The funny side to life as a working single Mum. My stories of embarrassing escapades, toddler tantrums and great expectations.
Monday, 31 March 2014
Should I give myself to you, the reader, completely?
I admit to being an incredibly complex human. I am not simple in any aspect of my life; my 'self' does not exist in simple means. I am unsure as to whether I bring this on myself. I suppose I must do in some way. I am a juxtaposition of romance and bitterness; fantasy and reality. In my daily life I somehow manage, just about, to reach a middle ground for the purposes of the general viewing public. If I were to pour my heart and soul out to you now, in this mutually desolate and overcrowded stage of the Internet, I am unsure how you would feel. Unsure whether you would want to read on and how it would taint your reading of past, present and future. If you were ever to meet me, would you feel fear or affection?
At the bottom of my mind lies the remains of romance, the bones of hope and the wings of youth. Surrounding this is a smog laden poisonous cancer of hate, bitterness and depression. There is nothing pleasant in this place, nothing pure, nothing optomistic. The disease of the creative self, the thoughtful self, laughs at the graveyard of my past. It mocks the simple dreams, the innocent laughter and secretly weeps at its loss. If you look beneath my witty retort, endless words and passion, you will find a stack of corpses from long ago. There are no mourners for them, no flowers, no goodbyes. Only ear bleeding screams and cries from a locked room, hidden from polite society.
Is that what you want to hear? I will leave it to you, the reader, to decide which part of me is my true 'self.' Or maybe, you will be deciding which 'self' you would like me to be. Your call.
Thursday, 20 March 2014
Fight fire with fire.
What happens when this dream is stolen? Do we die or are we just empty, still life carcasses? Active taxidermy, drowning in our own weakness and disappointment.
It has felt, at times, like my emotional circulation has been cut off. Calling it a barrier or guard doesn't even cover it. It is as though every ounce of want, need or belief in love has been burned. This is not to say that my life or happiness were lost in the fire, as they survived in my son. It is just that my previously undying belief in love and a relationship as a possibility genuinely formed a pyre, which was burning out in the distance. So far away, I could no longer taste the ash or feel the warmth.
I have recently come to realise that possibly, just possibly, the belief and desire had not been permanently destroyed. Maybe it had just moved further away and needs tempting from the flames. This is not to say that I am, by any means the naieve romantic of a past life. Is this sad? I'm unsure. All I know is that this slight lack of belief has provided and still is a procurer of protection. For that, I am thankful and it may remain in part.
I now feel as though the door of my centre of belief is ajar. Available to peek at for those deserving. To be able to honestly say that my openness has returned, if only partially, is almost new to me. As though this is a different form of availability and belief that in my past life.
Sometimes, an internal fire, wild yet equally tame is the counter action to the flames in the distance. An equal battle. Balanced perhaps.
Cliche as it is, they say fight fire with fire. If this is the case, then perhaps the pyre and ash can remain in the distance. Perhaps there is no need to burn out completely.
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