If my life were a picture, it would be a pretty little house with a white picket fence and bush of white roses and a tree filled with birds chirping away. it would be in a secluded area on a hilltop somewhere away from the noise and congestion and traffic jam of the city. It would be peace and serenity. That one place everyone wants to live in but cant. So they resort to sour-graping and throwing stones, which by the way don’t even reach my little haven.
And then that force of nature you never see coming. Attractiveness, intelligence, charm, humor, experience and eccentricity all neatly packaged together. It takes you by storm. No amount of preparedness can protect you. It’s all-knowing and wise -anticipating your next move even before you know you’re going to make it. Hurricane Veronica. She’ll destroy everything she comes into contact with. Your life, your happiness, your innocence and then some. Your heart is just a victory belt; proof that she came, saw and conquered. She’s stronger with every conquest. Calculating and selfish. If blue is what you want, blue is what she’ll be.
“but the white picket fence!” you almost shout as you tear it apart, “wasn’t it supposed to protect me? wasn’t it supposed to keep humanity’s ugliness out?” you almost shout. The world stops spinning for a fraction of a second, appalled by your naive innocence.
and then you realize the picket fence would have kept the boogieman out, if only you’d seen past his sparkling clothes and colgate smile. but you didn’t You let the boogieman in.
so with your tail between your legs, you pick up a hammer and some nails and start to rebuild your white picket fence.
You feel yourself searching the crowds, assessing them. You’re looking for something. You don’t understand why because the something you’re looking for is right next to you. Yet you still search. For satisfaction. For the calming assurance that there’s another just like it. That it isn’t a priceless antique; a one-of-a-kind. Each search leads to a more frantic desperate other as you realise once again that it might indeed be a special edition. That there really isn’t anything like it anywhere. That letting it go would be a loss… Of the most beautiful, most rare, most oddly-put-together masterpiece. Your masterpiece. You pick up the pace as you desperately increase the parameters of your search. You don’t want to lose your masterpiece. But you’re so afraid of how much you want it; unashamed and sacrificial, that you’d sooner settle for a second-rate version than forever live in fear of losing your precious masterpiece. You quiver at the thought of it belonging to someone else; of someone holding and loving it like you do. And your mind breaks out in a frenzy of wishful “if only’s”…..
The hardest mornings are those following a beautiful dream where everything is exactly as you wish it only to open your eyes and realise it was just a dream. You silently curse at your subconscious for poking around in your thoughts cabinet. You might even feel stupid for enjoying the un reality; for the sheepish grin on your face in those seconds before it dawns on you that it was only a dream. Everything feels like a mockery now- especially the singing birds and morning sun. “What have they to be happy about? Can’t they see you’re suffering?” You want to shout. Its one of those mornings. The ones that follow the blissful night’s escape from harsh reality. You saw your dreams, touched them… only to have them ripped away by over-zealous little miss sunshine and all her shining rays. Angry, mostly at yourself for hoping, you close the blinds and climb back into your bed certain you can’t make it through the day. Sadness is holding on with two hands -pulling with everything its got. You’re tempted to give in. Sometimes it feels good to curl up in bed and be miserable. But its only allowed SOMETIMES. Today isn’t ‘sometimes’. You remember all the times you felt like you couldn’t get through and you laugh as you reach for your morning coffee and realise that its going to be a good day.
I said three little words that set me free. I got tired of running, of hiding-pretending I didn’t when I did. So I said it. I realised it never really mattered what they said in return. It never had. I’d fought, hadn’t I? Tried not to feel the way that I felt… Well it didn’t work so I stopped running. That’s right; I said it! What? Should I turn around and apologise for thinking they’re worth my love and more? No never! I won’t apologise. Let them deal with it. Let them take those feelings I’ve been fighting for months and see if they have any luck with them. And if they find no use for them then by all means let them discard them coz I have no use for them either.