Stream of consciousness

SoCS – The Card

It lay there – relentless.

It’s wide open face trying to lure me in with fake promises of innocence and plausible deniability. Yet I could sense the danger; see the evil glint in it’s googly eye.

Every so often I came across it, usually in the big grand clear out of hoarded cupboards, of drawers, of boxes, of past lives. Yet every year it survives. The single birthday card destined to be sent out yet never quite reaching it’s full potential.Β  Instead it lingers, ticking away at my mind and forcing me to recall memories of things past and left unsaid.

Oh, I know I could throw it in the dustbin or send it off to someone else to save the waste yet I just can’t bring myself to do it. The stupid humour on it was perfect for our little ‘in jokes’ that nobody else could understand and I knew you would appreciate the line of the poem I’d picked out and inserted especially for you – nobody else would have made the connection.

And yet I can’t send it now either.

Instead I clear it away, packed back into a shoebox, left to fester amongst the half burned candles and dried out roses. Left in the box of memories that mean the whole world and yet nothing at all.

……..

 

This piece was written using the ‘card’ prompt by Linda G Hill as inspiration. If you want to join in or just check out some inspired writing then please check out her blog for rules and more.

lindaghill.com

The Final Countdown

Fifteen minutes, this is the countdown: how are you supposed to say everything you want to say in just fifteen minutes? Unprepared too! Sum it all up they said, you have 15 minutes that’s enough to point out the highlights, throw in some messages to loved ones and let them know you were thinking about them when the moment happened. But it’s not enough I said, fifteen minutes is just not enough time to express everything, I can’t press my life down into a nutshell and hope that people will be OK with the way things have turned out. I mean, what if I forget to mention someone?Β  What if this is the most important fifteen minutes of my life and then I forget someone dear to me because of the pressure? How would you feel knowing that you have devoted yourself to helping someone and then in those last final moments you were not on their most important list? What if you were that person?

Look, you get fifteen minutes, same as everyone else!

But-

No, fifteen minutes! He was adamant. So there I was with my rushed list trying desperately to count people’s names on my fingers and run through words in my head desperate to just say the right thing: it was too important to mess up. This was it. My last chance to show the world, to say what I really wanted to say before everything turned black. Just fifteen minutes to say all those things that had held me back through life, to tell people that I loved them or hated them (no I wouldn’t do this, still), but to just imprint a part of me into the hearts of people that I cared for: before the memory of me was lost in entirety, enveloped in the ether. Yes I had fifteen minutes to make an impact and not give way to fear. I had to hold my nerve and speak out, show true courage and then impress them, maybe I could change their minds. Perhaps I could get them to allow me a longer existence, beg them to keep my name on the list longer, help me stay alive. Yet now the end was nearing I couldn’t help but give way to the frog residing in my throat. I reached out for the mike but I could feel my throat squeezing the life from my words.

The Only Option

She went to a dark place.

She went there alone.

To hide beneath the dusty shores, wade through murky undergrowth and delve into the icy lakes of solitude. She went there alone. Wrapped herself in a heavy tarpaulin of sunbleached skin, worn with age yet heavy enough to secure her down, in the pools, of despair , that she found – alone.

After trawling through the deserts of time, her hand outstretched for aid, that was never found. No water of rejuvenation trickled through her salt cracked lips, her weary bones found no comfort in the angles of the rocks of contemplation. After a time, she learned to counter the winds of fortune, turn away from the blasts: her spine bare for the impact.

If you look to the marks on the soles of her feet , blackened by ashes, solidified by infliction: know that these are not the marks of her failure, but reminders of her strength. Mottled with scars of endurance: she is a marked woman yet not beaten.

She does not submit, she will not yield.

She went to a dark place

She was alone.

 

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?

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It hangs

In the balance between

You and I

The empty air of silence

All those words left unsaid,

about the elephant,

and whose room he’s in, and why?

Tiny pockets crammed with conviction

Suit jackets lined with lies.

Yet still, we tiptoe

Between discarded clothes and comments

Barbed by hatred, hidden by love.

Such fickle creatures

We live by the moonlight of tenacity.

 

 

 

Wasted my young years

I am wasting my life

I know it, yet I cannot seem to stop it. I sit and I feel it slipping away from me. My get up and go has got up and gone and I have no idea how to find it again, or know if indeed it is still out there waiting to be found.

In my thoughts I am a pioneer, I swoop and soar and plan all things which I could do, list all the things I should do, hide from the things I need to do – yet still I lie.
Curled up in a fortress of quilt whenever I can get the chance, if ever I need not to be at work and sometimes when I should be somewhere else – i lie. Hidden behind walls and I lie, in bed waiting, waiting for something unknown.

I am tired

My bones do not want to move today or ever. I do not want to drag my carcass out into the unfriendly world where it has no relevance, no meaning, no joy. I feel guilt for all of the things I am missing out on, feel bad for those I am letting down, constantly but still I cannot seem to force myself out. I dont know what I want but I know it isnt this – I am a waste of life in this state. Not living but simply existing.

The only thing that brings solace is sleep. I feel I could sleep forever and feel happier lost in dreams for life only brings cruelty and sadness.

Please just let me sleep.

 

SoCS – Real

For anyone not already heard of the Stream of conciousness Saturday: which is a prompt put out every Friday, Β 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 πŸ™‚

 

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.

Egg – SoCS

Over at Linda’s blog for the prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: β€œegg.”

I had some train time without internet to kill so this prompt was a lovely thing to fill the gap, thank you Linda πŸ™‚

 

EGG

What it the chicken of the egg that came first? Obviously those cunning folk among us know that the answer to this age old question is the egg. Ok,so it wasn’t a chicken egg, but a lizard or fish egg is still an egg never the less and why should they count of any less value. It reminds me of a poems I once read as a child and whilst I enjoyed the rhyme enjoy to remember it, I guess at the time that I never really understood it.

The codfish lays ten thousand eggs
The humble hen lays one
The codfish never cackles
to tell usewhat she’s done
But we all scorn the codfish
Whilst the humble hen we prize
Which only goes to show you that it pays to advertise

But isn’t it a great little poem and actually shines quite a truth on real life: those that shout the loudest do seem to get more out of life, whilst the quiet hard workers continue to strive on and get passed over. (walks away from the rant)
Now I remember this poem from a poetry book that I used to have as a young child, I can’t remember the book title or the poet and maybe even some of the words are incorrect but it is from an old memory. This isn’t the only poem I remember from being a child, which I think is testement to how poetry can really make an impact on people, or children even. I think it was the rhyme that made it stick, along with others such as Gerry the giraffe and Rhubarb Teb. Even the old Oliphant which I only found out as an adult came from a book: Tolkien – Lord of the Rings. When I think to myself of all the poems and song lyrics that I can remember it’s actually a fair amount of memory, yet I cannot seem to remember where IΒ leave keys or recall conversations I have had the previous day: what’s with that?

Sometimes my mind draws such a blank on simple everyday things and I can’t work out how it can be so good for silly non important facts yet I can’t retain information that would be helpful. Perhaps my brain is just wired to prefer absorbing enjoyment rather than function.

So the prompt was egg right? *makes mental note to purchase Easter eggs in the sales to top up the chocolate supplies*

 

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