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? 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!
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.
March has been taken in a bit of a stride around here. To begin with I haven’t felt like I have had enough time to sit down and really focus on writing or reading or pretty much anything that will bring joy. Instead I have found myself resorting to hibernation mode on the days where I could have had some time to get things done; then afterwards kicking myself for wasting time.
Yes, at the beginning of March, I was already to march into the sunrise, head full of goals to complete and a list of things to do: yet somewhere along the way I got lost.
Do you ever get those days where you just feel you have had enough so you sit down and take a breather and some selfish time to yourself, and suddenly a few hours have been lost. Well that was my month of March really. Then tonight I find that I have literally lost an hour (darn those stupid time switches), and suddenly I feel awake again and aggrieved at all the time lost.
It keeps ticking whether we make the most of it or whether we waste it: and I guess we all need to feel as though we are wasting our time in order to do something about it.
So I shake my fist at you March, you have been my downfall and now I am protesting! Give me back my time and we shall have no more quarrel!
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.
If it wasn’t for her inability
to distinguish subtlety
If it wasn’t for his knack
For holding back
If it wasn’t for their modesty
If it wasn’t for their fear
To take a chance
If it wasn’t for the noise
Of new distractions
Or the blatant disregard
Of pure attraction
Or the battle scars they wore
Left to show an old amour
Or the strength to show outright
a clear reaction
If it wasn’t for her cynical acceptance
if it wasn’t for his coy reserve
If it wasn’t for shared reticence
Or believing it wasn’t deserved
If it wasn’t for a sense
A shared inclination
Her body clock aligning
With terrible timing
Or the frowning
Welkom op de blog van Discobar Bizar. Druk gerust wat op de andere knoppen ook, of lees het aangrijpende verhaal van Hurricane Willem nu je hier bent. Welcome to the blog of Discobar Bizar, feel free to push some of the other buttons, or to read the gripping story of Hurricane Willem whilst you are here!
“I hate endings. Just detest them. Beginnings are definitely the most exciting, middles are perplexing and endings are a disaster. . . . The temptation towards resolution, towards wrapping up the package, seems to me a terrible trap. Why not be more honest with the moment? The most authentic endings are the ones which are already revolving towards another beginning. That’s genius.” ― Sam Shepard