There are times when you don't want to do any work or study or even talk to your friends. There are times you want to laugh and cry and scream and throw yourself on the floor, hammering at it until it breaks beneath you. There are times where you expect the sky to crack apart and a storm to blow the world apart.
But you don't expect it to be perfect. You don't expect the sun to be shining and people smiling.
Not after a baby has died in its mother's arms. Not after the whole family had been waiting 10 years with bated breath for this one miracle to happen... and then bury it, just after 5 days.
You don't want it to be real.
How can a perfectly healthy baby, die while breastfeeding in its mothers arms with no warning?
There was no warning.
One moment, the infant was smiling and happy. The next, blue-grey and without breath.
And this was not the first death near me. There have been others. Friends' friends. Friends' parents. This one, that one. This person, that person. Dust to dust.
How dare the sun shine and the birds sing and people tell me what a great day it is? Don't they know what has happened? I want to shake them and shout and scold and holler until I've no breath.
There are times to smile and times you don't tell anyone what is going on in your life or what is happening, because if you do, it might be real and the world might really fall apart around you. You might suddenly realise that you've been living amongst cardboard cut outs and that everything you knew is gone. You might think that you've been living in a dream world, hiding from the rock bare reality out there. You might see building collapse into dust, trees dry up and birds fall from the sky and turn into skeletons. You might see the grass shrivel up around you and the graves. The graves stretching back as far as the eyes can see. That's why you need to hide amidst the poster paint and dancing cartoon characters. That's why you need to live, waking, in a dream.
But then, I have been living in a dream world ever since I was 12 and seen far more than I bargained for when I was 4 years old.
Sometimes, all I want to do is to heed that soft call - the one that tells you to just lie down and let go. Sleep. Sleep without ending and without waking. Sleep and feel no more.
I have seen all I want to see. I have seen enough and I want it finished. I don't want it any more.
It's hard to say things without actually telling you what has happened. It's hard to explain without making it seem melodramatic, inconsequential or stupid... but then you probably wouldn't believe me anyway. I can barely believe it myself, so why should you? Why should you believe me? I've told you nothing, but that a baby has died and babies do that. People do that. They die.
All I am is print on a screen. Noise in cyberspace. Floating letters. Just another voice nobody hears. Just another person nobody sees. I wish I could become invisible. I could then fade away. Disappear. Nobody would even notice. Nobody would even care. It wouldn't matter. And I'd be pleased. Pleased because that is what I deserve... but that would never happen, because there are people who would be devastated. Lost. They love you and would cry for you just as you would probably do for them (although sometimes you wonder whether you would cry for them). It's torture sometimes. You want to leave, but can't. You're trapped between your needs and the needs of others and you know that their needs will always outweigh yours. Because you love them and can't hurt them any more than you already have.
Trapped is the word for it.
So you sit in the box. You stay in the walls of expectation. You smile, you grin, you bear. You do what is expected of you and say the acceptable things. You act out a story that doesn't quite seem yours. You go about as if you haven't a care in the world. Eating, laughing, playing, working. Be perfect. Show no weakness. Not one crack. Don't let them see what a wreck you've become inside. How you no longer care about whether your papers are straight or your clothes are ironed or whether or not you smell. Don't let them know that your hobbies are joyless tasks and that your laughter is just a recorded echo. Don't let them know that all you want to do is sit on your bed in a corner and rock, listening to the moaning of the wind across the deserted plains in your heart.
Perhaps I do care. It's not that I don't or I'd perform the most selfish act of all. Perhaps I care too much.
This world sees too much death. Too much sickness. Too much hate and anger and selfishness and sadness. I don't want others to experience this. To know how it feels to have lost or be grieving or to have nothing left.
Which is why.
Why I gather my courage before fully opening my eyes in the morning and screw up what strength is left in me to face another day. Why I smile and greet my friends and colleagues all day as if all is well with the world. Why I go home and cook and clean and try to keep the family happy. Why I pray to not wake up again every night before I go to bed.
Love overrides a lot of things. A lot of problems. A lot of feelings. A lot of sins. A lot of sadness.
Love. Love is all you need and everything that is left. You see, love is hope.
You can live on love and know that no matter what comes, what enemies, what dangers, what emotions or things you may face, you know you will have the strength to face it. It's not for you. It was never for you. It was for them. That's how one man in the depth of history, took on the sins and the fate of all the people who will live and be born in time - and died for them.
Because with Love, nothing is impossible.
With Love, you can do all things.
In Love, you are invincible.
So I don't live for me.
I live for you.
27 February, 2014
20 February, 2014
Titles can be hard to think of - misty morning
On an early misty morning, you walk out the door into a wall. A wall of white, wispy fog. It's like entering another world. The fog tendrils envelop you and make you cold and clammy. It clogs your ears and dampens depth, so you can hear the silence rising. Bird song struggles or breezes in the distance. Moist dew beads and makes your clothes feel heavy. You feel sweaty without sweating, you feel dirty although you just showered. Dirt kicks up and clings to you from the back of your boots to the bare skin of your calves. Sometimes you can smell the rich moist earth - almost good enough to want to eat. Sometimes you smell decay, something rotting in a ditch. Sometimes you smell nothing, but the absence of any smell and the mist crawls up your nose and down your throat, threatening to choke you. Ominous shapes loom out of nowhere, appearing like old giant men or apparitions of the mist.
But then the sun, the glorious sun, it rises. Unexpectedly, the fog rises, tendrils twisting and writhing to escape from captivity in the strong sunlight. As suddenly as you walked into it, it's gone. Sounds resume - the insect scurry, the birds' song and the chickens calling to be fed. Smells waft with the new morning breeze. The dark shadow that looked like a stooping giant turns into an old tree, from which an old tyre swing hangs.
Until night falls and the mist comes creeping back, thickening into snaking fog that blankets everything.
On an early misty morning, you could accidentally wander onto the road and be hit by an oncoming truck you could neither see nor hear until too late.
On an early misty morning, you could disappear with a scream and nobody would see. Nobody would hear.
Which is of course what happened.
But then the sun, the glorious sun, it rises. Unexpectedly, the fog rises, tendrils twisting and writhing to escape from captivity in the strong sunlight. As suddenly as you walked into it, it's gone. Sounds resume - the insect scurry, the birds' song and the chickens calling to be fed. Smells waft with the new morning breeze. The dark shadow that looked like a stooping giant turns into an old tree, from which an old tyre swing hangs.
Until night falls and the mist comes creeping back, thickening into snaking fog that blankets everything.
On an early misty morning, you could accidentally wander onto the road and be hit by an oncoming truck you could neither see nor hear until too late.
On an early misty morning, you could disappear with a scream and nobody would see. Nobody would hear.
Which is of course what happened.
26 January, 2014
The Papyretans
The Papyretans were not a compassionate people. They were in fact, a race obsessed with systems, reports, forms and paper. In short, they were a people so passionate about paperwork that they had paper wars to prove who was the better administrator. Of course, the side with the largest amount of paperwork to show how diligent they were won. These wars often occurred between cities and could last years, or in some cases, centuries. The most recent two decade war of Papier and Mâché resulted in both cities becoming so inundated with paper particles that they had to call a cease-fire citing health and safety concerns involving asthma, fire hazards and visibility. People and traffic were unable to move freely without battery powered paper shredders and those with shares in battery power companies made millions before the excess paper was cleared. The profit made from these shares were then, of course, re-routed into renewing the war between these rival cities.
The average Papyretan's life was lived out behind small desks - often composed of completed paperwork that did not fit in the filing cabinets; and houses were multi-storey blocks of concrete apartments which were relics of a long forgotten industrial age. Along every street, were piles and piles of long lost correspondence, normally known as 'mislaid letters, reports, statistics, miscellaneous sheets and other papers'. These paper piles were preferred over trees or other natural flora as paper 'was more refined, did not need to be cared for and generally did its own thing'. Consequently, 'dirty' trees and other vegetation not 'naturally occurring' like mildew, mould and fungi were systematically eradicated as weeds within the cities.
Paper furniture was all the rage, despite its tendency to fall apart, but the Papyretans felt this to be excellent object lessons for their children to learn filing efficiency and proper respect for the papers. The cheapest and most proper food for children was paper porridge (made from the finest redundant forms), as it was nutritious (when laced with multi-vitamins and minerals) and was considered to help teach the children their 'letters, grammar and literacy essentials'. As a result, paper porridge unsurprisingly is the number one most hated food on the planet, far surpassing green vegetables, skinny shakes and mouldy bread. When the adults weren't looking, the children were quick to pour their unflavoured bowls of porridge out the windows upon the pre-existing paper piles to 'feed the mould'. It is said that the micro-organisms on the planet are amongst the most literate in the universe.
Due to the desk based nature of the Papyretans, the planet itself gave off a general odour of stale donuts and coffee, as well as something burnt, wet and rotting. Or to be more precise, singed paper (from the multiple fires that often threatened to engulf entire continents) that had been eaten by large silverfish (also known as Lepisma saccharina or fishmoths), spat out mid-chew, left to grow mould, chewed, spat out again and then left to rot in one of the paper bogs (made of shredded, saliva slimed paper bits) where the bored, overfed silverfish tended to wallow in their own filth whilst reading 'dear John' or 'dear Jane' letters that writers had either forgotten or avoided posting. Subsequently, the silverfish were cynical, extra hard shelled insects with a skewed sense of romanticism, who had no understanding of the words 'friendship' or 'intimacy'. If finding a mate in order to dump them straight away was not romantic, they didn't know what was. Considering the number of 'dear John' or 'dear Jane' letter bogs there were on the planet, it was a wonder how the silverfish or even Papyretans even survived to populate the planet.
The average Papyretan's life was lived out behind small desks - often composed of completed paperwork that did not fit in the filing cabinets; and houses were multi-storey blocks of concrete apartments which were relics of a long forgotten industrial age. Along every street, were piles and piles of long lost correspondence, normally known as 'mislaid letters, reports, statistics, miscellaneous sheets and other papers'. These paper piles were preferred over trees or other natural flora as paper 'was more refined, did not need to be cared for and generally did its own thing'. Consequently, 'dirty' trees and other vegetation not 'naturally occurring' like mildew, mould and fungi were systematically eradicated as weeds within the cities.
Paper furniture was all the rage, despite its tendency to fall apart, but the Papyretans felt this to be excellent object lessons for their children to learn filing efficiency and proper respect for the papers. The cheapest and most proper food for children was paper porridge (made from the finest redundant forms), as it was nutritious (when laced with multi-vitamins and minerals) and was considered to help teach the children their 'letters, grammar and literacy essentials'. As a result, paper porridge unsurprisingly is the number one most hated food on the planet, far surpassing green vegetables, skinny shakes and mouldy bread. When the adults weren't looking, the children were quick to pour their unflavoured bowls of porridge out the windows upon the pre-existing paper piles to 'feed the mould'. It is said that the micro-organisms on the planet are amongst the most literate in the universe.
Due to the desk based nature of the Papyretans, the planet itself gave off a general odour of stale donuts and coffee, as well as something burnt, wet and rotting. Or to be more precise, singed paper (from the multiple fires that often threatened to engulf entire continents) that had been eaten by large silverfish (also known as Lepisma saccharina or fishmoths), spat out mid-chew, left to grow mould, chewed, spat out again and then left to rot in one of the paper bogs (made of shredded, saliva slimed paper bits) where the bored, overfed silverfish tended to wallow in their own filth whilst reading 'dear John' or 'dear Jane' letters that writers had either forgotten or avoided posting. Subsequently, the silverfish were cynical, extra hard shelled insects with a skewed sense of romanticism, who had no understanding of the words 'friendship' or 'intimacy'. If finding a mate in order to dump them straight away was not romantic, they didn't know what was. Considering the number of 'dear John' or 'dear Jane' letter bogs there were on the planet, it was a wonder how the silverfish or even Papyretans even survived to populate the planet.
25 January, 2014
Strong heart, dear heart
Strong heart,
Dear heart,
Fear not the winter storms,
Where wind doth howl
And whole house growl
And rain sobbingly mourns.
Strong heart,
Dear heart,
Fear not the dark black night,
Where despair claws
Without a cause,
Wrapping thee in chains tight.
Strong heart,
Dear heart,
Heed not the whispering dread,
Whose strength is fear,
But can only leer
If thou turnst not thy head.
Strong heart,
Dear heart,
Give not up thy dare.
For troubles come,
But they will run,
When you rest in God's care.
Strong heart,
Dear heart,
Keep hope and faith quite near.
For the sun riseth
And from pain priseth,
Scattering thine each tear.
Strong heart,
Dear heart,
In pain do not be lost.
For God's Word stands
And His commands
Outweigh the heavy cost.
Strong heart,
Dear heart,
Be bold and of good courage.
To others smile,
Let nothing rile,
And for all those near encourage.
Strong heart,
Dear heart,
I'll hold thee tight all day.
You will be fine
And across the line
I'll carry thee alway.
Dear heart,
Fear not the winter storms,
Where wind doth howl
And whole house growl
And rain sobbingly mourns.
Strong heart,
Dear heart,
Fear not the dark black night,
Where despair claws
Without a cause,
Wrapping thee in chains tight.
Strong heart,
Dear heart,
Heed not the whispering dread,
Whose strength is fear,
But can only leer
If thou turnst not thy head.
Strong heart,
Dear heart,
Give not up thy dare.
For troubles come,
But they will run,
When you rest in God's care.
Strong heart,
Dear heart,
Keep hope and faith quite near.
For the sun riseth
And from pain priseth,
Scattering thine each tear.
Strong heart,
Dear heart,
In pain do not be lost.
For God's Word stands
And His commands
Outweigh the heavy cost.
Strong heart,
Dear heart,
Be bold and of good courage.
To others smile,
Let nothing rile,
And for all those near encourage.
Strong heart,
Dear heart,
I'll hold thee tight all day.
You will be fine
And across the line
I'll carry thee alway.
They were here
The wind howled. Tree branches tapped against my window. There was no storm, no lightning and no rain. Just wind, wind and more wind. It roared and whipped around my house, sounding like myriads of voices, hammering at every door and window to be let in.
They said that they would come for me tonight. I didn't dare sleep. What if I never woke up? What if I went missing? I didn't know exactly what they meant when they said they would come for me. Was it to kill me? Was it to kidnap me? Was it to force me to do something I wouldn't want to do otherwise?
I had shoved a knife inside the waistband of my trousers and hidden weapons throughout the house - just in case. Perhaps they wouldn't come tonight. It was very cold and windy after all. Maybe something would dissuade them from coming here.
What was that? And that?
The noise of glass being smashed and crashing to the ground filtered slowly through the wind's multitudinous shouting. I ducked into the only hiding place I could think of. The back of my cramped wardrobe, behind the piles of clothes. I covered myself with a layer of neatly folded clothes and froze.
They were here.
They were here.
The whispering. The footsteps.
It wasn't my fault. The witnessing. The saving of the couple's lives. I mean, I hadn't expected to be there either.
It hadn't taken long for them to find out who I was or where I lived. It hadn't taken long for them to slowly strip away everything and everyone I knew and loved. The first, my cat, had been a warning, but when the police asked me questions, I couldn't lie. I couldn't not tell them about the attempted murders. Not that my testimony had helped them catch the culprits. The couple were killed in the hospital and my boyfriend disappeared.
I moved house and it was graffitied. My neighbours shunned me. Don't ask me why. How would I know?
The media came asking for my story. I was reluctant. Refused to speak to them, but somehow, somewhere, they got the story. Did a policeman tell them? My parents? I don't know. I only know that my parents disappeared, leaving behind streaks of blood. No bodies.
I moved house again.
Somewhere far away and deserted.
It wasn't my fault that they had people in the area dealing drugs and a policeman just happened to be passing by while I was also passing by.
My sister disappeared and a heart-rending, frightening CD had appeared in my letterbox. A letter, they said, with love.
Why target my family? Why hack into my devices and call all my friends for a party only to kill them en masse?
Why not just kill me?
Well. They were here now.
The wind blustered into the closet and found its way to me between the clothes. A rough hand grabbed me. Dragged me. The knife fell out my trousers. My neat piles of clothes fell haphazardly onto the floor. A blurred face. No weapons at hand.
They were here.
No where to go.
No where to hide.
They said that they would come for me tonight. I didn't dare sleep. What if I never woke up? What if I went missing? I didn't know exactly what they meant when they said they would come for me. Was it to kill me? Was it to kidnap me? Was it to force me to do something I wouldn't want to do otherwise?
I had shoved a knife inside the waistband of my trousers and hidden weapons throughout the house - just in case. Perhaps they wouldn't come tonight. It was very cold and windy after all. Maybe something would dissuade them from coming here.
What was that? And that?
The noise of glass being smashed and crashing to the ground filtered slowly through the wind's multitudinous shouting. I ducked into the only hiding place I could think of. The back of my cramped wardrobe, behind the piles of clothes. I covered myself with a layer of neatly folded clothes and froze.
They were here.
They were here.
The whispering. The footsteps.
It wasn't my fault. The witnessing. The saving of the couple's lives. I mean, I hadn't expected to be there either.
It hadn't taken long for them to find out who I was or where I lived. It hadn't taken long for them to slowly strip away everything and everyone I knew and loved. The first, my cat, had been a warning, but when the police asked me questions, I couldn't lie. I couldn't not tell them about the attempted murders. Not that my testimony had helped them catch the culprits. The couple were killed in the hospital and my boyfriend disappeared.
I moved house and it was graffitied. My neighbours shunned me. Don't ask me why. How would I know?
The media came asking for my story. I was reluctant. Refused to speak to them, but somehow, somewhere, they got the story. Did a policeman tell them? My parents? I don't know. I only know that my parents disappeared, leaving behind streaks of blood. No bodies.
I moved house again.
Somewhere far away and deserted.
It wasn't my fault that they had people in the area dealing drugs and a policeman just happened to be passing by while I was also passing by.
My sister disappeared and a heart-rending, frightening CD had appeared in my letterbox. A letter, they said, with love.
Why target my family? Why hack into my devices and call all my friends for a party only to kill them en masse?
Why not just kill me?
Well. They were here now.
The wind blustered into the closet and found its way to me between the clothes. A rough hand grabbed me. Dragged me. The knife fell out my trousers. My neat piles of clothes fell haphazardly onto the floor. A blurred face. No weapons at hand.
They were here.
No where to go.
No where to hide.
24 January, 2014
River echo
By the river softly running,
By the green and leafy banks,
Her song can still be heard
Echoing upon the waters.
“Hiding and seeking
Are you a-seeking?
Here I am hiding,
Come to me finding.”
“Come and find me,
Come and seek me,
Follow me, follow me,
To where I might be.”
On the banks we used to play,
Running riot all the day,
Swimming and sliding,
Seeking, hiding,
Until the spring waters
Of melted, icy snow
Flooded the plains
And swept her away.
Here I am sitting
By the river waters
Listening to the echo
Of her voice still calling.
“Hiding and seeking
Are you a-seeking?
Here I am hiding,
Come to me finding.”
“Come and find me,
Come and seek me,
Follow me, follow me,
To where I might be.”
23 January, 2014
Midnight fight
One dark day in the middle of the night,
I heard a noise and got up to fight.
Grabbed a bat, snuck down the stairs;
In the kitchen, imagined bears.
Instead I saw a wild man,
Shuffling around and eating ham.
He had one hand stuck inside the fridge,
The other hand making a creamy smidge.
When I gave an angry yell-o,
Toward me flying came a jell-o.
He grabbed my bat,
I snatched up the mat
And down we tumbled with a smack.
Tangled in a mash of food,
Does not put me in a good mood.
Angrily I jabbed a punch
And outward came someone’s old lunch.
Then I heard a familiar sigh
And horrified, looked into my husband’s eye…
This is a work of fiction.
I heard a noise and got up to fight.
Grabbed a bat, snuck down the stairs;
In the kitchen, imagined bears.
Instead I saw a wild man,
Shuffling around and eating ham.
He had one hand stuck inside the fridge,
The other hand making a creamy smidge.
When I gave an angry yell-o,
Toward me flying came a jell-o.
He grabbed my bat,
I snatched up the mat
And down we tumbled with a smack.
Tangled in a mash of food,
Does not put me in a good mood.
Angrily I jabbed a punch
And outward came someone’s old lunch.
Then I heard a familiar sigh
And horrified, looked into my husband’s eye…
This is a work of fiction.
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