way. To let love be, blossoming under the son, is the only way the bee will stay with the flower. To let love be what it is, not trying to change it is the only way to keep it on our lives, in our reach.
Or maybe it’s the other way around? Maybe life is the flower, constantly growing, facing the sun, waiting and longing for the bee to come help it fulfill its destiny, tom make it whole. Giving and receiving in nature’s companionship. Disturbing love, it will hurt you. The flower would wither as the bee flew away, as I imagine life would without love. Always longing for it back would break even the strongest person. The petals would fall to the ground as the flowers beauty faded away, the sun would set and the cold, dark winter would rise from the east. And in its freezing grasp also the bee would seize to exist. The mutual exclusiveness of it all is nature’s gift and curse.
I am lost for words. But in my pounding hart I keep it close, the thought that I must never let love go, yet keep it free and undisturbed.
Tuesday 11 November 2008
The poor girl
"I gave him everything" she said while looking towards the sunset.
The red sky, the blue ocean and the waves rolling and rubbing agains the shore.
"Not everything?!" he asked with emphasis on the word everything.
"I gave him my hart" she replied
The wind pushed through the trees and pulled with it a rain of red atumn leaves.
"Oh" he said, "Then you did give him everything..."
The red sky, the blue ocean and the waves rolling and rubbing agains the shore.
"Not everything?!" he asked with emphasis on the word everything.
"I gave him my hart" she replied
The wind pushed through the trees and pulled with it a rain of red atumn leaves.
"Oh" he said, "Then you did give him everything..."
Friday 7 November 2008
"And in the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years."
What is age? What lies in the years resting behind my eyes? What will come as I continue to age, losing my youth day by day?
I am 27 in just a couple of days. Though it is in many ways just a number at this point, it is also a point were I find it natural to look both back at the past, and forward to a guessed future, contemplating on life. Especially my own.
A friend of mine told me the other day that I had nothing to worry about. Turning older should be no threat to me since I had everything one is supposed to have at the age of 27. “You have the love of your life”, she said. “And now you two are building your home together. Soon there will be kids. You have nothing to worry about. “
It was not as much as what she said, as what she did not say. Had she something to worry about, being the same age as me, and not having these things? Does happiness and fulfillment mean nothing when measured in age? Is it only achievements that counts?
Love? Check!
Home? Check!
Work? Check!
Kids? Check!
If you check all the boxes before turning 30, you have nothing to worry about but growing old? Is that maybe the only dignified way of aging?
What about friends? Family? Music? Art? Dancing? Laughing? Living? Freedom? Self worth?
As the clock strikes and the big handles points at 27 or 30 or 25, is it time to leave the ball and glass slippers and grow up? And if you don’t, you only grow old?
It seems that my friend and I differ in our views on this point, but somehow we both think and focus on what we don’t have.
Me, I think of youth. That blissful time with no worries. I wish I knew then what I know now, and wasn’t in such a hurry to grow up, grow old. To get the house and the office job, and the pet, and the car and the man. Don’t get me wrong, I love the man to pieces, and eternally grateful that I have found him, and he me. But I still regret the things I should have done. Sometimes it feels like I never went to the ball at all.
But still I must conclude that I am happy. I am living my life as best I can. And a good night cream for my skin will maybe help the wrinkles starting to form under my eyes….
“Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.” ~Samuel Ullman
I am 27 in just a couple of days. Though it is in many ways just a number at this point, it is also a point were I find it natural to look both back at the past, and forward to a guessed future, contemplating on life. Especially my own.
A friend of mine told me the other day that I had nothing to worry about. Turning older should be no threat to me since I had everything one is supposed to have at the age of 27. “You have the love of your life”, she said. “And now you two are building your home together. Soon there will be kids. You have nothing to worry about. “
It was not as much as what she said, as what she did not say. Had she something to worry about, being the same age as me, and not having these things? Does happiness and fulfillment mean nothing when measured in age? Is it only achievements that counts?
Love? Check!
Home? Check!
Work? Check!
Kids? Check!
If you check all the boxes before turning 30, you have nothing to worry about but growing old? Is that maybe the only dignified way of aging?
What about friends? Family? Music? Art? Dancing? Laughing? Living? Freedom? Self worth?
As the clock strikes and the big handles points at 27 or 30 or 25, is it time to leave the ball and glass slippers and grow up? And if you don’t, you only grow old?
It seems that my friend and I differ in our views on this point, but somehow we both think and focus on what we don’t have.
Me, I think of youth. That blissful time with no worries. I wish I knew then what I know now, and wasn’t in such a hurry to grow up, grow old. To get the house and the office job, and the pet, and the car and the man. Don’t get me wrong, I love the man to pieces, and eternally grateful that I have found him, and he me. But I still regret the things I should have done. Sometimes it feels like I never went to the ball at all.
But still I must conclude that I am happy. I am living my life as best I can. And a good night cream for my skin will maybe help the wrinkles starting to form under my eyes….
“Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.” ~Samuel Ullman
Tuesday 21 October 2008
It is called civilization
I am one of men. I am animal. Tamed, dressed and trained. Trained to be just another among all others. To stand in line and say “thank you” at what I pretend is faith, but what really is something prewritten by others and handed to me.
The animal that is human, the mammal, is dead inside me. Dead inside all of us. Shot down. Put to sleep by our mind. By what we refer to as "civilization." Unconscious consciousness. Instincts are no longer what drive us.
I am man. I am hollow shell and have lost the ability to feel the pleasure of instant gratification. The pleasure of reaching. Wanting. To feel the need for satisfaction of basic needs so raw and untamed it robs me of sleep at night and sense of calm at day. Hunger. Lust. Anger. It is all ignored or instantly treaded. What gnaws at my bones? What do I need, want, now that I am "civilized", without animal instinct?
I am shallow. I want to be beautiful. Maybe not beautiful as I perceive it, but as society tells me to be, to want. If I’m not, I hide in black, blending in. Being invisible. Uncomfortable in my own skin. Ashamed. Like no other animal, shame runs black through the veins of human.
I am the unfulfilled. I want for success, not for what makes me happy. I am programmed to want my success measured by everyone else and then think that this makes me happy. I should want to climb. To achieve. Never settle at second best. Never rest.
I am consumption. I want it all, and then some. I use and the throw away the rest. I consume all of the nature’s resources, and then I waste. I pollute with what is left. I am man killing mother earth. Using her. Abusing her. I am her worst creation, her black sheep. I am cockroach feeding in dark corners. Never resting. Never stopping.
I am a humble working bee. Stuck in a box watching the world turn as I work from dusk to dawn. I am enslaved, making money for another human – animal wanting more and more. I am robbed of self, and merely a drone for a queen I spit fuel on the fire that torch the blue sky and green forests.
I am rage. I am anger pulsing, fighting for faith and black gold in foregin contries. Killing long distanse so I not get blood on my hands. Killing child of men and their mothers because my enemy is coward like me and hides behind a shield of innocence. I am destroyer of happiness and life, belittleling the worth of a heartbeat. I am every bullet ever fired. I am the reaper harvesting what is not mine to take.
I am the thought that resides in the back of mankinds mind. “I think, and therefore I am” better than all other living thing. I am here to govern all of earth as I see fit. I am not grateful. Not merciful.
I am men. Beast of men.
The animal that is human, the mammal, is dead inside me. Dead inside all of us. Shot down. Put to sleep by our mind. By what we refer to as "civilization." Unconscious consciousness. Instincts are no longer what drive us.
I am man. I am hollow shell and have lost the ability to feel the pleasure of instant gratification. The pleasure of reaching. Wanting. To feel the need for satisfaction of basic needs so raw and untamed it robs me of sleep at night and sense of calm at day. Hunger. Lust. Anger. It is all ignored or instantly treaded. What gnaws at my bones? What do I need, want, now that I am "civilized", without animal instinct?
I am shallow. I want to be beautiful. Maybe not beautiful as I perceive it, but as society tells me to be, to want. If I’m not, I hide in black, blending in. Being invisible. Uncomfortable in my own skin. Ashamed. Like no other animal, shame runs black through the veins of human.
I am the unfulfilled. I want for success, not for what makes me happy. I am programmed to want my success measured by everyone else and then think that this makes me happy. I should want to climb. To achieve. Never settle at second best. Never rest.
I am consumption. I want it all, and then some. I use and the throw away the rest. I consume all of the nature’s resources, and then I waste. I pollute with what is left. I am man killing mother earth. Using her. Abusing her. I am her worst creation, her black sheep. I am cockroach feeding in dark corners. Never resting. Never stopping.
I am a humble working bee. Stuck in a box watching the world turn as I work from dusk to dawn. I am enslaved, making money for another human – animal wanting more and more. I am robbed of self, and merely a drone for a queen I spit fuel on the fire that torch the blue sky and green forests.
I am rage. I am anger pulsing, fighting for faith and black gold in foregin contries. Killing long distanse so I not get blood on my hands. Killing child of men and their mothers because my enemy is coward like me and hides behind a shield of innocence. I am destroyer of happiness and life, belittleling the worth of a heartbeat. I am every bullet ever fired. I am the reaper harvesting what is not mine to take.
I am the thought that resides in the back of mankinds mind. “I think, and therefore I am” better than all other living thing. I am here to govern all of earth as I see fit. I am not grateful. Not merciful.
I am men. Beast of men.
Friday 17 October 2008
This is my home. This is me.
If the home is where the hart is and my home is for sale, do I also bid you my heart?
As the pictures of my bed and my kitchen is laid out for everyone to see, so am I for everyone to see. Even though I have removed most of my personal things, I am still there, in the walls, in every room.
The tears that I have cried for love lost is still in the pillows on the couch. The dance of joy throughout every room has left footprints on the floor. The anger and disappointment felt as everything sometimes seems so hard and hurtful, it still resides in the wall where my fist pounded out my frustration.
I am still there. In every room, I am still there.
Even if I pack my things and leave the key to someone else, it is still my home. The place were I grew into a woman. The place were I learned the hard way that not everyone is good. Even not deep down.
The place were death came to early and took my best friend away. Oh, how I will miss running my fingers over the place he died, and there, for a brief moment, feel somewhat of a connection of souls. Pulling my hand back, and feeling strong once again. So sad it is that this place, this exact spot, will be lost forever when I move away.
The rooms are filled up with all of my emotions. Alive with the memories of good and bad that is me, that made me who I am today. To leave this place, to sell it, is one of the hardest things I have ever done, and it truly feels like I will be leaving a piece of my heart behind.
But in my briefcase and in my mind I will bring along the memories of this place, and lock it in my heart forever. And every time I think back, no matter how old I get, I will se and feel this place once again.
Closing my eyes I will feel the wind from the terrace door, pulling at the curtains. I will fell the warmth from the fireplace, and the cold from the floor. I will hear the creak from the old house telling me that it is still alive with the people that resides in it. As long as we are alive, and truly live our lives, taking it in both pain and joy, the house will keep on living.
And in the bottom corner, to the right, my apartment, where I have grown up.
And moved on.
As the pictures of my bed and my kitchen is laid out for everyone to see, so am I for everyone to see. Even though I have removed most of my personal things, I am still there, in the walls, in every room.
The tears that I have cried for love lost is still in the pillows on the couch. The dance of joy throughout every room has left footprints on the floor. The anger and disappointment felt as everything sometimes seems so hard and hurtful, it still resides in the wall where my fist pounded out my frustration.
I am still there. In every room, I am still there.
Even if I pack my things and leave the key to someone else, it is still my home. The place were I grew into a woman. The place were I learned the hard way that not everyone is good. Even not deep down.
The place were death came to early and took my best friend away. Oh, how I will miss running my fingers over the place he died, and there, for a brief moment, feel somewhat of a connection of souls. Pulling my hand back, and feeling strong once again. So sad it is that this place, this exact spot, will be lost forever when I move away.
The rooms are filled up with all of my emotions. Alive with the memories of good and bad that is me, that made me who I am today. To leave this place, to sell it, is one of the hardest things I have ever done, and it truly feels like I will be leaving a piece of my heart behind.
But in my briefcase and in my mind I will bring along the memories of this place, and lock it in my heart forever. And every time I think back, no matter how old I get, I will se and feel this place once again.
Closing my eyes I will feel the wind from the terrace door, pulling at the curtains. I will fell the warmth from the fireplace, and the cold from the floor. I will hear the creak from the old house telling me that it is still alive with the people that resides in it. As long as we are alive, and truly live our lives, taking it in both pain and joy, the house will keep on living.
And in the bottom corner, to the right, my apartment, where I have grown up.
And moved on.
Monday 6 October 2008
I love the smell of autumn
I love the smell of autumn as it rests upon my windowsill waiting and wanting for me to let it in. And as I do so, it pours in to my house, my home, and fills me with a sense of calm as I inhale. Exhale.
Fills me with yellow, and orange and bright, burning red. Fills me with fallen leaves, naked trees and frostbitten mould. Cradles me in a felling of standstill were the heat and light of summer has passed and the cold innocence of winter is yet to come.
It smells smoky, wet and cold. It smells of earth. It smells of change and flaming October. If I could I would open all my windows and let autumn in. I would open my front door and let the wind push autumn inside. In my living room we would dance around and around with our arms held out and our face to the sky as the leaves of autumn would colour the world around us. I love the smell of autumn.
Fills me with yellow, and orange and bright, burning red. Fills me with fallen leaves, naked trees and frostbitten mould. Cradles me in a felling of standstill were the heat and light of summer has passed and the cold innocence of winter is yet to come.
It smells smoky, wet and cold. It smells of earth. It smells of change and flaming October. If I could I would open all my windows and let autumn in. I would open my front door and let the wind push autumn inside. In my living room we would dance around and around with our arms held out and our face to the sky as the leaves of autumn would colour the world around us. I love the smell of autumn.
Wednesday 24 September 2008
The stupid fights...
I’ve taken a step back, and so has he. We are standing in the living room ten feet apart just looking at each other.
It started so harmless. Me asking him if he wanted to do something tonight. The movies? Or just go for some coffee? He answered that he was tired. And then I sighed. “Sigh!” And just like a referee had blown his whistle the match was suddenly on. “What?”, he asked. “What, what?”, I replied. “You sighed” “Yeah, I sighed” –Pause- “Am I not allowed to sigh?”
He looked at me , suddenly putting on his “game-face” as to tell me that if I wanted to go at it like that, he was game. He answered that he understood what I meant with that sigh. That he knew that now I would lash out at him for not wanting to go out tonight.
I looked back at him, letting the silence speak for me. Waiting for all the words at the back of my throat to calm down so I could say something reasonable. Something that would turn this discussion back around to pink-clouds and sunny days.
But the words wouldn’t go down. Instead I spewed out; “I haven’t lashed out all the other times you just wanted to sit on your as at home. We never do anything together anymore but eat, sleep and fuck!” I see him draw his breath at the word “fuck”. I don’t think he ever heard me curse before, and certainly not at him. I can see I have gone too far, but it’s no turning back now. He replies; “We do stuff. Just this weekend we were so busy we were hardly at home”. He seems angry, and disappointed in me. I see his fists open and close, his arms held closely to his sides. I hate to see him like this, to be the reason he get like this. I want to step forward and close the distance between us. I didn't mean what I just said. I never mean to get like this. Bit I don’t. Instead; “The apartment just gets so small sometimes. It’s like I can’t breathe” Now I hurt him. I see it in his eyes. In his beautiful blue eyes.
We are like two children throwing a ball between us. Picture it. It starts out a small ball, like a marble. In my hands. I throw it, and he catches it. But in his hands it turns into a golf-ball before he throws it back. Soon it has grown into a tennis-ball, a handball, a football and then a basketball. Constantly growing, until it gets to big to handle.
“I’m sorry I am such a disappointment” The ball drops from his hands and down to the floor with a soft “thud” Now it’s a brick stone lying dead and hard between us. He stares at it. I stare at my feet. In my mind I tell him that I love him, that he is the best thing that ever happened to me. That he is my world, my everything. Anything to make that stupid brick disappear. But out loud it sounds more like; “What do you want for dinner?”
It started so harmless. Me asking him if he wanted to do something tonight. The movies? Or just go for some coffee? He answered that he was tired. And then I sighed. “Sigh!” And just like a referee had blown his whistle the match was suddenly on. “What?”, he asked. “What, what?”, I replied. “You sighed” “Yeah, I sighed” –Pause- “Am I not allowed to sigh?”
He looked at me , suddenly putting on his “game-face” as to tell me that if I wanted to go at it like that, he was game. He answered that he understood what I meant with that sigh. That he knew that now I would lash out at him for not wanting to go out tonight.
I looked back at him, letting the silence speak for me. Waiting for all the words at the back of my throat to calm down so I could say something reasonable. Something that would turn this discussion back around to pink-clouds and sunny days.
But the words wouldn’t go down. Instead I spewed out; “I haven’t lashed out all the other times you just wanted to sit on your as at home. We never do anything together anymore but eat, sleep and fuck!” I see him draw his breath at the word “fuck”. I don’t think he ever heard me curse before, and certainly not at him. I can see I have gone too far, but it’s no turning back now. He replies; “We do stuff. Just this weekend we were so busy we were hardly at home”. He seems angry, and disappointed in me. I see his fists open and close, his arms held closely to his sides. I hate to see him like this, to be the reason he get like this. I want to step forward and close the distance between us. I didn't mean what I just said. I never mean to get like this. Bit I don’t. Instead; “The apartment just gets so small sometimes. It’s like I can’t breathe” Now I hurt him. I see it in his eyes. In his beautiful blue eyes.
We are like two children throwing a ball between us. Picture it. It starts out a small ball, like a marble. In my hands. I throw it, and he catches it. But in his hands it turns into a golf-ball before he throws it back. Soon it has grown into a tennis-ball, a handball, a football and then a basketball. Constantly growing, until it gets to big to handle.
“I’m sorry I am such a disappointment” The ball drops from his hands and down to the floor with a soft “thud” Now it’s a brick stone lying dead and hard between us. He stares at it. I stare at my feet. In my mind I tell him that I love him, that he is the best thing that ever happened to me. That he is my world, my everything. Anything to make that stupid brick disappear. But out loud it sounds more like; “What do you want for dinner?”
Monday 22 September 2008
Where has all the words gone?
Where has all the words gone? I am at a standstill, watching everybody else pass me by. I have lost my words and stories. All that is left is speechlessness. Silence. I feel like I lost my best friend.
I used to mean so much about everything. I had so much to say. Things weighing heavy on my hart. Oh, how I miss that weight! Words tumbling over each other to get out my mouth, out of my mind, out of my pen or on to my keyboard. And my imagination created stories and dreams for my mind to play with, and find rest in. Where can I play now? Have my dreams left me to seek a mind of colour and imagination. A person alive with that sense of playfulness and passion that I miss?
I wonder if I have grown too old for my escapism, for fantasy. Maybe the seriousness of the world finally has weighed me down and made me just one more person in a world of persons and few individuals. If my hart is not in it, were has it gone?
My mind is numb and the music is silent. I strike a key on my piano and no music comes out. I lift my pen over my notebook and it just bleeds to death on the paper. No words. No ideas. No passion. No colour. I am grey and dead as rock.
Paper covers rock.
I used to mean so much about everything. I had so much to say. Things weighing heavy on my hart. Oh, how I miss that weight! Words tumbling over each other to get out my mouth, out of my mind, out of my pen or on to my keyboard. And my imagination created stories and dreams for my mind to play with, and find rest in. Where can I play now? Have my dreams left me to seek a mind of colour and imagination. A person alive with that sense of playfulness and passion that I miss?
I wonder if I have grown too old for my escapism, for fantasy. Maybe the seriousness of the world finally has weighed me down and made me just one more person in a world of persons and few individuals. If my hart is not in it, were has it gone?
My mind is numb and the music is silent. I strike a key on my piano and no music comes out. I lift my pen over my notebook and it just bleeds to death on the paper. No words. No ideas. No passion. No colour. I am grey and dead as rock.
Paper covers rock.
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