Juicy Raindrops

I’ve realised something about myself.

I have had to let go of loves that i thought would always be mine. Not because I wanted to but because when it happened, it did so without my consent. No one asked for my permission. I realised that it wasn’t my decision as to whether they stayed or left. It was theirs. They decided - not me.

It happened once. Twice. Thrice.

And baggage was formed.

Systematically i learned how to stop holding on to love. I let it be ephemeral, transient. Even while i craved for a love that would be written in the stars. It was how i taught myself to survive. It was either that or block out love completely and that i could not do.

I am unable to ask anyone to stay. No matter how much i want them to. I simply won’t do it. I will do nothing to influence this decision. I will stand still as a statute with a look of perfect tranquility as they made their decision.

So as far as i am concerned, you can stay or leave. I will survive either way. Never will i ask you to stay. I will leave the door open and the rest is up to you. But if you walk out, i will slam the door behind you. If you stay, you will have to close and lock the door behind you.. or I’m likely to reopen it every chance i get.

Hefty baggage this.

Juicy Raindrops! ♡

i am a touchy-feel-y person with my loved ones. my love language is a cross between touch and words. and i’ve always been surrounded by love. whenever i feel down and sad, i would walk up to one of circle and give them a hug. they would hug me back and a breath or two later i would feel sufficiently re-energised to do whatever it was that i needed to do. i have never really examined it - just accepted it as fact. i might have even taken it for-granted.

but when i walked out of that hospital.. away from the faces and the eyes. away from my gramps’ waning form. i took two steps towards the car and i broke down in tears. my brother was already there. he held me as my heart bled. no words, no questions, no judgement, just there.

it made me think back to all the times i‘ve been blessed enough to have arms hold me when i needed it. and how i never had to question it, ask for it or even say thank you for it.

i am writing this because i never want to forget again. i am writing this because i know better now. I am writing this because i am grateful and words are both powerful and my love language.

i am writing this for the arms that hold me.
present-continuous.

- J.

I honestly don’t know how it is that I haven’t ever posted a SAL video here*. But better late than never. This is Sleeping at Last (SAL).

I have chosen 7 of my favourite songs and created a playlist for you, enjoy!

LINK TO PLAYLIST HERE!

Saturn

Pluto

Light

Sight

Eight

Juicy Raindrops! ♡

*Ah! I just realised that I discovered him during my sabbatical which is why i didn’t mention him. Now you know. You’re welcome.

“During a taxi ride home from an unsuccessful valentines day date, you smell something unusual. On the seat beside you is someone else’s coat. You pick it up, in the hope of finding the owner’s identification in one of the pockets, only to discover that beneath it is a pile of what you really hope aren’t human hearts.”

I gasped before i could help it. Rather loudly too. Idiot. I knew he was watching me even before our eyes met in the rearview mirror. We watched each other for seconds that felt like an eternity and the cold flowing through my veins turned to solid-ice. I looked away, fidgeted for my phone and made a call.

“Hi! Yes. Yes. I’ll meet you at Cupid Park in 5”
Then to the driver, who was still watching me, “Can i just get off here?”

No answer.

My hands tightly gripped the phone and fear made my voice sound higher than usual. Still on the line, Grace is asking what the hell i was talking about.
He continued to silently watch me and i thought he wasn’t going to stop the car. My hands were already reaching for the door when he pulled up to the curb. I was out of the car before he put the car in brake. I pulled a bill from my bag not even checking to see what it was and handed it to him. But just then he grabbed my hand, smiled a toothy grin and said,

“I spent the night collecting some hearts for the Mrs for valentine’s. She likes them fresh, you know...”

In my defence, I didn’t know he meant pig hearts. I also didn’t know that pig heart was considered a delicacy to some and that it looks remarkably similar to the human heart. And I most especially didn’t know that he had a pacemaker and that spraying an entire can of pepper spray into his face was a health hazard and would land me in cuffs but here i am. Sitting in an interrogation room at the police station, writing my statement in an outrageously short dress i had used 2 month’s salary to buy just for tonight.

It’s official, i really hate Valentine’s Day.

Signed: Abigail Thomas
Date: 14/02/21

Juicy Raindrops! ♡

“Apocalypse signs start to appear and they’re valid according to all religions that predicted them. One skinny guy shows up to your house and tells you he’s Apocalyse and hands you a shirt with a name badge on it that says “Death” and tells you your horse is outside.”

I laughed, even as trepidation caused the hairs behind my neck to stand. I tried to shut the door in his face but he put out a foot to stop me and said,
“Look just take the shirt and it will all make sense.”

I looked down at the shirt. It didn’t seem like anything special. In fact it looked like one of those £4 shirts from Primark. He was watching me, waiting for me to take it. He wasn’t going to budge unless I did so with an exasperated sigh, I reached for it.
As soon as my hand made contact, the sky went dark and there was thunder and lightning all at once and in an instant. There was also what felt like a loud roar in my head as i fell to ground, overwhelmed by the power of it.
It subsided after a few moments and i opened my eyes and stood up. The mirror in the entry way showed that i was wearing the death shirt even though I couldn’t remember it putting it on. I looked at Apocalypse. He smiled.
“Hello brother. War and Famine are out by the horses, let’s ride.”

We took over the globe. Every man, woman and child knew of us horsemen and we were revered for our power and might....

Jack is a 10 year old boy visiting with his grandfather in a nursing home. He says to his grandad.

“So this was all when you were part of a 60’s rockband?”
“Yes my boy, we were legendary.”
“Mummy said you were high most of the time”.
“Yes my boy, that is true too. Good times”.

Note: this is all for humour. I am in no way or form supporting drugs.

Juicy Raindrops! ♡

the funny thing about death is that once it touches you and you get devastated by it, it leaves a subtle kind of mark behind. you become more aware of your own mortality and certain end. it could be you in the ground tomorrow. 
out like a light. 
gone forever. 

but that doesn’t faze you much. what terrifies you so much that you miss a few breaths is the possibility of it being someone that holds a chunk of your heart. the very blood in your veins freezes as you see the faces of such people in your mind’s eye. and all you can selfishly think is:

‘please God no. i don’t know how i will survive this.’

no, it is definitely not your finest moment.

but the complete honesty of it would shame the hypocrite. 

Juicy Raindrops! ♡

I will always tell you this: I am not a blogger. I am simply a girl who writes publicly.

I tried blogging you know. I paid for hosting (thrice!!) and even purchased a domain name*. But I couldn’t keep to it. 7 posts max and i wanted out. There was an internal pressure to keep to a schedule, follow the trends and write about things that were “relevant” and deliver “value” so i could grow a network and..
.. and that was how they lost me. Completely.

I said i would do anything else. I would sing with my croaky voice and I will dance with my funky old school moves (unfortunately i am not part of the twerking generation) .. but i will not contaminate my writing. Writing is mine. It comes from a place that is inside of me. When i am writing as i think - just like now - i can actually feel the words flowing from my heart to my consciousness. And then i pause a little - just like now - and try to translate the feelings into the written word.. and then i smile as the words finally resonate with the feelings - just like now. ^.^

I can write poetry. I can write short stories. Heck sometimes i even write lyrics (i still haven’t learned to play that guitar yet). But having to write in such a confining manner doesn’t work for me. It isn’t a even trade. I would be losing something that is vital to me for something that isn’t. I don’t have to think about the perceived value of what I write here and that makes everything that I write valuable .. to me. I don’t have to tailor my words so my post will maybe go viral and bring me a lot of fame and money. Anything else, but not this. It is too precious.

So no, i won’t change to Wordpress or Wix for better views and tools, I will not allow ads or promote this blog in any way because this is my space, my niche. :)
And it’s gonna stay that way.

If you’ve somehow stumbled your way here, then hi!
And if it doesn’t happen then i think it’s probably for the best.
We are all mad here.

J.
(The Book of Day).

*This was during my 3 year sabbatical away from this blog.

I know what you’re thinking.

That I swagger in and out of here whenever it suits me.. And you’re right of course.
Every now and again, i will come on here, cut my wrist and show you the colour and texture of my blood. That is who i am and that is the relationship we have built over the years.
On my very first post on this blog i told you that writing for me was living and that i could only write about things i knew. That is a fact that remains true to this day. So the darkness and the light, they are all me - and i am continuously learning how to accept them both without being completely blinded by one over the other.

This blog has been “Insert appropriate title here”. It has been “Jasmine’s Playground”. Right now, it is “Gypsy Hart”.. from tomorrow it will become something else. Which brings me back to the point i was trying to make from the start. I am here again to make changes to this blog. I just realised that in about 7 months, it will be 10 years since I took the plunge and started this blog. My friend Aisha (remember her from here) talked me into it, read every single post and left supportive comments. In a few months she’d have been gone for as many years as I’ve been ~~blogging~~ writing publicly.

I can not tell you how all these factors are linked because my brain hasn’t made the conscious connection yet but it’s in there and right now, i know that this is what i need to do.

So if you can stomach it and keep reading.. pull up a chair and sit with me by this fire and i will tell you all the stories that i know as i learn them.

It’s been a hell of a time! If you’re still here.. Thank you for giving a type of meaning to my madness.

I’m now out of ginger tea - so I’ll stop here today.

-J.

I know that there are men that i should be wary of
These creatures have perfected the art of emotional manipulation
And me? I see, think and feel with my heart
I am prime prey.

They will take, take and take

And I will give, give and give
Because this is how i love
I give without measure
Without expecting anything in return.

Sometimes i will look up
Because while i am a lover, i am not stupid
I will look up and look at them
Exalting in their smugness for having baited me yet again
Or with half a crocodile tear making its way down one cheek

And i will feel pity for them.
Real pity
Because today they are playing with my honest emotions

and i will let it happen
For them
For me

But soon, very soon, the day will come
When they will lay in a bath of molten lava

With red hot coals on their heads

And i will feel nothing.

This is why i pity them
For the day when my emotions stop flowing for them
Because on the reverse of my true love is icy unfeelingness
Not contempt or hatred
Those are too engaging
I will quite literally feel nothing at all.

So today while i still can feel,
I will smile up at them
And give them another pint of blood.

Don’t worry about me though,
My blessings are vast, I will make up more blood.

Juicy Raindrops! ♡

I have had this saved for 6 years.

And still i cannot find fault in it.

So today, I post it here.

What if Friar John had known the gravity of the content of the letter he carried?

Would he then not have stopped in Mantua for a travel companion

and therefore not been delayed by the accusation of the plague?

What if Friar Laurence had come up with a better plan?

What if Miss Capulet had simply told her parents the truth?

What if she had married Count Paris?

What if the apothecary hadn't been a poor man in need of money?

What if Romeo had never gone to the ball?

What if Juliet were a stronger woman

And Romeo a less fickle man?

Would we, even today, know of them? Of Romeo and his fair Juliet?

What if Mr Shakespare had decided to give the young lovers a happier end?

Would we be as interested in their peaceful love as we are in their tragedy?

If the story were simply that they had lived and loved..

Would we, even today, tell their story and know their names?

And if not, what does that say about us as a people?

“From forth the fatal loins of these two foes,

A pair of star cross’d lovers take their life;

Whose misadventured piteous overthrows,

Doth with their death bury their parents’ strife.”

Did two souls have to be lost for two feuding families to make peace?

I think the even greater tragedy would have been had they not.

Juicy Raindrops! ♡

you asked me for our story and what writer worth her salt is unable to write her own story? your exact words were "from the beginning to the point where you can't anymore".

do we have a beginning though? we've always been opposing forces determined to maintain a friendship. what i thought was our unsuitability was simply our stars crossing - constantly. but i am getting ahead of myself.

if i had to pick a beginning for us, it would have to be middle school. you were my person. the one who told me what the mean girls said behind my back - so i could confront and kick their butts for it. you were always on my team. you were my person and that was enough.

the very first hic for me was one night in senior high. my beau was being detained and i was sitting by a classroom window alone wondering things a 16 year old wonders when she sees other girls flirting with her boyfriend.. and her boyfriend flirting back. you came to me, took one look at me and another at him (them) and you sat with me. for the life of me i cannot remember what exactly you said to me that night but it calmed me. i remember something about his loving me and not being foolish enough to risk that. you made me smile and he found us like that (and misunderstood of course). he was always jealous of our relationship, did i tell you that? if i weren't who i am and he who he is, he would have asked me to stop being friends with you. i guess even he saw the possibility before we did.

next i remember college. vividly. you were still my person, we spoke several times a day, and you visited often - i loved you, simply. we had lost our partners but we had each other. we might have overcompensated with each other because we were dating without the title. do you remember the time i "slept" in your arms because you had taken the bed in Lola's room? i use the quotation marks because i had way too many butterflies in my tummy to actually be asleep. but i let you think so. then you were finally bold enough to tell me.. and i didn't take it well. what? how? why? i had just ended one relationship. they were fleeting in my mind - you and i transcended that so why did you want to mess us up? but the cat was out of the bag and we couldn't be the same. either i was frustrated with you for changing our dynamics or you were frustrated with me for not feeling the same. but i couldn't. i wouldn't let myself. so what did we both do? we started seeing other people and inadvertently started what will be our story for a long time to come. it obviously created this gap between us. we didn't speak anymore, let alone talk. you weren't my person anymore. and i realized that in trying to save our friendship, i had ruined it.

another moment that sticks out is attending a friend's birthday party at her house. i was bored and looking around - and there you were, across from me and staring. i guess it was one of those scorching looks you read about in romance books because i felt it all the way to my toes. and i couldn't look away. i did though when i realized that while we were otherwise occupied, you had someone on your arm and mine was being held by another. we had made a mess of it all. there was no going back it seemed. but a year or so later, you would call me and we would talk and make up (this is also another pattern we will unwittingly adopt). that first time, it was like the estrangement had never occurred. we were both single so why not.. but you never went there again. i had just ended a roller coaster relationship and had developed some baggage of my own so i wasn't going to put myself out there either. so we pretended. and it became a rot that infested our already fragile bond. we stopped being able to express civility. we went back to bickering and fighting about everything. we were kind-of friends but the bond was shaky and any small turbulence would blow it away. remember the pattern i mentioned? we would part to reunite to part to reunite. i remember thinking a couple years back that it was as if we couldn't stay away from each other. it inspired me to write the only novel I've started and completed in my adult life "Friends and Lovers". i remember the dedication. it went: "i couldn't deny Rafe and Lily their happy ending just because we messed ours up. they earned it. they deserved it."

about two years ago i began to heal fully from the scars that i had suffered from during my life to that point. i went on a soul-walk and found myself. well, who i wanted to be anyway. i also decided that it was time that i put myself on the block like you had done once. so, when the words wouldn't just come out, i kissed you. you were shell shocked and i was embarrassed. i was even more embarrassed when i found out that i had apparently kissed someone who was in a relationship with another. i have felt so much for you in my life but that was the time when i felt something akin to hatred for you. for so many reasons - the foremost being that you hadn't had the decency to tell me yourself. that was when i realized just how close the line between love and hate was. and yes, i was in love with you at this time. i had convinced myself that if our time wouldn't come, i would create it. what a silly little girl i was huh? after that you might have tried, i don't know - i know i didn't though. i think we were both just too exhausted. and who could blame us, look at our history! it speaks for itself.

on the last day i saw you, you made me tell you why and finally i did. i didn't want to lose my person, i guess i didn't realize then that you were on lease and not mine to keep.

i told you it was easy to write about you. but now i can't anymore. the words have finished. we are not wasted effort, we are wasted potential and i think that's worse. now we are just strangers who share a past. however colourful it may be.

this is not a love letter. it is a farewell note. maybe someday i might actually send it to you.

and then again, maybe not.

Have you ever read words that shook you to your very core?

Not for anything other than the absolute truth within them.

It is a truth that you’ve always known and hidden away.

And you’re cringing away from it even while you recognise it for what it is.

What are the parts of yourself that you have hidden away?

You hide them away from judging eyes and lashing tongues

It is a kind of survival instinct.

So you censor to avoid censure.

But then someone pulls it out and shines a light on it.

So now what?

Juicy Raindrops! ♡

When they fight like this it makes me feel like a child again. Helpless and afraid. Tonight I shook with the fear of it because I swear I thought he was going to hit her. I already heard the sound of it in my head and the pain in my heart. All the while she threatened him back with the knife she held and swore that if he ever hit her again, it would be the last thing he ever did. And all the while I cuddled under the stairs like a child afraid to look, afraid to see, afraid to make even the barest of sounds less I push one of them into fulfilling their threat. She shouts out some harsh words, he threatens to leave and I can't stop shaking.

I hear my little sister coming down the stairs, she's holding a plate with a cake slice from her recently celebrated 14th birthday. And all I think is that I have to protect her from this. So I wipe away my tears and and stall her by sending her back up the stairs. She doesn't deserve to have her picture perfect idealism tainted. It will happen eventually. But not today. Not on my watch. Protecting my siblings is a source of strength for me. And protect them I will. So I leave the staircase, feel myself changing from age 8 back to age 24 and I do the only useful thing that I can do: pray.

They didn't do it. He didn't hit her and she didn't stab him. Not today anyway. But the root of my fear is in the day when any one of these threats is carried out. Will I lose a parent or both?

Someone asked me today if everything I wrote was real.
I asked her to define real.

She said, "True" and I answered with "Yes, I write my truth."

She wasn't satisfied so she added, "Outside your head"

And I replied with a question of my own, "Does that make it any less real?"

Getting exasperated she said "Well do you see everything you write?"

Me, "Is that your definition of reality?"

Her, "Yes"

So I quoted Sam Sparro and meant it!!! I wasn't being difficult, this is my truth:

"If vision is the only validation, then most of my life isn't real."

We aren't just any old animal farm with pigs and hens and goat. We are THE animal farm.

Old Roger has said that for as long as there are humans who eat meat, the farm would always be in business. The highlight of the farm depends on what season it is. During Christmas and Thankgiving -turkey and pigs, during the Eid celebrations chicken and ram. The farmer caters to all sorts.

Now we who are grown and fattened for the season love it. We are fed well, not used for manual labour on the farm and groomed too. This we know is a requirement by the people who buy us as per their religious rules. So we are treated very well.

Then we see the world. From our little farm out in the hicksville we are transported to all parts of the country. From busy market places to makeshift trading posts - we are sold or bartered to the family that will take us home.

But we are not all so lucky. Every once in a while, a few of us don't get sold or bartered and will have to be returned to the farm. For us, there is no greater tragedy than being a "Reject". According to the whispers, Old Roger was a reject from last year. He has rope injuries on his hind legs and wobbles when we walks. He always has his head down and only really looks alive when he is telling of the tales of his journey around the county. But the inevitable usually happens. One of the young sheep in their innocence asks: "It sounds so wonderful... Why did you ever return?” And then Old Roger would return to his default deadpan self. Our mothers would tell us to be good when we were young or end up a Reject. That, for us, was the boogeyman under the bed.

The big day came. A week to the Eid festival, we were all shipped to our trade posts. I was taken to a market in a place called Kaduna. The road had been a wonder to behold. All those lands and open spaces- with no fences or barriers. When we went into the bigger towns and cities making drop-offs, i smelled the strangest smells and saw the most colourful of places. We all looked out the gaps of the trailer and marvelled at the things we saw and heard.

Eventually I was dropped off myself. But life wasn't as easy as we had thought. The flock from our farm were kept in paddocks next to flocks from other farms and there was a lot of rivalry and competition as our human owners tried to woo the customers by offering the best prices and claiming that their animals had the best look. It wasn't looking good for our farm because up until a day to the Eid festival, only 9 of us had been sold. We were all starting to worry and young Albert was downright mopey because his chances were even slimmer being as small of stature as he was. But remarkably, he was the next of us to be sold. I overheard the humans say that the economy has been terrible and the currency of the nation had been greatly devalued therefore most customers couldn't afford the high prices of goods anymore. This didn't bode well for us.

On the morning of the Eid festival I saw a little human girl looking through the paddock holes at us - as we lay sad and dejected. The farmer had said the night before that we would have to all go back to the farm. We were all to be Rejects. But the little girl.. she looked what the humans would call “cute”. When our eyes locked she smiled at me so I let her try to touch my ears. Then she pulled away and ran off only to return with an adult human male. She pointed to me and said "Daddy let's take this one."

So they were last minute buyers then? But the way the older man looked me over, I knew he wouldn't want me so I didn't even bother getting up to preen for his attention. But the little girl was relentless. She stamped down her foot and declared that they would take me or no other. The farmer, seeing a possible sale, came over and started negotiating prices with the human man. The farmer is a professional haggler and finally a price was agreed upon. It was much higher than the price the farmer had hoped to get for any one of us this late in the day. I know because I had heard him and this foreman talking before. The farmer would have accepted up to half the price the human man paid. Maybe now he will finally be able to afford to send his youngest daughter to school. This has always been a bone of contention between the farmer and his wife, who has always insisted that their daughter be sent to school even with the farmer arguing that he couldn't afford the extra expense. My mother used to say that it was unnatural for me to listen to the humans talk but they have always fascinated me. Especially their love and devotion to money. I still do not get it. I have seen money before, it doesn't even look all that delicious to me but I guess to each his own.

The foreman collared me and I was loaded into the delivery vehicle they aptly called a 'pickup' that would take me to the home of the humans who had bought me. As the little girl walked by me, she smiled her victory as if we were in cahoots. I had to appreciate her gusto.

On this drive, I was filled less with that crazy excitement I had felt when leaving the farm and more with a sense of calm contentment. It had been a close call for me, I am aware I could have been a Reject. Except here I am being unloaded from the vehicle and being walked to the block where I will be nobly sacrificed. This is what I was meant to do. This is my pride and all my mother wanted for me.

I see that the butcher is there already sharpening his knives and preparing his equipment. When I am brought to him, he looks me over with a critical eye and gives out instructions for how I should be held down. They needn’t bother, today I won't be going anywhere. The human man is given the knife to make the first cut and I hear him telling someone to take his daughter away. But my little defender would not have that so instead she ran forward to stand in my line of vision and stomped her foot again. Her father grudgingly subsides and she smiled that smile of hers again.

The first feel of the knife at my neck hurt but after that I didn't feel anything anymore. The butcher took over and as the human man returned to his daughter, I heard her say:

"Has billy gone to sleep?"

I didn't hear her father respond and I don't even know if he did. My last thought was that she had named me after a damn goat.

Stop talking J.

I really need you to stop talking right this instant.

You’re explaining yourself

And it doesn’t matter

And you know that

And you hate that

But the words keep coming out still

And you’re letting them.

You need to stop talking right now.

But you can’t.

But I can’t.

I know it doesn’t matter

Not to the person I’m talking to anyway

That person has already made up her mind as to what she wants to believe

So my words will never reach her

Even while I desperately want them to.

It doesn’t matter to her

But it matters to me

So the words flow from my heart to my tongue

Even as my mind beseeches them both to stop.

It’s a slow-moving horror show

Continuously being pricked by the same thorn

Yet reaching out for the same rose regardless.

The german genius called it crazy

This repetition for a new result

And I wonder if i will now have to add that to my profile.

Psych ward breakout. Mad as a hatter.. and crazy too.

Yeah.. i think it works.

Juicy Raindrops! ♡

Cougar.

I don’t know about you but i quite like it. I mean it is an experience like every other right? And it really isn’t that big an age gap. I am 2 years older but I’ve never dated a younger man before so it’s an experience. Plus he’s so earnest. And he’s a poet who writes about the stars in my eyes and pulling the moon down just for me. Maybe I’ve been listening to too much Sleeping At Last but i find it all so terribly romantic. So i lay on the grass with my eyes closed and listen to him as he recites his sweet words with his gruff toe-curling voice. Just for today. Our tomorrow’s are numbered because I’ve realised that i am still very old school but we will have today and i will cherish it for what it is right now. Plus, I’ve read some of his heartbreak pieces and i really really really want him to write one about me. I’ve always written about my own heartache and the idea of being written about excites me. So i will break his heart and be immortalised in his words.

So I’m trying again. Let us see how it goes this time.

—*****—

I seem to have perfected the art of pushing people out of my life. Yes i do it on purpose and yes it is for the best for them even if they don’t know it yet. But they will. They might never thank me for it but they will realise it someday. It is my burden that I have to realise it long before they do. It is my burden that I care for them enough to do it. Rado finally figured it out. Begrudgingly. And it took him only 3 years to do it. Sometimes i wonder if we can be friends now then. If maybe i could have my friend at least. I still post a Smurf for him every February for his birthday. Maybe next year I’ll post a baby smurf for him. After all, he is a father now. And it will be the last one. The post i mean. It will be the last smurf. Do I regret my decision? For any of them? No I don’t. And that’s why they hate me i think. Because they think that they are the only ones hurting. Because they think that my slamming the door is only to hurt them. Suddenly they forget that i know how to smile while i bleed. And that when I love, I don’t go back.

I am cursed with so much damn sense. It makes me older than my years and not as foolhardy as those my age ought to be. But somehow i am still able to love and empathise and that will never stop blowing me over. For how can i feel so damn much and still be so “sensible”?. It’s not a word i particularly like. Sensible. I would blame my parents for naming me for an old woman. I went and inherited more sense than i should have. More than my ration i would dare say. I will bitch about it here on nights like these because i cannot do it out loud. If they knew, if they caught even a slight whiff of my vulnerability, they would push. I don’t fear that i will break.. well that’s not my only fear anyway (we’re being honest right Doc?). I fear that in a knee-jerk attempt to prove myself, i would say something i would be unable to take back. I am my mother’s daughter you see and while i may sometimes judge her for it, that fiery blood runs right through my veins as well. Copious amounts of it. So i make good choices for them. To enable them to begin amazing chapters of their lives. It’s good. For them and for me. Like i said in the beginning i have become very skilled at it. For what is skill after all but a knife that’s been sharpened repeatedly and forged through fire? huh? So there. I am skilled at pushing people out of my life.

But. Where is the one that will fight me? Tooth and nail. The one who will hear those words that my sensible mouth will never say...

“Leave me alone” (stay)

“I don’t want to be with you” (please stay)
“This is for the best” (no its not. It’s just the easiest of the hard choices)
“I’ve made up my mind” (fight me!)
“I don’t want to hear this” (fight me!!)
“This will be our last conversation” (this is where you show me that it (we) matters enough to fight for!)

“This is goodbye” (fight me now!!)
“Have a good life” (never let me go)

It is my burden that though i have these words burning in me right now; clawing to get out into the big bad world. I can’t remember my password and blogger has of course chosen this moment to be strict and therefore put my account on hold for 3-5 working days while they figure out whether or not i was trying to hack into my own account. It is my burden that i have to type this all out on my notes app and it may probably never make it to the blog in the end. It is my burden that those words are still clawing at my chest but i can’t let them out now because i am bitching about blogger. It is my burden that the words will not come out tonight after all and i will read my novel until the cock crows and i finally crash into a dreamless exhaustive slumber... like always.

Welcome back to the mad house.

Juicy Raindrops

I come bearing baggage

For the arms that hold me..

Meet SAL

Horror & Cupid

The Four Horsemen

Honest, selfish despair

Why I couldn’t make it as a blogger

Of Day and Night.

Beware the advent of winter

What is 'normal' anyway?

Of Romeo and his fair Juliet

hic: starcrossed

Fight or flight? II

just like shazam

What is real?

Oh billy!: From the ram's view point

... and crazy too.

What she has become

The words i am not saying

We made it here after all: 22/08/20

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