Random Thought Bubbles

Ramblings on of someone still finding the way

For those who don't believe in another life

Living in dreams of now and forever
In the same bed of roses and thorns

Bloodied hands and white scars
Peering through the looking glass
Leaving crimson prints in crystal

For those who don't believe in the past
Echo, echoing into the void
Like lace in the wind

Missing those hidden memories
In the recesses of the mind
Unexpected resurfacing

For those who don't believe in another life
Where natural becomes forbidden
In the frailty of time

The fuzzy glow of these dimmed coloured lights
Coupled with the dreaminess to this night
Pondering that lingering, slightly too long touch
Then finding furtive glances across known distant seas

Again left to manufacture another love story
Spinning a taller tale than reality
But nothing is as implausible
Than the daily trudge to be part of the rat race

And how the simple life beckons
With the intermittent pause of fairy lights
Romantic gestures become special occasions
No longer hoped for because they don't happen, as easily by

To do as required, to be as desired
Plagued by a polymorphic mass of self expectation
But what if it misses the mark
Who decides on that mark?

A long overdue coming together
And such that it all is familiar and unfamiliar
All at the same flash of time
Awkward silences of questions hang heavy

In the thick air of history and the
Inadvertent smog of distance
Ill conceived plans cobbled
Into groupings we keep falling through

Then to remember all the smells
Tastes, loves and losts
Tantalising the what ifs and the what nots
Torturing the psyche into a past so fondly and painfully remembered

An instant away the imagery melts
Apart from the time, the same could happen
And if we had more time
And if we did have more time

Could fate be tempted in the other direction

"Have you ever felt so strung out that you feel completely drained, like everything you have in you was emptied out on the street and stomped on by a very thoughtless child? I can't say I haven't (but I don't have that feeling today). It's amazing the range the pain scale has. From slight sadness to feeling like it's time you expired. A particular one I never could stomach (so to say) was the garden variety episodic numb stabbing pain that radiates from the center of my chest. The polar opposite of that falling in love feeling but just as intense (but then again who knows what love should feel like besides transient palpitations that you mistake for happiness)."

Looking back at my old drafts that were never published, and above is one from 2005... that's almost 10 years ago... what intense feelings I have had have truly passed. These days the days are punctuated by deadlines and aspirations but I seem to achieve these by luck and by reputation. I suppose I work hard enough and watch what I say when not intoxicated. A sense of curiosity and a need to prod my psyche leads me down a winding path. Is this where I have brought myself or is it a mixture of fate and predetermination and did I ever believe in that?

The first paragraph feels so foreign that I don't remember ever typing it. Was it in a time of calm or a time of turmoil? The early years of uni were littered with romantic/disillusioned entanglements that were confusing to say the least. There were moments of striking out and moments of complete anguish. Such contrasts of emotion that caused me to shake in my skin. The intensity made the world barely real around me. I favoured the black and white, the extremes of life and it took me to such dark places. But there was no other way I could've learnt otherwise, at the time.

What a difference a year, several years, make. I sometimes wonder how it all could've been if the extremes had not been extremes, if the black and white ideology didn't exist. It was all so strange to read about borderlines. Like looking into a mirror then. It was like sunlight coming through stormy skies, like a weight being lifted, when it dawned. And then I changed. It was like light and day. It is recent enough that I almost remember.

These days I am drained because the day at work has been long and hard, because there are more deadlines to meet. Maybe it is the imaginary construct my organized self has created to build structure into this otherwise disorganized mind. In my head the ideas exist as blobs of work that finally come together when the end is near. Fleeting concepts get grasped at and materialize.

It's all so foggy still.

Maybe it's just another day

The husband is at work. Maybe I'm just missing him and bored. Idle hands and all that jazz.

Maybe Celeste will know

If she could answer
What those turquoise eyes 
Have seen

Maybe Celeste will know
If I could ask her
Where in life
She's been

Time dulls the senses

To creeping indifference
And monotony brings
A heavy lightness
That becomes a burden

Like toes just touching the earth
And you are holding on for 
Dear life
When suddenly you realize
Where did it all go?

But such is happiness
That being content
Is confused with 
Giving up
Then a new search 
Is called for

It is thunderous, the silence
Grasping for inspiration straws
To keep the steamroller going

Losing steam, losing steam