I'm becoming very uneasy about these feelings returning. What does it mean? And why, when I was so sure I was past this, that it was not what it had been made out to be. Why am I starting to convince myself that I've been wrong all this time.
You are appearing in my dreams, and you always seem so real to me. It's always the same story though, I lie even in my dreams. At times it feels like there is so much connecting us, but I realise these things I hold on to, they mean nothing to no one but me. And what do I do with that but go crazy around the thought.
I was so sure, I'm always sure. But now I have this urge, to throw it away, to be honest with you, with myself. But I can't. Not now. What good would it do anyway? Break things apart. Lose the few things keeping me together. But I can't spend my days circling around these feelings, feeling empty, feeling full, feeling afraid that one day you will be gone and then I will be back to where I was before. I've begun to trust you more than is good for myself and it can't be like that, ever.
I can't escape this. And I'd never have guessed not long ago, that I would be in this place now. That all these things would have added up to anything, that they could have such an effect. It doesn't matter where I go, you can call the city whatever you want but you are always there still, somehow, you follow me and I'm not sure I'm even trying to run from you.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
We All Begin With Good Intent
And now for something completely different...
A ginger cat sits on a windowsill, poking its head out, searching. A man kneels before a house not his, he is holding something. A beer bottle, it’s 3pm and he looks a little like Cat Stevens. A guy and girl walk past with matching black dreadlocks, it is their only connection. A pair of faded shoes hang from the powerlines above.
None of this can be seen from inside the house though. Audrey is spitting in the bathroom sink. It’s the bitter taste of losing everything. Sound creeps under the door from the bedroom. She’s playing her weekly playlist, but it only has two songs. One encapsulates a hidden zeitgeist for life. The other is the song she will listen to when she stuffs up her life for good. It’s important to have these things. Audrey is that girl. The one who has a default answer for every question thrown her way. Most often you will hear her say “no” or “I’m okay”. This is also important.
Those shoes hanging from the powerlines, they are hers. The math isn’t important but she’s had them since she was 15 and they’ve been up there for 10 years.
She used to imagine the kind of animated characters that would climb their ladders to the sky and leave their shoes behind. Audrey thought shoes were for wearing, but that didn’t stop her thinking of ways to get hers up there. The shoes aren’t important however, at least, not imperative. There was nothing tragic about being 15, or the years that followed.
Audrey has often thought about chasing the black lines to the edge of the horizon. To jump up and pull them down, tangle them around her body, feed them through her veins and feed off their currents, because she’s running out of ways to feel alive again. There is nothing scientific about it though.
Truth is, Audrey has already played that song, the one about losing everything. You could probably guess why. There isn’t much to say, and she’s stopped counting the years because the time that has passed isn’t important. There was power in isolation and Audrey knew that best.
She hanged her soul from the powerlines one day because that was all that was left to do. And like those shoes and the ginger cat, and the man who looked like Cat Stevens, and the boy and girl with matching dreads, Audrey’s soul remained an indescript speckle on the landscape, chasing the endless sky. And that is important.
A ginger cat sits on a windowsill, poking its head out, searching. A man kneels before a house not his, he is holding something. A beer bottle, it’s 3pm and he looks a little like Cat Stevens. A guy and girl walk past with matching black dreadlocks, it is their only connection. A pair of faded shoes hang from the powerlines above.
None of this can be seen from inside the house though. Audrey is spitting in the bathroom sink. It’s the bitter taste of losing everything. Sound creeps under the door from the bedroom. She’s playing her weekly playlist, but it only has two songs. One encapsulates a hidden zeitgeist for life. The other is the song she will listen to when she stuffs up her life for good. It’s important to have these things. Audrey is that girl. The one who has a default answer for every question thrown her way. Most often you will hear her say “no” or “I’m okay”. This is also important.
Those shoes hanging from the powerlines, they are hers. The math isn’t important but she’s had them since she was 15 and they’ve been up there for 10 years.
She used to imagine the kind of animated characters that would climb their ladders to the sky and leave their shoes behind. Audrey thought shoes were for wearing, but that didn’t stop her thinking of ways to get hers up there. The shoes aren’t important however, at least, not imperative. There was nothing tragic about being 15, or the years that followed.
Audrey has often thought about chasing the black lines to the edge of the horizon. To jump up and pull them down, tangle them around her body, feed them through her veins and feed off their currents, because she’s running out of ways to feel alive again. There is nothing scientific about it though.
Truth is, Audrey has already played that song, the one about losing everything. You could probably guess why. There isn’t much to say, and she’s stopped counting the years because the time that has passed isn’t important. There was power in isolation and Audrey knew that best.
She hanged her soul from the powerlines one day because that was all that was left to do. And like those shoes and the ginger cat, and the man who looked like Cat Stevens, and the boy and girl with matching dreads, Audrey’s soul remained an indescript speckle on the landscape, chasing the endless sky. And that is important.
Monday, March 22, 2010
All The Lies That You've Been Living In
I woke up and saw Christmas in my eyes. It happens like this every night, or is it morning? I’m never really sure which. They say green is the colour of envy, but I don’t believe it. At least, not this green that stares back at me. This green is a mix of endless sky and the changing fallen leaf. But it’s the red that always stands out the most and I no longer see Christmas. I see an old man in the bar at 1am, he’s on his fifth. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but it doesn’t take him much these days.
There are no windows and the dark, warm silence provides refuge for the fitful hours I spend between sleep. But it’s not enough to keep me there. I go to you, I stumble. I am that drunken old man, fumbling in the dark, grasping for something tangible, something real. I ask you the time, because I haven’t been counting tonight. You tell me that time doesn’t matter while you’re asleep and while you’re meant to be asleep.
I guess that’s the thing you don’t understand, I can’t sleep. These truths that I’ve been hiding from you – they are becoming real in your dreams and I stay awake in a sweat every night, waiting for it to all unravel. If I empty my mind into yours then maybe this will wash away the black stains on the walls. However, it is this darkness that comforts me, because you cannot see my eyes, you cannot see all that I’ve been keeping from you.
There are no windows and the dark, warm silence provides refuge for the fitful hours I spend between sleep. But it’s not enough to keep me there. I go to you, I stumble. I am that drunken old man, fumbling in the dark, grasping for something tangible, something real. I ask you the time, because I haven’t been counting tonight. You tell me that time doesn’t matter while you’re asleep and while you’re meant to be asleep.
I guess that’s the thing you don’t understand, I can’t sleep. These truths that I’ve been hiding from you – they are becoming real in your dreams and I stay awake in a sweat every night, waiting for it to all unravel. If I empty my mind into yours then maybe this will wash away the black stains on the walls. However, it is this darkness that comforts me, because you cannot see my eyes, you cannot see all that I’ve been keeping from you.
Friday, March 5, 2010
The Day You Went Away
It's been four years today since you passed. I may have a good memory, but it is not a date I like to remember, nor is it one that is easy to forget. Sometimes I still think you are a coward for leaving, but I've never been angry about it, just sorry. If it was us who you cared so deeply for, then why? Why did you leave, and after you left why did you leave us to live in fear of your return, only to leave us for good in the end.
I can't imagine what they feel, but I know what I feel. I know that I still remember that sunday. And the saturday and friday too. The shock, the guilt, and finally the sadness. You were gone, out of our lives, but suddenly you were back and we had to remember the good times, in order to go back to that place. I've never told anyone about the guilt I felt, keeping it from them. I guess it wasn't important at the time, I did what I had to do in order to keep going. It's funny how your death has a soundtrack that I listen to from time to time. I listen to 'Heaven Help My Heart' by Tina Arena when I'm feeling guilty. That was the song playing at the time- as the three of us sat in McDonald's, the two of them so blissfully unaware that their father was lying in hospital, on the verge of dying. How could I tell them that? Of course they had a right to know, but they were so young, she barely even remembered you because you left so early in her life. And he was so much like you, even back then.
The sunday was the worst, of course. It was the day you passed. I think it was the suddenness of it all that really hit us. You were out of our lives for years, sure we saw you at the local shops and it was awkward, and hard for mum, but this, we never expected. I don't think anyone ever does. It's one of those tragic things you read about in the paper and hear on the news, but god, you never think it will happen to anyone you know, let alone the man who was once your stepdad.
I didn't go to the hospital to visit you, you were unconscious anyway, not that it's an excuse. But they said you didn't look the same, the accident, it had changed you. And I couldn't bare that. I didn't want to see you looking so beaten. I wanted to remember you as the man who made me love Disney movies, the man who taught me math without using a calculator, and the man who once helped me make that styrofoam boat that won the race. I wouldn't remember you as the coward who was always running away from us, from life. I wouldn't remember that night that changed us all forever, the glass house that came shattering down. And I wouldn't remember the way I selfishly feared for my life that night.
What I will remember is the phone call that sunday afternoon. Mum took it in another room, and my older brother was there with her. I didn't know what had been said, but the sound of my mums helpless cry told me everything. And then we all sat, crying, except for the two young ones. We cried because suddenly and without warning our life had changed so dramatically, so tragically, and now we all had to live with it. With the regret, the sorrow, the memories.
I know I shouldn't, but I regret it. Not going to your funeral. I made so many excuses at the time and they all seemed to fit. I had a test that day, I had nothing to wear, and we had no money to buy funeral clothes, can you imagine that? I was just a burden, so my older brother went with my mum instead, he was stronger, they were closer. I would have just cried, stayed frozen, I couldn't do that to her.
My only reprieve was finding your funeral program a few weeks later. Your photo plastered on the front, a hurtful reminder. I looked at the songs they played at your funeral, because I believe that kind of thing is important. If we are going to remember you, then we need the right soundtrack. I can't remember the order, but I think it went something like - The Day You Went Away - Wendy Matthews at the beginning of the ceremony, Many Rivers To Cross - Toni Childs in the middle, and Bat Out Of Hell - Meatloaf at the end. I still smile at the last one because that is your song, above all others, the other two are fitting for the occasion, but this song defined you. It's how I'd like to remember you, when the bad memories take over the good. I'll remember your cowboy hat, and the long drives in the van that my brother and I were so ashamed of, your music (Meatloaf) blaring the whole trip. I used to get so mad, the music was so loud, you were so full of life, I just wanted it all to be quiet. And now it is quiet, and I can't help but wish for those times when we were all living so loudly.
I often wonder if mum remembers the date, she's bad with things like that, but I'm sure she estimates. My younger brother and sister, I know they don't. Do they even remember him? Sometimes they tell people and I feel sad for them. Sometimes they tell me they miss him and I say I miss him too. My older brother, I wonder if he misses him, if he remembers the day. Something tells me not, he's got his own life now, but I'm sure he remembers the loss. And me? I remember every year, and I try to live the day in sadness, if only to preserve your memory, a life taken far too soon, a life that I will miss until the end.
I can't imagine what they feel, but I know what I feel. I know that I still remember that sunday. And the saturday and friday too. The shock, the guilt, and finally the sadness. You were gone, out of our lives, but suddenly you were back and we had to remember the good times, in order to go back to that place. I've never told anyone about the guilt I felt, keeping it from them. I guess it wasn't important at the time, I did what I had to do in order to keep going. It's funny how your death has a soundtrack that I listen to from time to time. I listen to 'Heaven Help My Heart' by Tina Arena when I'm feeling guilty. That was the song playing at the time- as the three of us sat in McDonald's, the two of them so blissfully unaware that their father was lying in hospital, on the verge of dying. How could I tell them that? Of course they had a right to know, but they were so young, she barely even remembered you because you left so early in her life. And he was so much like you, even back then.
The sunday was the worst, of course. It was the day you passed. I think it was the suddenness of it all that really hit us. You were out of our lives for years, sure we saw you at the local shops and it was awkward, and hard for mum, but this, we never expected. I don't think anyone ever does. It's one of those tragic things you read about in the paper and hear on the news, but god, you never think it will happen to anyone you know, let alone the man who was once your stepdad.
I didn't go to the hospital to visit you, you were unconscious anyway, not that it's an excuse. But they said you didn't look the same, the accident, it had changed you. And I couldn't bare that. I didn't want to see you looking so beaten. I wanted to remember you as the man who made me love Disney movies, the man who taught me math without using a calculator, and the man who once helped me make that styrofoam boat that won the race. I wouldn't remember you as the coward who was always running away from us, from life. I wouldn't remember that night that changed us all forever, the glass house that came shattering down. And I wouldn't remember the way I selfishly feared for my life that night.
What I will remember is the phone call that sunday afternoon. Mum took it in another room, and my older brother was there with her. I didn't know what had been said, but the sound of my mums helpless cry told me everything. And then we all sat, crying, except for the two young ones. We cried because suddenly and without warning our life had changed so dramatically, so tragically, and now we all had to live with it. With the regret, the sorrow, the memories.
I know I shouldn't, but I regret it. Not going to your funeral. I made so many excuses at the time and they all seemed to fit. I had a test that day, I had nothing to wear, and we had no money to buy funeral clothes, can you imagine that? I was just a burden, so my older brother went with my mum instead, he was stronger, they were closer. I would have just cried, stayed frozen, I couldn't do that to her.
My only reprieve was finding your funeral program a few weeks later. Your photo plastered on the front, a hurtful reminder. I looked at the songs they played at your funeral, because I believe that kind of thing is important. If we are going to remember you, then we need the right soundtrack. I can't remember the order, but I think it went something like - The Day You Went Away - Wendy Matthews at the beginning of the ceremony, Many Rivers To Cross - Toni Childs in the middle, and Bat Out Of Hell - Meatloaf at the end. I still smile at the last one because that is your song, above all others, the other two are fitting for the occasion, but this song defined you. It's how I'd like to remember you, when the bad memories take over the good. I'll remember your cowboy hat, and the long drives in the van that my brother and I were so ashamed of, your music (Meatloaf) blaring the whole trip. I used to get so mad, the music was so loud, you were so full of life, I just wanted it all to be quiet. And now it is quiet, and I can't help but wish for those times when we were all living so loudly.
I often wonder if mum remembers the date, she's bad with things like that, but I'm sure she estimates. My younger brother and sister, I know they don't. Do they even remember him? Sometimes they tell people and I feel sad for them. Sometimes they tell me they miss him and I say I miss him too. My older brother, I wonder if he misses him, if he remembers the day. Something tells me not, he's got his own life now, but I'm sure he remembers the loss. And me? I remember every year, and I try to live the day in sadness, if only to preserve your memory, a life taken far too soon, a life that I will miss until the end.
Monday, March 1, 2010
I Know What I Should Do But I Just Can't Walk Away
When they talk about emptiness I suppose it's like a hole, one that could never be filled. A canyon in which your voice bounces and echoes off the walls, into air that no one else is breathing, no one else is listening to. But surely there is another way to describe it. Because logic remains that if we are alive and breathing, then we are not empty. We are full, bursting even, but never empty. It's a shame I never believed in logic
I'm crashing into walls now because I've done everything I can and it has come to an end. Things have been said and done that can't be forgotten.
I need help, but don't know who to turn to because I am in so deep and I am suffocating under the weight of my decisions.
You all know too much. You are there, but I can't turn to you because it should never have been like that. I have to face the thought of you everyday now and I don't know how I'll do it. It's too much to ask someone to worry. When they themselves already have so much that is filling them up. And I am left here, empty. But isn't that the way it's always been?
I'm crashing into walls now because I've done everything I can and it has come to an end. Things have been said and done that can't be forgotten.
I need help, but don't know who to turn to because I am in so deep and I am suffocating under the weight of my decisions.
You all know too much. You are there, but I can't turn to you because it should never have been like that. I have to face the thought of you everyday now and I don't know how I'll do it. It's too much to ask someone to worry. When they themselves already have so much that is filling them up. And I am left here, empty. But isn't that the way it's always been?
Monday, February 22, 2010
A House Doesn't Make A Home
There's something strangely symbolic about the way our house used to smell. When we arrived it was a warm, sweet smell. But as time went on the smell changed, you could say that's not the only thing that changed.
The house on the hill took on a smell that signified all of its troubles. A decayed rotting smell. Something had died, several times. It wasn't what it used to be, and neither was I because of it.
It's so easy to pack up our belongings, shift from four walls to another, but we always leave something behind, and something is always left with us. I may have left an empty shell of a life I used to live, but the smells will always stay with me. The ones that were often so enticing, tempting, they drove me away.
I don't know if I would have ever called it home, but right now I can't call anything home. And I don't think I will for a long time. Maybe I've learnt that home is not a place, so much as it is a feeling.
It feels like I'm forever leaving, running, and there are things I miss already that have been left behind. A closeness to you, the last thing I've been holding on to, to keep me sane. It's gone now and I don't know how to deal with that. Although sudden loss is no stranger to me, I will miss the journey home, the one that gave me hope over convenience.
No matter how foreign these places are to me, they are no stranger than myself, and the places I have found within.
The house on the hill took on a smell that signified all of its troubles. A decayed rotting smell. Something had died, several times. It wasn't what it used to be, and neither was I because of it.
It's so easy to pack up our belongings, shift from four walls to another, but we always leave something behind, and something is always left with us. I may have left an empty shell of a life I used to live, but the smells will always stay with me. The ones that were often so enticing, tempting, they drove me away.
I don't know if I would have ever called it home, but right now I can't call anything home. And I don't think I will for a long time. Maybe I've learnt that home is not a place, so much as it is a feeling.
It feels like I'm forever leaving, running, and there are things I miss already that have been left behind. A closeness to you, the last thing I've been holding on to, to keep me sane. It's gone now and I don't know how to deal with that. Although sudden loss is no stranger to me, I will miss the journey home, the one that gave me hope over convenience.
No matter how foreign these places are to me, they are no stranger than myself, and the places I have found within.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Please Don't Tell Me This Has Been In Vain
I feel like I'm standing right on the edge of my life right now. There's no pretty way to describe it. It's actually quite ugly. It's all at the tip of my fingers, so ready to crumble in my grasp, or to form into something solid, something I can hold. These things I've gotten myself into, I'd never believe.
You wouldn't believe it either. And I wouldn't know where to start, so I just don't. And I tell myself it's better this way. But I can't lose the anxiety.
It's so uncertain, and it always is. But this kind of uncertainty is one I can't get comfortable with. I can't take this on everyday, but I don't know how to confront it, or even if I should.
I'm standing on the edge of the world now. I can't go back.
You wouldn't believe it either. And I wouldn't know where to start, so I just don't. And I tell myself it's better this way. But I can't lose the anxiety.
It's so uncertain, and it always is. But this kind of uncertainty is one I can't get comfortable with. I can't take this on everyday, but I don't know how to confront it, or even if I should.
I'm standing on the edge of the world now. I can't go back.
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