Sugar Words

Books are like candy.  I can never read just one.  And I'm always left with my mouth watering, wishing the flavor had lingered longer.  

I find myself sneaking them in, like a second helping of dessert after dinner.  Like the piece of candy you steal when your mother's not looking.  

I devour them quickly, but still savor their taste as the words seep into my tongue.  Some books are like toffee.  They take a lot of chewing before they can be swallowed, and they leave bits of ideas stuck in your teeth.  Other books are like hard candy, taking longer to disappear, but being all the more enjoyed for it.  And some are like spun sugar, melting quickly, and leaving you wanting more.

I'm definitely an addict for their sugary comfort.  But I don't want to go to rehab.  

Under My Skin

I could blame stress.  I could blame the fact that a lot of really bad stuff has happened already this year.  I could blame the fact that I'm female.  There are a hundred excuses I could use.  But lets face the truth, shall we?

I am a bitch.

It's true.  I can admit it.  And sometimes, more than others, it shows.  And lately, it's been showing a lot.  So many little things have been getting under my skin.  Lighting that notoriously short fuse to my temper.  It would seem I have inherited the innate ability from my mother to piss people off.  I am hoping that where I differ in that skill is the fact that I can accept the blame.  I can say, "Yes, it's my fault."  She can't.  Hopefully that matters.  If not, I'm running for the hills.

And now I'm facing up to it.  I consider myself intelligent.  I like to point out the wrongs of the world.  I like to think things like, "I'm better than that."  I'm arrogant.  I may have some redeeming qualities, but they don't tip the scales much.  I'm petty and mean and insensitive.

And I'm not sorry.  Not one bit.  This is me.  Live with it, or leave me alone.

Sorrow

Yesterday I held a dying baby in my arms.

It seemed like a bad dream.  It still seems like a dream.  A nightmare.  I keep hoping to wake up, and find he's still alive.  Even though he was not blood to me, he was family, as close as family can be.   I was there when he was born, and I can't but help remember how tiny and strong he was when I held him then.  And compare that to the fragile thing, covered in tubes.  He was only 11 months old.  He died before he had a chance to live.

His death is an injustice.  It stands as proof that there is something very wrong with this world.  I, for one, have never believed death to be a natural part of life.  But it still effects everyone.  

I wish that I had seen him more while he was alive.  I know his mother feels the same.  I can't imagine how much pain she must be in, if my pain is so great that I can hardly breathe.  

Still, I will strive to remember how he was before that day at the hospital.  Smiling.  Happy.  Strong.  And for those of you reading this, take a moment.  Appreciate your loved ones.  Your family and your friends.  Know that you are blessed to have them with you.

Empty Hole

I feel sad.

I don't really have a reason to.  Not a real reason.  Sure, I can use the excuse that I hate winter; I hate being cold.  I could say I 'miss home', but home isn't a place to me.  I could say that I'm stressed and overworked, and it would be true.  But it's not an excuse.  I've been overworked before.  I can handle stress.  I can't even use the light dusting of snow and ice as an excuse.  Because all of those things mean nothing.

This sadness consumes me.  Like an empty hole somewhere inside me.  And all of the light and sunshine-- okay the dark and twisted happiness around me gets sucked into it.  My life is good.  I have money issues, but who doesn't these days?  I have a wonderful family, a perfectly happy relationship, and I do what I love.  But somewhere inside me, that little girl who is still a part of me is crying.

And I know why.

I don't like the reason why.  But I can't deny it's truth.  And for three long years it's been slowly eating away, like acid, in the pits of my heart.  I hate admitting it.  I hate looking at that part of my life.  My past.  It's bright and shiny and fake.  All sugar coated and candy covered to hide the rotten parts underneath.  But that doesn't change the facts of the reason I am sad.  And there is nothing I can do to change it, short of having a time machine.  And even if I did have such a contraption, I'm not sure it would make a difference.  Most likely I'd end up looping time circles, trying to fix what will forever stay broken, just like in H.G Wells' The Time Machine.  

You see, I hurt someone.  I hurt them badly.  I was a child at the time.  I didn't really understand what was going on.  All I knew was that something had to change.  So I changed it.  And it was a good thing.  But in the process there was some damage done that could never be undone.  And now there is this one thread, this one thing, from my past.  Tying me down.  Holding me back.  I wish I could say sorry, but I'm not sure what I'd be sorry for.  I wish I could say I still care, but I doubt they'd believe me.  After all, no matter how much I care, it doesn't change me.  I'm not the same girl I was then; not the same girl that this person cared for.  And I know that they'd be shocked to see me now.   And that they wouldn't understand.  But I'm still sorry, and I wish they could understand.  I wish I could show them.  But I can't.  Ever. 

That person is gone from my life.  And I'm left with these tiny threads, tying me the past.  Like cobwebs, clinging to my heart.  I'll never be rid of them.  I'm sure of it.

Insomniac

So, I'm sitting here.  In the dark.  Listening to a house full of snores, wondering why I'm still awake.  It's very unusual for me to be awake.  As much as I like the night and the dark, I also really like to sleep.  I have wonderful dreams.  But it seems I won't be dreaming this night.

This whole day has been off for me.  I knew something was up when I felt a desire to clean.  That just can't be normal.  And then later I just had to make something.  It  was with the same need of a starving man reaching for food when I reached for my paints.  And as I started brushing paint across my canvas, I wondered.  Wondered if something might be wrong with me.  Because, you see, I never just start something.  I'm not the kind of person who can sit and paint a picture straight out of my head.  I have to plan.  To find models, ideas, and stock images.  Place them just so.  Draw it out.  Trace it.  Question it.  Rinse and repeat.  

But not tonight.  Tonight I went on impulse.  And I'm actually happy with the resulting work so far.  Unusual.  This energy.  I don't know where it's come from.  It's like I'm wired to a car battery.  Been possessed by the Energizer bunny.  Who knows.  

But whatever it is, I am here now.  Tapping on the keys slowly, so as not to wake anyone.  Wondering exactly what I'm doing here.  I don't really have anything important to say.  Usually I come to this place when I have a message; something to get off my chest.  Tonight... I'm just rambling.  Like a train without tracks.  I suppose it's fitting.  I am the Queen of Derailment.  Ah, well.  Can't fight with the crown.  Sometimes you just have to wear it.

Aphrodite's Dream

I used to think that there wasn't anything in this world that was perfect.  Not one single thing.  But I was wrong.  There is one thing, and one thing only, that is perfect.  That is love. 

Love is never failing, never ending.  And anyone who says otherwise hasn't experienced it.  The relationships that accompany love, and the emotions that love influences, aren't perfect.  The people who love aren't perfect.  They make mistakes.  Do things wrong.  But love is an entity beyond humanity.  Love is something that is more than what it can be defined as.  Love is the only thing that makes this world worth living in.  Everything else in the world that is good or beautiful is colored by love.  Without love, those things would not exist.

And you can argue all you want.  Say whatever things you want.  But it's true.  Love is the only perfect thing we have.  It can't be stopped by any means.  It can't be broken, or forgotten.  It can't be accidentally thrown out.  And it can't be avoided.

No matter who you are, or where you are, or what you do, you can't avoid love.  You can't live without it.  Even if you only love yourself, you have to love something.  Even the meanest, most shrewd person in the world needs love.  It's as essential to our existence as air or food.  

So of all the things in the world that I cherish, I cherish love the most.  For its limitlessness.  For its irrationality.  For its perfection.

Feeling Inhuman

            Humans are creatures of habit.  They take the same routes to work.  Ride the same buses.  Drink the same drinks, order the same foods, and use the same shampoo over and over again.  They like stability.  A ‘nine-to-five’ job, a routine before bed, a certain way they brush their hair.  It’s true of older people, more than younger, but even the most rebellious of teenagers can appreciate habit.  Even chaos can be habitual. 

            It is for this reason that I wonder if I am human.  Or at least, how much of me is human.  I crave change.  Not disorder, or chaos, though I appreciate these things in their own right.  But CHANGE.  I like new things, learning, developing.  Every day I wake to find that I am not the same person I was the day before, no matter how small that change might be.  It might be that I’ve decided I like two scoops of sugar in my coffee, instead of the normal five.  Or it could be that I wake to find that I no longer love the same person I did.  Staying in the same place wears on me, physically, mentally, and emotionally.  Having a static life drains me.  The same job.  The same food.  I crave something new.  ‘As changeable as the winds’, or so they say.  Perhaps that’s why I dream of having wings.  That I might take flight across the world at any time the fancy takes me. 

            Now, I’m not suggesting I’m an alien, or anything.  Just that, I am not entirely the same as the rest of the human race.  Perhaps I’m insane, and this is how insanity feels.  Perhaps I’m some form of mutation, sans cool super-powers.  Perhaps I am simply anachronistic, in the wrong time.  A soul that was intended for a time long past, or yet to come, but through some mishap of fate, ended up here.

            Who can be sure?  There are no answers for questions like that.  But one thing is certain.  I crave change.  And change must happen.  Soon.  Before my head explodes.  Either the world will change and sweep me along, or I will change it on my own.  But I can not abide this static world much longer.