Good night, sweet dreams.
Whispered in the night,
In the dark recess of my mind,
Are fears, unconquered,
Of what is known and what is lost,
Fragments of space and time,
Played out like children’s lullabies.
And I am a ghost,
Floating down familiar passage ways,
Watching the process,
Hearing the protests,
But mute to speak my mind.
“Running over the same old ground”
But I’m just walking along,
That ground beneath my feet,
Learning to find strength,
In the eyes of the strangers on the street.
Sometimes what you want,
Is never what you need,
And sometimes what you need,
Is something no one else can provide.
—
I went for a walk last night, after the witching hour and watched the lightning through my father’s old binoculars. There was a storm in the sky and a storm in my head. But even though a thunder storm is frightening, there’s a dangerous beauty about it. I feel like my life’s a bit like a storm at the moment. A lot of uncertainty, but I think it’ll be followed by something as majestic and powerful as the lightning that splits the sky.
Or at least that’s what I hope.
Work.
Right click.
Copy.
Left Click.
Right click.
Paste.
Left Click.
Send.
Left Click.
Add.
Left Click.
OK.
Left Click.
Close.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Oh. Monotony. The most regular of all my work mates.
Reminder
I worry at the bruise upon my arm, and its twin, which rests on the plump flesh of my thigh. My thumb presses into each of them in turn. The result is like a jolt of electricity, an awakening. The pain is all at once sharp and dull, and as I sit on an unmade bed and investigate these purple blemishes on my pale skin, I feel a strange sense of relief. Upon pausing for contemplation I wonder why I am so prone to this sort of behaviour. (And not just me, it happens to everyone.) An ulcer on the inside of my cheek must be prodded at by my tounge, a graze upon my knee must suffer the caress of my fingertips.
It’s a reminder, and this is why I subject myself to it. The sudden flurry of activity from my nociceptors as they carry the simple message of “ouch” from my bruise to my dorsal root ganglion is proof that I am alive. Not just that I am alive, but also that I am awake, and the events that transpired to leave me with these violent marks were not a dream, but a real and very physical occurence. It forces me to confront this fact, and deal with it, instead of shying away from it.
And confront it I will. Every time I apply pressure to my bruises I can remind myself where they came from, how they came to be there. And I can use these reminders to change the way I will approach the rest of my life.
Eventually, the reminders will fade, they will heal. Because it is true what they say, that time heals all wounds. But even when my skin is no longer coloured by them, the memory of them, and the memory of the pain that lingered long after I acquired them, will keep me strong, and remind me not to make the same mistakes as others.
