Ode to albatrosses

Winter is endless. The frost on each blade of grass every morning when you wake up. The snowdrops along the borders of the garden. The churning grey clouds that cover the sky as far as the eye can see in. There isn't even a hint of the daffodil in the air. Spring is a time for new beginnings; birth and rebirth. Spring is an emerald green. But winter is a time for reflections; for coveting the old and harbouring your memories. Winter is a gun metal grey. We long for the spring to arrive, but without the winter we would never appreciate it's arrival. We would never look back and contemplate on everything that has been. We need it as a contrast to everything else, and we need it as a time to rest. It can be harsh, it can be cruel, but it's unchanging. It's as inexorable, as unstoppable, as an avalanche.

I wrote a letter to my mom. It wasn't any great literary achievement, it was just unusual. She hurt me a lot. But upon reflection, the time when she really hurt me wasn't when she left, it was when both her and my dad hurt me. It was when they excluded me from their lives, separated me. By the time she left everyone, I already felt exempt from her heart. But that rejection didn't come from just her, dad was equally responsible, yet somehow I forgave him. Hating her had turned to habit, something I had to do, just because. I've always blamed her. Blamed her for all my weaknesses; my overpowering fear of rejection, my inability to love just for the sake of it. I blamed her for every time I looked over my shoulder to check that no one had a knife to stab me with. And that isn't fair.

Had I been a stronger person from the start, maybe I wouldn't have been affected. Had she stayed, had their marriage worked and her lack of maternal feeling not been a problem, I would still be as insecure. As sure that something had to go wrong because it is completely impossible to be happy. I don't mean for me to be happy, I mean for anyone. I'm a cynic, but I'm cynical in the way that only someone truly messed up can be. There are layers. On one layer there is the constant amusement, the joy from anything new, or merely old but forgotten. And on another layer lurks the cynicism. The belief that I have to take joy from the simple things because they are the only constants. The only things I can keep close to me without fear of them suddenly disappearing, leaving me.

I've had a lot of time to reflect. It's too cold to do anything else. And she hurt me, she always will. For everything she did, for everything she said. But maybe I can forgive her for a while, move on at least. She hurt me, but I can't hate her forever, it just isn't in me anymore. Things change.

Labels: Demons, dynasty, Poetic licence, Superstition

He kissed me slowly, like he wanted to stay there forever. Like he didn't have to turn around and walk away. But I can't ask that of him. It's too early, he doesn't love me enough, there are more important things. I won't ask him to put his life on hold for me. How can I do that when I know that I couldn't do it for him?

So he lies beside me now, breathing deeply, his breath warm on my ear and his arm heavy accross my stomach. I won't move or make a sound for fear of waking him up, of making all this somehow not real. And this is perfect, for once everything is good. But I know that he's going to get up one day and not come back. There's a time limit before he has to leave, and I can't change it, can't change his mind. He told me from the start that he was going to have to go away, go and be a hero somewhere, do what he had to do. And I understood, I understand, I just don't want him to leave.

I know I'm being selfish. How can I truly care about someone yet not wish them to do what will make them happy? So he turns away from me, unclasps his large hands from mine, and walks away shutting the door behind him. I can't cry about it because he hasn't gone yet. I still have him here beside me, I still have him inside me, making me feel happy just for once. But I can't keep having the perfect moments, I can't let him into my heart because if he comes in then it'll make the leaving all the harder. I have to kiss him on the doorstep and push him down the path.

And he has to do the same for me. He'll let me into his bed, but he'll still turn his back on me at the door. And he doesn't look back. I don't look back. We both know that we're on a count down and that every day it gets just that little bit closer.

Every time he turns his back though, every time I turn mine, it hurts. I know that I can't let him in, but somehow I keep reliving those perfect moments, allowing him into my heart. I can't help it, my first instinct is to let him in and deal with the consequences later. I want to feel his hair under my fingertips, to have his arms wrapped around me. I want him to know how much I care for him, and for him to feel the same way about me. But neither of us can do it, I've let him in too much and I know I should stop. But he isn't going to allow me any further, and so I stop, hold back. And the feeling, me holding back, feels like I'm being suffocated, restrained. I feel constricted and there isn't anything I can do to stop it.

I can't leave him, there's so little time there is no point. And it's us splitting up thats the problem. But staying with him is so hard, so claustrophobic. I just want the freedom of knowing that we're happy as we are, and that he isn't going anywhere any time soon. But I'm not selfish enough to ask that.

Labels: Flying

My feet hurt and all I wanted to do was curl into a ball, or maybe go around poking happy people with a big stick. But still I was forced to trawl the shops for the perfect valentines day card. Happy couples suck because they walk around with a big grin on their faces making everyone else feel crap because they haven't had sex for (insert period of however long here) days/ months. I've spent a lot of time single and have learnt to seriously hate coupled up people. Especially my friends. If one friend is in a couple then all of them should be paired up. Otherwise it just isn't fair. They get that smug look on their face and all they want to do is tell you about the different positions that caused them pleasure the night before. And, christ, you're interested in a slightly massachistic way because you aren't getting any yourself. It's all incredibly sad.

It gets worse around valentines day though. You get dragged round the shops to look for that perfect valentines day card that manages to say that you really care for them, but not necessarily that you love them because it's too early in the relationship to say that yet. But you can't choose a card that is too obviously saying "I don't love you" in case they get you a card that says "I love you" and you feel bad for not saying it back, and really stupid for caring so much about what a dumb valentines card says.

Last year I suffered valentines day blues. This year I've managed to avoid that particular hell. For once, shock horror, I'm not going to be single on valentines day. But, to be honest, being in a relationship isn't much better. I still completely despise the whole holiday for its materialistic reasons, and also because love sucks so much, why would anyone want to celebrate it? If you're completely smitten with someone then, okay, its not a bad holiday. But I'm not smitten, I just really really like him. And I do NOT need a holiday to confirm that. If I was married and bored then I wouldn't like valentines day, it'll still just be a pointless holiday to make card companies a shitload of money for no particular reason.

It isn't fair. If you're in love then you don't need a day to reinforce that. If you aren't in love then it just depresses you as its a reminder of that. It's stressful and pointless. Romance doesn't happen to me, it happens to other people. So why should I be forced to endure valentines day?

Labels: Courting, Flying

Sometimes you can walk through a field of poppys and feel like they're on fire. They're so red it hurts your eyes. They're beautiful. Other times they look so pale. The light is all wrong and though you know that they're beautiful, that they are flawless, they just don't look so arresting as they did earlier. The beauty is wasted and over looked.

Sometimes there's beauty and you don't notice it at all. Sometimes you know that you're happy, and that everything is so good, but you take it for granted because it won't go away. It can't go away. But nothing lasts forever. You can have one perfect night. One moment that you know will stay with you forever. And though it was perfect, who knows what can happen the next day, week?

The poppy dies. The light fades. These things are inevitable. But the memory stays. It lasts for as long as you do, and you don't need it to last longer. For you, specifically, this is forever. And a memory that lasts forever is as perfect as the moment. You may know that you woke up the next day and walked away, that afterwards life continued to go on. But the memory got up and walked away with you. And if it was that perfect then it'll last for as long as you need it to.

I can still feel his hair, spiky beneath my finger tips. I can remember every taste, every smell. I can remember the sound of my laugh in the silence. And yes, in the morning I woke up and I walked away. Like this will all go away. There's a time limit to this, I can tell you the exact date. And that date was a bit of a shock to be honest, like a punch to the stomach when you aren't looking and don't expect it at all. And I'll be upset, but I'll cope because no matter how much I fall in love with him, I always do.

And if we finish it before then at least it'll be a lot easier in the end. Saying goodbye always hurts. Every time I stand at the airport and see another person leave it causes a little more pain. Because it isn't that you can't see them, it's just that you don't. It's that you know that more than anything else you want them to stay where they are. You want them to stay with you even though you know that it's a bad idea and selfish and everything else. I can say goodbye though. I've got good at it. I sometimes don't cry anymore. But at least the memory, if nothing else, will last.

Labels: A field of poppies, Flying, Poetic licence

When I was little I was a huge fan of Disney films. That hasn’t changed; I still love Disney. My favourite film was Cinderella. It isn’t just a classic, it’s The classic. It has all the elements: downtrodden but still amazing girl, fairy godmother who miraculously makes everything wonderful, and a prince charming. Not to mention the whole kingdom, riches and dreams-coming-true element to it all. It’s the perfect film for a kid whose sole goal in life is to get married to an incredibly rich, but unfortunately dying, man. No, that’s a slight exaggeration, I don’t mind really if he’s got a few years left in him.

When I was a kid I could sit there and watch it repeatedly. I know it’s sad. It’s just what I did. And I had a recurring dream. I dreamt that I was Cinderella and I went to the ball. I didn’t have glass slippers, I had gorgeous black satin stillettos with real stars in them making them all sparkly. My dress wasn’t blue, but it may have been red or some other colour. Blue doesn’t really suit me the same way it suited Cinderella. I mean, she was blonde. I was Cinderella though, I was just a less blonde version. I was probably also pretty crap at the household chores thing.

Of course I got my prince Charming. He was perfect as dream guys are wont to be. Tall, dark, gorgeous, and raking it in. My ideal man, except better. And that’s pretty much what I’ve always wanted.

But right now I’m happy. I’m not talking love, and I’m not talking infatuation either. I think he’s great and I think that the imperfections are what make it better. I’m not normal; I’m a complete nightmare and act like a lunatic most of the time. And he isn’t for forever. He’s for now. No, he’s for a while. He is definitely not the perfect man. He never gives me compliments and we spend 99% of the time bickering over complete crap. The other one percent is spent coming up with random crap. It’s easy.

And I realised that what I do NOT want is that perfect man. He’s taught me that I don’t want the truly imperfect man either. I gave up on dreaming about prince charming and moved on to the wild child bad boy who would treat me badly and would have more problems than the guy standing on the street corner selling The Big Issue. He’s taught me that I really don’t have a clue what I want. You never really know what it is, or who it is, that will come along. I’m not going to go out and search for Mr Right because I know that eventually, someone will come along and they won’t be him. And that’ll work for me.

It’s amazing what the people who aren’t right can teach you while you’re looking for that person who is right, but will teach you nothing.

Labels: Courting, Flying