Prose

Living without passion

..

Without conflict could we still survive, would we still want to live in our ever revolving faceless world of placation? Would we miss having fire in our bellies? Miss having passion and love and anger? Without emotion are we even really living or merely existing?

If you were able to live forever without the fresh breeze on your face, or the spray of the waves of the sea falling in mists on your skin, or without ever hearing the rising call of the lark or feel the warmth on the skin of your cheek: would this be living?

Thrill of the chase

He was never mine not really, not where it mattered.

For the most part, I am a shareholder. A greedy coveter grasping a ticket, a little piece of him that I believe is mine, until the next time. The next spin of the wheel, eagerly watching the bounce, wondering where the white ball will land, wondering if my time is near. Alas, lady luck was never a friend to me. And so shall he be, forever more on the move,free to roam to whichever ever table he pleases. I can but sit and watch agog whilst the women sigh and feign over him. My stomach knotting to see blood red fingertips brush his skin. My scorn rises as perfumed beauties fawn and blush to see him pass by, they even lean in to smell his sweet scent at times. my discontent clearly shown, I cannot help it.
He is not mine any more yet once he was and I am loathe to forget. The night we shared on the poker table, I recall the revelry in his caress. How I would pull him to my lips with each jubilant squeal. I remember the fire of anticipation before we touched, our first meeting of indecency, our indiscretion of sorts.

Our last meeting was so long ago yet still I yearn for you, still I sit and watch you work your magic on others, hoping one day your delights will come back to me. praying for a day you will return so I can love you better, and not let you slip so easily through my fingertips..
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Homesick

Lost, within the confines of habitat
Claustrophobic walls of crumpled clothes
Piled precariously: a fanfare of muted colour
Silently judging with their discarded stares

A coliseum of boxes, wait impatiently
Until the fated time arrives
When their contents can feel secure
Enough to settle in one place

The room reeks with anticipation
Cellophane coats cling to linens
Pressed and tight,layered with dust
Suitcases stand guard,uncompromised

Plastic tubs under bags
Lined with wasted potential – regret
Unworn heels, gently mocking
Zipped sneers from suits

The muffled complaints
of vacuum packed petticoats
The faceless glare of ornaments
Buried under mounds

A whole life in storage
Awaiting a place to call home

Better to remain silent

It’s a strange embrace, these salted leaks

That storm from undaunting eyes

Suffocated fears, gnawing inside

Of which naivety, implores me to share

Begs me to take the untrodden route

To finally confide with secure ideas

A false notion of safety- acceptance

This one will appreciate raw honesty

Emotion encourages the onslaught

Mistaken understanding

Fooled by hormones?

No, I am the fool

SoCS – Real

For anyone not already heard of the Stream of conciousness Saturday: which is a prompt put out every Friday,  then check out Linda’s blog below

Linda G Hill

My stream this week was encouraged by a CampNaNoWriMo cabin sprint too, so double encouragement, thanks guys 🙂

 

Real

Get real!

Think about everything that you need to get real with today. Perhaps you need to change something in your life or at least be real about it to yourself. Sometimes we get so set in our ways that we lie or at least cover up the truths, even to ourselves.

I get why, I do it too. Sometimes it’s hard to examine our real thoughts and feelings, hard to accept that change is necessary…is inevitable, yet when it needs to be done then it’s hard, it’s scary even. We put so much effort into living out each day with the idea that if we just keep our heads above water, if we just keep moving along no matter how slow, then at some point it will all make sense, it will somehow feel real.

But it doesn’t.

Sometimes the light of day is like pouring boiling water over dusty cracks that we suddenly realise are there. Upon viewing these blemishes we realise that everything we thought was real and honest is now nothing more than a facade: a strangers face tacked on to our hidden desires. A covering for thoughts or feelings that reside deep within, that we don’t simply feel we can show to the real world. so instead we slip on a mask and wear it well, so others can’t see the real you. We might feel alone in this fake life created, yet we tell ourselves over and over that somehow this is better than the alternative. That somehow the monotonous existence of our being is the real world, is our real life, and that wanting, hoping for anything else is too presumptuous, too extravagant.

Do we really want the real us to surface?

To swim free and vulnerable out into the open. To allow ourselves to open up and release the inner beings of our souls into the real world, to allow ourselves to soar and swoop amongst the others. Do we really feel ready to allow reality to test us? Are we prepared for the onslaught of real experience to taint our fledgling emotions, to cast aspersions on our real self, to crush what little fragility we have left inside.

Are we ready for real life and all its brutality?

Let me thing about this, whilst I hide under my rock a while longer.

It will all work out

This isn’t working for me. Isn’t working in the setting of the sun or the waking of the dawn when the birds croak out a morning chorus to wake the tree. It isn’t working in the drops of the rain that fall in the middle of the night calling out names to people who can no longer hear them. It doesn’t work for me that every time I see a small glimpse of hope flickering between the pebbles and the cliff tops that you tell me it’s just an illusion that there is nothing really there: just maybe a firefly breathing his final breathe.

This no longer works for me

The soft insinuation that things will be ok, that I will be ok, at sometime and some point. The dull thudding in my heart when I hear what you don’t say and know that you couldn’t, only to be able to hear it ten times louder than any other constant noise. It’s the slow droning that nags my earlobes and pulls the despair out of my mind and onto the paper. That sheer expression of nonsensical love and what it means to have it, to recognise and hold onto it for dear life.

This isn’t working out for me

To be able to dance in the autumn light of a harvest moon but never truly taste the bounty. To steal a grape from the great cornucopia of life yet never be able to let it reach my lips and feel it’s cool skin pressed against mine. To allow the acorns to nestle in safe pockets of earth protected from harm yet never to see them rise into strong reliant Oaks. To never feel the rush of the wind filter through my hair yet watch it blow the leaves into submission. To have the sea air cling to my lips yet never allow my aching tongue to taste it.

These are things that don’t work out for me

You don’t work out for me