Sunday, July 24, 2011

How had she gone from being so complex to a petty, predictable woman? Sometimes, when she looked at herself in the mirror, she couldn't recognise herself. It wasn't the wrinkles under her eyes or the white in her hair, which was all very new and very perplexing. It was rather the distance, the unfathomable separation between the self she could recognise - as infinitely reflexive, full of a myriad of different interests, ideas and dreams - and the self she was, composed of petty Monday blues, the wrong words spoken at the worst times, and concerns of her own welfare that had nothing to do with actually caring for herself. How had she become this person - this half-woman - who didn't know what it meant to love and to allow herself to be loved, whose thoughts were so dissociated that she could scarcely formulate a phrase with any true meaning?

There was once a child who sat under a tree in the dwindling twilight, and spoke to cardboard boxes, because no one else wanted to talk to her.
There was once a child who was everyone's second choice of friend.
There was once a child who wanted to be loved so powerfully that she created people in her head who loved her. Because she was very angry about something in real life, no one really loved her outside of her head. And so, eventually, when the child grew older and her imagination turned towards the more realistic, she found that figments of her imagination would leave her.
She created fantasies of rejection and departure, perhaps in the same way as children create fantasies of homes and schools and families -- to understand something that was a very basic part of her now.
There was once a child who was very alone, but had no idea why - and refused to accept it.

Every story, someone said, is a story of infinite loneliness. There was once a child who believed in this.

Monday, May 23, 2011

May 2011


She lay at the edge of the Pacific Ocean, the largest water body on the planet. Wave after wave crashed on her, and carried her away. It was not consciousness she drifted from, but monotony, the constant nagging awareness of the everyday. The warmth of the sun's rays washed over her naked body, carressing her with great tenderness, and, little by little, she was carried away.

Sometimes, when this happened, it was difficult for her to venture back into the world she'd fought so hard to gain some semblance of control of. It was difficult, because having gained this control, all she wanted, really, was to drift away from it - back into a realm where control was not an issue, not something she needed to possess. There was something in the flow of the ocean's waves, something in the lack of surety of being touched and tempted by the grand, unknown quantity of the largest ocean on planet Earth, that was addictive.


She didn't know how to let go of the pleasure it brought her to, so brutally primal. So infinitely out of control in a place where she had no reason, no ability, and was no longer a mass of thoughts and jumbled horrors, so much as she just was...

...a passing, fleeting notion, beautiful and complete in the transcience of her own existence.

March, 2011

Little Boxes

By the end of this, she will be very good
at putting little things into little boxes.
She will know how to erase wayward lines
so precisely that the process does not
disturb those little things in the little boxes,
and what to do when the tiny lines begin to
struggle against the logical entrapment.
She will know how to rigorously control
and to feel proud for it,
the lack of chaotic squiggles, the absence of colour,
and letters that look exactly like one another.

November 2010

Things With Boundaries

The things in her room all had boundaries.
The pictures were all framed, the woodwork
painted a firm brown that contradicted boldly
the light cream of the rest of the room.
She made sure the cushions were a dull white,
so that that frame of the bed could stand out.
Even the edges of the wardrobe seemed more
angular than normal.
It was as though a child had been scolded into colouring
strictly between the lines and nowhere beyond.