She seemed to have a better grip on reality than he did. He smiled nonchalantly and pushed away my guilty embrace. "I'll miss you buddy." He didn't know it at the time, but that would be our last embrace for two months. He'd go home and find the walls stripped bare, any semblance of who I used to be, packed up and taped away. Those familiar objects he associated with my presence would be gone. On a truck in the middle of nowhere with no destination. But at that moment, standing at those gates, he had no idea. This was our last goodbye and he had chosen not to say it.
I had always thought of him as the emotional one, but it was us three girls at that time who could all but hold back the tears. I watched him walk away, so unknowingly, and it killed me. This was just another day at school for him. This wasn't the last goodbye at all. I wanted him to know. I wanted him to hug me tighter than usual, I wanted to be the hero dying in his story. But I wasn't. He had no idea I wasn't returning. He didn't know how to say goodbye, and maybe that was for the best. He had never wanted to say it before and it wasn't fair to make him do it now. So I said goodbye for him, for me.
The three of us walked solemnly to our next destination. One more goodbye to tick off my list. This whole situation was reversed. She was meant to be the strong one. The one who smiled and waved back at me. And he was meant to be the one in tears, clutching my wrist, sobbing "Please don't go." But he wasn't, and she wasn't. It broke my heart. If I'd ever broken a heart in my lifetime, it had to be hers right then. I had no idea she held me so high. I guess I just had no idea. I was leaving them after all. Even though I knew they didn't have anyone else. Her little face, once so bratty and kid-like, now so mature and experienced. She had said a thousand goodbyes, but none like this.
We hadn't expected it, us three. This was meant to be easy. See you in a few months, no big deal, I'd be back. Only, in her mind, I wouldn't be. And I knew this. I knew that those tiny hands gripping me so tight, those unsure eyes overflowing with emotion, I knew that they were saying goodbye. Our last goodbye. She made it so hard, saying goodbye. Though it was the leaving part that hurt the most. I couldn't bare to look back at her, so small, so vulnerable, her tears so justified, yet her situation so unfair. I was leaving her. I was the hero in her story and I had died. She knew when she got home that I'd be gone. That I wouldn't be back. And it killed me. I half-wished she'd be as unknowing as him. That she too would entertain the thought of me always being around. But she knew better than that and I cursed her for growing up so quickly. I didn't want to give her another reason to feel so old, so hard done by. I wanted her to be a child, to run under sprinklers and never fear getting caught. But life had caught her already, and just as it caught her it left me to slip away out of sight. I never thought it would be this hard, not like this.
Their lives were so different that day, and they had no idea they were returning home to the same reality. His day would be no less mundane than the others, packed with the same home-made lunch as it always was. But hers was different. Her day would seem foreign and surreal. Her lunch would be exotic and inedible. Her mind, her heart, so full of questions she was too young to ask. Why are you leaving us. That's the only one that ever stuck in my mind. I don't know how I could allow myself to feel so guilty, so responsible, but I did.
Sometimes they must think I try too hard. To be their guardian, their best friend, their mentor. When really, I was just their sister. And although this was what life had taught me to be, I knew in my heart that to these kids, I needed to be, I wanted to be, I was, so much more.
Maybe I had held myself too high in their eyes. Maybe I wasn't their hero at all, but I so desperately wanted to be. I wanted to be the hero I never had as a child. I wanted them to look up to me, to know I'd always be there. But I wasn't, and I was never going to be, The fullness of this responsibility I placed upon myself still plagues me daily. Maybe I'm the only one awake at night. Thinking of our last goodbye. Thinking about the last embrace and the last tear in our eye.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Procrastination
There are various reasons I haven't posted a blog in nearly a month. No well there's only one. It's called university. This monster takes over your life and makes sure you have no time to do anything but uni work!! No that's not true, I have enough time I just choose to spend it procrastinating rather than doing work on assignments. And as a direct result of procrastinating about writing I have done the very thing I was procrastinating about..written! Just some random stuff because people obviously miss my presence on this blog and I thought I'd treat you all to a few of my thoughts.
The Last Meal
The taste is decidedly familiar, but the feeling is final. “No more of this for a month” she says. It’s hard to live without it. She is sitting next to me while I eat my last meal. She always sits next to me when we eat.
I close my eyes and pick up the small square, making sure to caress its rounded edges. This dish does not require knives or forks, or even a plate, just hungry hands. It is often smooth in texture, though today it is not. I feel a warm sensation against my skin and see that it has begun to melt in my hand. I’ve thought about this too long. Though it is my last meal. I slip it into my mouth, deciding to enjoy the whole thing, rather than slowly devouring it. Partly because I know it frustrates you.
Immediately the roof of my mouth tingles with familiarity, I’ve eaten this before. I clamp down my teeth and a minty river begins to flow through my mouth. It is gooier than usual, but I don’t mind. I just want to enjoy this; my last meal. My lips purse together like a fish as I suck out all the flavour, leaving only a brown salivated shell. This dark cave once housed a burst of exciting flavour. Now the minty river is flowing down my throat, warming against my insides. And the cave is slowly dissolving into my hungry, desperate mouth. Because, it’s my last meal.
This will be my last piece of chocolate for a month. Not because I’m on a diet, just because, she said so. And she always sits next to me when I eat.
Dear Father
I’m sick of the roar of that beast next door. You say they should be banned. I half-heartedly agree. Only, I know my father who I have yet to meet, would not be proud of this. But who is he to say what I agree with. I’ve never even met him. Only, I have. I met him a few times. It’s just, I forget. It’s not that I have an absent mind, just a father. He wouldn’t blame me. For forgetting that is. Because he forgets too. He doesn’t even know my name. After all these years of forgetting me, I thought he’d know who I was. If I were forgettable then first he must remember. He must remember who I am. And in order to remember, he must know my name. But he doesn’t. He forgot that. Just like he forgot me, I’ll forget him too. Though, I really can’t, only sometimes. I forget, because he has forgotten. And I’m too tired to remember. So I say yes to your proposal. Ban those roaring beasts next door. I’m sorry father, but I’ve forgotten. Just like you.
Always
You always find new ways to make me cry.
I thrust my body under the cold shower. The water pounded like bricks against my pale white skin. I had to be punished. I was spending three weeks of the coldest month in a notoriously cold city. I’d asked you to come with me. Only I hadn’t really, you offered but then withdrew. But it seemed somehow, that our love had promised me this much.
You always find new ways to make me cry.
I had never been fond of showers in Brisbane. The hot water seared my skin, turning it an embarrassed shade of pink. I’m not one for guilt, or spite. But I wanted to remind you. Tell you of all the hours I spent each week, devoted to your passion. Wasn’t it only fair? Surely these hours would add up to weeks. Weeks you could spend with me.
You always find new ways to make me cry.
I step out of the shower, neither hot nor cold. The fluctuating water temperature had calmed me. You weren’t coming with me and I wasn’t going to ask again. But I’ll remember this little thing you wouldn’t do for me. I’ll remember it when I’m sitting on a hard bench for three hours in the ten degree night.
Frivolous Fridays
Our lovers’ hideaway is bathed in the glorious afternoon light. I always did love Fridays. You are there, I am here. I’ve sentenced you to work, with the promise of future rewards. I know this will grab you. My feet dangle off the edge of the bed, and I wonder if you are watching them. They flail violently, up, then down. To the sound of your sometimes favourite band.
My head is moving too. But you can’t see that. You are on the other side. Behind the wall. But I picture you; you always look cute on Fridays. My pen begins to tap. I wonder if you hear it. I know you do, because I know you are listening. I wonder if I told you I was listening to your sometimes favourite band, would you be proud. I want to ask, but I don’t. You are working this time.
My shoulders start to swing. I know you can’t see this. But you feel it in yourself. Because we are connected. I can’t hear you tapping at the keyboard but I feel you are. The tapping of my pen reminds you of this.
My whole body begins to move. This is your music; it’s your music in our time.
I’d always loved Fridays. This was the day you taught me to be free. I don’t feel bad on Fridays. A day off means a day spent studying. But not Fridays. Because these are our days. Fridays are the days we say ‘I love you’, the day we have no doubts, no guilt, just frivolous pleasure. I shall call them Frivolous Fridays. I’ll mark this on my calendar. Make a life of it. On Frivolous Fridays we shall celebrate a love deserving of its own day. And we’ll make a life of it.
That's all folks.
The Last Meal
The taste is decidedly familiar, but the feeling is final. “No more of this for a month” she says. It’s hard to live without it. She is sitting next to me while I eat my last meal. She always sits next to me when we eat.
I close my eyes and pick up the small square, making sure to caress its rounded edges. This dish does not require knives or forks, or even a plate, just hungry hands. It is often smooth in texture, though today it is not. I feel a warm sensation against my skin and see that it has begun to melt in my hand. I’ve thought about this too long. Though it is my last meal. I slip it into my mouth, deciding to enjoy the whole thing, rather than slowly devouring it. Partly because I know it frustrates you.
Immediately the roof of my mouth tingles with familiarity, I’ve eaten this before. I clamp down my teeth and a minty river begins to flow through my mouth. It is gooier than usual, but I don’t mind. I just want to enjoy this; my last meal. My lips purse together like a fish as I suck out all the flavour, leaving only a brown salivated shell. This dark cave once housed a burst of exciting flavour. Now the minty river is flowing down my throat, warming against my insides. And the cave is slowly dissolving into my hungry, desperate mouth. Because, it’s my last meal.
This will be my last piece of chocolate for a month. Not because I’m on a diet, just because, she said so. And she always sits next to me when I eat.
Dear Father
I’m sick of the roar of that beast next door. You say they should be banned. I half-heartedly agree. Only, I know my father who I have yet to meet, would not be proud of this. But who is he to say what I agree with. I’ve never even met him. Only, I have. I met him a few times. It’s just, I forget. It’s not that I have an absent mind, just a father. He wouldn’t blame me. For forgetting that is. Because he forgets too. He doesn’t even know my name. After all these years of forgetting me, I thought he’d know who I was. If I were forgettable then first he must remember. He must remember who I am. And in order to remember, he must know my name. But he doesn’t. He forgot that. Just like he forgot me, I’ll forget him too. Though, I really can’t, only sometimes. I forget, because he has forgotten. And I’m too tired to remember. So I say yes to your proposal. Ban those roaring beasts next door. I’m sorry father, but I’ve forgotten. Just like you.
Always
You always find new ways to make me cry.
I thrust my body under the cold shower. The water pounded like bricks against my pale white skin. I had to be punished. I was spending three weeks of the coldest month in a notoriously cold city. I’d asked you to come with me. Only I hadn’t really, you offered but then withdrew. But it seemed somehow, that our love had promised me this much.
You always find new ways to make me cry.
I had never been fond of showers in Brisbane. The hot water seared my skin, turning it an embarrassed shade of pink. I’m not one for guilt, or spite. But I wanted to remind you. Tell you of all the hours I spent each week, devoted to your passion. Wasn’t it only fair? Surely these hours would add up to weeks. Weeks you could spend with me.
You always find new ways to make me cry.
I step out of the shower, neither hot nor cold. The fluctuating water temperature had calmed me. You weren’t coming with me and I wasn’t going to ask again. But I’ll remember this little thing you wouldn’t do for me. I’ll remember it when I’m sitting on a hard bench for three hours in the ten degree night.
Frivolous Fridays
Our lovers’ hideaway is bathed in the glorious afternoon light. I always did love Fridays. You are there, I am here. I’ve sentenced you to work, with the promise of future rewards. I know this will grab you. My feet dangle off the edge of the bed, and I wonder if you are watching them. They flail violently, up, then down. To the sound of your sometimes favourite band.
My head is moving too. But you can’t see that. You are on the other side. Behind the wall. But I picture you; you always look cute on Fridays. My pen begins to tap. I wonder if you hear it. I know you do, because I know you are listening. I wonder if I told you I was listening to your sometimes favourite band, would you be proud. I want to ask, but I don’t. You are working this time.
My shoulders start to swing. I know you can’t see this. But you feel it in yourself. Because we are connected. I can’t hear you tapping at the keyboard but I feel you are. The tapping of my pen reminds you of this.
My whole body begins to move. This is your music; it’s your music in our time.
I’d always loved Fridays. This was the day you taught me to be free. I don’t feel bad on Fridays. A day off means a day spent studying. But not Fridays. Because these are our days. Fridays are the days we say ‘I love you’, the day we have no doubts, no guilt, just frivolous pleasure. I shall call them Frivolous Fridays. I’ll mark this on my calendar. Make a life of it. On Frivolous Fridays we shall celebrate a love deserving of its own day. And we’ll make a life of it.
That's all folks.
Monday, March 9, 2009
And She Said "I Don't Get Modern Art"
I don't get modern art either, take my hair for example, it's a piece of modern art and I just don't get it. There's actually not much to get anymore. You know if I wanted to look like a 9 year old boy I'd have gone to a barber, at least then I'd look cute.
My hairdresser quipped that phrase to me "I 'don't get modern art". To be accurate she's not really my hairdresser nor will she ever be again. For you see, I once had hair and it was not until it was under the chopping block that I realised just how much I liked it. What I did not like was the chatty hairdresser, sure she was nice but she seemed to forget that she was cutting my hair. Rather she began to lop it off in chunks while spitting out pleasantries. In hindsight I'd have asked her to keep her pleasantries and give me back my hair. It's too late now though. It always is.
I'd liken the hairdresser situation to an outburst of fire in the Sims. You sit there saying OMG OMG OMG STOP IT!!!! But you don't actually do anything until it's too late, and then the grim reaper comes along...or even worse the judgment of others!
Maybe I am being a bit brash though. It doesn't look THAT bad, I just had a rough childhood, I'm not well equipped to deal with change. I can't deal with normal situations in a calm normal manner. I'm just having a very bad case of post haircut stress. This stress causes all sorts of traumatic thoughts. Thoughts ranging from 'great now I need a hat to cover my awful haircut' to much more sinister thoughts... Ones that see me jealously eyeing off every person in sight. Eyeing off their hair to be more precise. 'Oh look at that 90 year old man, look at all the hair on his head!' Or 'hey look at that newborn baby, wow I guess it started growing hair in the womb.'
As if these thoughts aren't bad enough I begin to find myself in direct competition with these people. People with more hair than me, people who should have no hair! As I was crossing the road to get home I spotted an elderly man crossing on the other side. At the sight of the green light I dashed across the road, wind in my scalp, passing the old man by a mile. I felt liberated. 'Ha I beat you old man!' I silently said in my head. Looking back that may have been a little harsh.
Now I know people say oh it's okay it's only hair after all it will grow back. These people do not understand. It's more than hair to me, it's my livelihood. If you take away my hair then what do I have left, nothing! Without hair I'm just like the rest of them, boring and uncool. But a good full head of hair can do wonders for the heart and soul. Until my hair grows back however, I find myself in a sad, desperately fragile state. One wrong move and I could shatter at any given moment. You'll find me sitting in the corner clutching at the loose strands of the hair I used to have. Now I truly understand the saying 'hair today gone tomorrow' or was that here...
My hairdresser quipped that phrase to me "I 'don't get modern art". To be accurate she's not really my hairdresser nor will she ever be again. For you see, I once had hair and it was not until it was under the chopping block that I realised just how much I liked it. What I did not like was the chatty hairdresser, sure she was nice but she seemed to forget that she was cutting my hair. Rather she began to lop it off in chunks while spitting out pleasantries. In hindsight I'd have asked her to keep her pleasantries and give me back my hair. It's too late now though. It always is.
I'd liken the hairdresser situation to an outburst of fire in the Sims. You sit there saying OMG OMG OMG STOP IT!!!! But you don't actually do anything until it's too late, and then the grim reaper comes along...or even worse the judgment of others!
Maybe I am being a bit brash though. It doesn't look THAT bad, I just had a rough childhood, I'm not well equipped to deal with change. I can't deal with normal situations in a calm normal manner. I'm just having a very bad case of post haircut stress. This stress causes all sorts of traumatic thoughts. Thoughts ranging from 'great now I need a hat to cover my awful haircut' to much more sinister thoughts... Ones that see me jealously eyeing off every person in sight. Eyeing off their hair to be more precise. 'Oh look at that 90 year old man, look at all the hair on his head!' Or 'hey look at that newborn baby, wow I guess it started growing hair in the womb.'
As if these thoughts aren't bad enough I begin to find myself in direct competition with these people. People with more hair than me, people who should have no hair! As I was crossing the road to get home I spotted an elderly man crossing on the other side. At the sight of the green light I dashed across the road, wind in my scalp, passing the old man by a mile. I felt liberated. 'Ha I beat you old man!' I silently said in my head. Looking back that may have been a little harsh.
Now I know people say oh it's okay it's only hair after all it will grow back. These people do not understand. It's more than hair to me, it's my livelihood. If you take away my hair then what do I have left, nothing! Without hair I'm just like the rest of them, boring and uncool. But a good full head of hair can do wonders for the heart and soul. Until my hair grows back however, I find myself in a sad, desperately fragile state. One wrong move and I could shatter at any given moment. You'll find me sitting in the corner clutching at the loose strands of the hair I used to have. Now I truly understand the saying 'hair today gone tomorrow' or was that here...
Friday, February 6, 2009
Cleaning Out My Closet
As they say, one man's trash is another man's treasure. This is particularly the case with my younger brother and sister. I don't know if they just desire every item I own because I own it or because they really want it, but they make packing up old junk so easy. Oh look a bunch of coloured paper i don't want, my sister gladly takes it out of my hands. She's less picky than my brother at least. He's smart, he doesn't hoard junk, just valuable items like toy planes and lego. And now that I think about it i know where they get their sweet but annoying habit from. The pair are constantly passing off random toys and drawings to me, and it's very sweet but I don't have room for this stuff. So I usually keep it on my desk for a few weeks then quietly dispose of it. It's not that I don't appreciate the thought or effort I simply just don't have room for a mountain of pre school drawings. My sister however surely does. She takes everything I give her. She takes all my paintings that I severely dislike, that kid could set up a very profitable market stall I say.
While this is all well and good for me I'm sure my mum doesn't really appreciate my kind hearted-ness just as much as the kids do. You see, she is the master of the house, the one that cleans their rooms, the one that organises the junk into neat little piles. And boy do these kids have enough junk of their own already! Added with mine their rooms have become junk yards. Sure my brother is neat but my sisters room is like a trash hoarders dream. From old sandwiches to naked dolls she's got it all in there. It's quite disgusting and I often wonder how I could be related to such an outlandishly messy human being.
And then I cast my gaze to the mirror and stare back at myself and realise, I started this all.
While this is all well and good for me I'm sure my mum doesn't really appreciate my kind hearted-ness just as much as the kids do. You see, she is the master of the house, the one that cleans their rooms, the one that organises the junk into neat little piles. And boy do these kids have enough junk of their own already! Added with mine their rooms have become junk yards. Sure my brother is neat but my sisters room is like a trash hoarders dream. From old sandwiches to naked dolls she's got it all in there. It's quite disgusting and I often wonder how I could be related to such an outlandishly messy human being.
And then I cast my gaze to the mirror and stare back at myself and realise, I started this all.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
So This Is christmas*...
Another year another cookie for santa*.
I remember a time when waking up on December 25th was the single most exciting thing in my life. My brother and I would even sleep next to the christmas* tree some years. We'd wake up at 5am and rush our parents out of bed out of coffee and out of their minds so we could open our presents. These days I'm being rushed out of bed by my 8 year old sister..what do I care it's not like I'm getting presents! The point is, once you get to a certain age it's just not exciting anymore. Or maybe I'm grinchy and scroogey and jaded but why shouldn't I be. I wanted a barbie dream house damnit!
Like every holiday christmas is no exception. The retail giants get their muddy paws on you and shake you until the money in your pockets falls out. And I'm sure I'm not the only one who absolutely can't stand going into stores and hearing fucking christmas songs being played over and over. Target I hardly knew ye.
But I must admit there are a few good things about this has been day.
*I'm still standing by the fact santa and christmas and jesus do not need to be capitalised thank you very much!
I remember a time when waking up on December 25th was the single most exciting thing in my life. My brother and I would even sleep next to the christmas* tree some years. We'd wake up at 5am and rush our parents out of bed out of coffee and out of their minds so we could open our presents. These days I'm being rushed out of bed by my 8 year old sister..what do I care it's not like I'm getting presents! The point is, once you get to a certain age it's just not exciting anymore. Or maybe I'm grinchy and scroogey and jaded but why shouldn't I be. I wanted a barbie dream house damnit!
Like every holiday christmas is no exception. The retail giants get their muddy paws on you and shake you until the money in your pockets falls out. And I'm sure I'm not the only one who absolutely can't stand going into stores and hearing fucking christmas songs being played over and over. Target I hardly knew ye.
But I must admit there are a few good things about this has been day.
- There's the food for example
- The money from sweet little old ladies...who may or may not be related to you
- The post has been day sales
- The chance to find some new material to blog about. Because believe it or not, being cooped up in a house is hardly inspiring! In fact it's totally up there in my most uninspiring things list. That list also consists of horses, cockroaches (they are ridiculously uninspiring), seafood, annoying siblings, people who claim they've raised you only to fore go the fact that you've been raised by wolves...and many more I'm sure
- The fact that I've single handedly made skateboarding cool in my street. Four kids got skateboards for christmas from santa!! I was blown away. And my head was blown up. I decided to show off my skating prowess and show these kids how the big boys do it..or something like that. And in all my glory I fell off the skateboard. Okay so I'm a bit rusty but the point is these kids freaking worship me! I'm like their god! It's absolutely glorious. I've never felt more important in my life. And I haven't even been around to other houses, who knows how many other kids have gotten skateboards for christmas! I should get paid for that kinda advertising! I mean jesus* if anyone can sell a skateboard it's me.
- To my mum it's just like any other day, except that she spends the whole day before cleaning the house and screaming at us to help out. And then on the actual day she anxiously watches the kids open their presents then quickly proceeds to hand out rubbish bags to clean up all the damn mess they just made! I argue that they are only kids, they were born to live in their own filth, and sure sometimes the transition to cleanliness equals godliness doesn't happen from childhood to adulthood but I'm not one for examples. Once the loungeroom floor is visible again mum proceeds to the kitchen where she begins to make our big exciting super dooper lunch. It's only after lunch the woman finally relaxes a little. Ah wine, you've been my saving grace when it comes to a quiet household. Well not really because when those adults have a few too many drinkies they get a little too loud for my elvin ears and I get a little annoyed at them constantly reminiscing about my childhood and tipping wine on me. Curse those drunks!
- Playing with kids toys all day really isn't my idea of fun...okay well there were the toy cars, oh and there was that really awesome dj looking gadget santa gave my sister..oh I lie. I practically live to relive my childhood. Wolves aren't the best present bearers. Rabbit anyone?
- I become the household handy man for the day since we don't have a 'man' about the house and my brothers are more girly than me, okay that's not really hard to achieve. I put it down to laziness. Anyway so I spend my morning armed with a knife a pair of scissors and a screwdriver, and some electrical tape to keep the kids mouths shut while I struggle to open their toys out of their damn boxes. You'd think the whole world were a bunch of thieves the way they screw those toys down!
- The day after. Yes THAT day. Where mum's are hungover and practicing their cleanliness is godliness rule once again, in full force might I add!
*I'm still standing by the fact santa and christmas and jesus do not need to be capitalised thank you very much!
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Time Makes You Bolder
Sometimes you get this unshakable feeling of oncoming change. You feel like the whole world is changing around you and you're powerless to stop it. I feel this now.
I sit and watch as people disappear out of my life quicker than the water evaporating from our cups. They are going, one by one. I never really got to say goodbye. And as I watch them go I realise that I miss them. But while I miss them I never really expected that they would go. And so I sit in wonder and sadness as they march down the hill and out of my life. I don't think they are coming back this time. And I think they are okay with that. It hurts though. Despite the facade I do care. I do think that they have altered my life, even in the smallest or largest way. And as each of these people leave I think about the ways they've changed me as a person. I think about the good times and the bad times but mostly I think about the fact that I'll never get that back again. As time shifts and people move on I stand behind and watch their backs turn.
For every person I've claimed to not care about there really are things about them that I truly do admire, things that I myself cannot live up to. For their every fault they have a strength that outweighs the bad in my mind. For every wrong move they have words that will right them. For everything they have brought to my life brings a sadness to my heart as they leave me now.
For those I never said goodbye to, I miss you. But I'm scared. I will always be scared. And when I'm scared I will run from you. I will run from long inevitable goodbyes and I will run into the arms of a lonely night in the dark. For the comfort I've found in the darkness is one I am deserving of. It is here that I will lay down my deepest darkest thoughts. It is here that I will think unthinkable thoughts. And it is here that I will miss you all. I will miss you because in my own way I'm saying goodbye to you. Without you ever knowing.
Alone in the dark is a self indulgent comfort of mine. A place that is deserving of my ugly black heart. Alone in the dark I whisper long goodbyes to long forgotten people who drifted out of my life thinking I didn't care about them. For 4 years they thought we didn't care. And for 3 years now I've cried. I did care. It was just too hard. I'll never get my long goodbyes with those people I care about. I'll never get them because like me, they too are running from something. Maybe we aren't running from the same thing but we are running all the same. We'll never cross paths again, for your path is a step higher than mine and I'll never reach that level. At least not for a very long time I predict. I know you would be proud. Of who I'm becoming, of who I've become and of where I'm going.
As I sail off into the dark waters in my styrofoam boat I know you are watching, and I know you remember the good times, even if they were limited. I know you'll remember me.
I sit and watch as people disappear out of my life quicker than the water evaporating from our cups. They are going, one by one. I never really got to say goodbye. And as I watch them go I realise that I miss them. But while I miss them I never really expected that they would go. And so I sit in wonder and sadness as they march down the hill and out of my life. I don't think they are coming back this time. And I think they are okay with that. It hurts though. Despite the facade I do care. I do think that they have altered my life, even in the smallest or largest way. And as each of these people leave I think about the ways they've changed me as a person. I think about the good times and the bad times but mostly I think about the fact that I'll never get that back again. As time shifts and people move on I stand behind and watch their backs turn.
For every person I've claimed to not care about there really are things about them that I truly do admire, things that I myself cannot live up to. For their every fault they have a strength that outweighs the bad in my mind. For every wrong move they have words that will right them. For everything they have brought to my life brings a sadness to my heart as they leave me now.
For those I never said goodbye to, I miss you. But I'm scared. I will always be scared. And when I'm scared I will run from you. I will run from long inevitable goodbyes and I will run into the arms of a lonely night in the dark. For the comfort I've found in the darkness is one I am deserving of. It is here that I will lay down my deepest darkest thoughts. It is here that I will think unthinkable thoughts. And it is here that I will miss you all. I will miss you because in my own way I'm saying goodbye to you. Without you ever knowing.
Alone in the dark is a self indulgent comfort of mine. A place that is deserving of my ugly black heart. Alone in the dark I whisper long goodbyes to long forgotten people who drifted out of my life thinking I didn't care about them. For 4 years they thought we didn't care. And for 3 years now I've cried. I did care. It was just too hard. I'll never get my long goodbyes with those people I care about. I'll never get them because like me, they too are running from something. Maybe we aren't running from the same thing but we are running all the same. We'll never cross paths again, for your path is a step higher than mine and I'll never reach that level. At least not for a very long time I predict. I know you would be proud. Of who I'm becoming, of who I've become and of where I'm going.
As I sail off into the dark waters in my styrofoam boat I know you are watching, and I know you remember the good times, even if they were limited. I know you'll remember me.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Little Fish Feel
Today was a sad day. Tonight was a sad night. For a new member of our crew passed on. We only had him for a few hours but we had come to love him like he was one of our own. I mean sure he was significantly smaller than us, slimier than us and he was well..orange. But he was a part of our family nonetheless. Little fishy or the aptly named 'Joey' (who calls a goldfish joey?) swam out of our lives just as quickly as he swam in.
He was never meant for this world. His heart was too big. It exploded in the Big Fish accident of 08. Some people are just not meant to be. I believe I'm one of those people, but my heart is yet to explode and so tonight it is not about me but it is about Joey. The Little Fish who stole our hearts. Some may argue that we hardly knew the guy, who knows where he'd been or where he was going but isn't that just the point. It's not about where you've come from, it's about what he brought to our life on this significant day. And today he brought a new home, some rocks, and my brothers smelly socks.
Just hours into his new life Joey passed away. Floated to the top and begged to be taken to Fish heaven. Little Fish heaven that is, not that other place where the Big Fish lay. And as one fish passes I'm sure somewhere another fish is being brought into this world.
Tonight I tried to set an example for my younger brother and sister so I arrived at the funeral suitably dressed in all black and a red tie. The tie was for his bleeding heart that burst too soon for us all. And there we stood, the three musketeers in the doorway of our bathroom around the toilet bowl. Joey was in a small container of water and my sister slowly tipped all the water into the toilet until just Joey remained. She choked back the tears and I looked away. I just couldn't watch him go down to that dark place. Not without me at least.
Joey made a quiet descent into his new haven and we all stared down at his bulging fish eyes. He was looking back at us, saying thank you. He was thanking me for dressing appropriately. Thanking me for putting on a funeral song 'Welcome To The Black Parade'. He was thanking my sister for having a heart, and thanking my brother for well...shedding a few tears like only a man of his calibre would. Before she flushed him she asked me to say a few words, I'm no good at speeches, especially in my emotional distraught state. I sputtered out "Goodbye Little Fishy you'll go to a better place", my brother and sister nodded in unison and before she could flush him she dropped a rubber band into the toilet and the mood was understandably ruined. Giggles ensued and then my brother rushed to the flush button and sent Joey off on his way. I guess he doesn't like long goodbyes.
And with that we left the bathroom, satisfied that we had done Joey good, that we had done our best to give him a home and a roof over his head. And that he was going to Little Fish heaven now to swim with his brothers. So tonight as you sit down to dinner and dig into that big slab of fish, spare a thought for little Joey, he never quite made it to the chopping block.
He was never meant for this world. His heart was too big. It exploded in the Big Fish accident of 08. Some people are just not meant to be. I believe I'm one of those people, but my heart is yet to explode and so tonight it is not about me but it is about Joey. The Little Fish who stole our hearts. Some may argue that we hardly knew the guy, who knows where he'd been or where he was going but isn't that just the point. It's not about where you've come from, it's about what he brought to our life on this significant day. And today he brought a new home, some rocks, and my brothers smelly socks.
Just hours into his new life Joey passed away. Floated to the top and begged to be taken to Fish heaven. Little Fish heaven that is, not that other place where the Big Fish lay. And as one fish passes I'm sure somewhere another fish is being brought into this world.
Tonight I tried to set an example for my younger brother and sister so I arrived at the funeral suitably dressed in all black and a red tie. The tie was for his bleeding heart that burst too soon for us all. And there we stood, the three musketeers in the doorway of our bathroom around the toilet bowl. Joey was in a small container of water and my sister slowly tipped all the water into the toilet until just Joey remained. She choked back the tears and I looked away. I just couldn't watch him go down to that dark place. Not without me at least.
Joey made a quiet descent into his new haven and we all stared down at his bulging fish eyes. He was looking back at us, saying thank you. He was thanking me for dressing appropriately. Thanking me for putting on a funeral song 'Welcome To The Black Parade'. He was thanking my sister for having a heart, and thanking my brother for well...shedding a few tears like only a man of his calibre would. Before she flushed him she asked me to say a few words, I'm no good at speeches, especially in my emotional distraught state. I sputtered out "Goodbye Little Fishy you'll go to a better place", my brother and sister nodded in unison and before she could flush him she dropped a rubber band into the toilet and the mood was understandably ruined. Giggles ensued and then my brother rushed to the flush button and sent Joey off on his way. I guess he doesn't like long goodbyes.
And with that we left the bathroom, satisfied that we had done Joey good, that we had done our best to give him a home and a roof over his head. And that he was going to Little Fish heaven now to swim with his brothers. So tonight as you sit down to dinner and dig into that big slab of fish, spare a thought for little Joey, he never quite made it to the chopping block.
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