Your Bed

This bed.

Where you lay sleepless in the dark, tracing imaginary outlines of a body you once knew so well, listening to occasional sounds of footsteps and fragments of conversations drifting through the open window, hoping to hear her voice.

Inside is your silence.

This bed.

Too big for one. In a house, with dust-covered memories. Before the dust, before the silence, this bed was made for two. Now you sit on this bed, trawling Facebook for pictures; wondering if the guy next to her is someone she's fucking.

Inside are your shadows.

This bed.

Its posters covered in cobwebs of what once was your truth; a game where the pieces disintegrated each time one of you made a move. This bed is haunted by fragments of conversations, the heat of her body, as you lay sleepless inside your darkness.

Ugh! Been working on this for weeks now and can still not get it right - all I seem to be doing is shift sentences around. I'm just not a poet (though some nice lines in there, which is why I couldn't let it go - will plagiarize self and use in novel!) so I give up - fuck your bed! 

Retraction of previous post

http://annasramblingstake2.blogspot.com/2011/08/dear-alkaline-trio.htm

I take it back, apart from two absolutely fucking awful tracks Damnesia is an incredible album. Still not forgiving you guys for Calling all Skeletons and This addiction though.

"Chapter 1"

Holy fuck! So I just wrote "Chapter 1" under the title of my novel. I'm sending it out to my writing group so I thought I'd clarify that it's the first chapter. (Normally I never number my chapters (probably because I never get far enough along before OH SHINY!) or name them.) I already have most of the chapter so it's not even on a blank page but the psychological reaction was stunning.  Because "Chapter 1" is like the most fucking awful thing EVAH to write! It immediately sends you into a cold sweat and it's like you're all of a sudden incapable of stringing letters together to make up words, never mind sentences. What lies before you is a never ending amount of pages to fill and it all starts with "Chapter 1"... Just thinking that combination makes me want to defenestrate myself. Which would be kinda pointless since I don't live that far off the ground but all the same. PANIC!

On Time Wasting

"You're nothing if not a catch" I was told the other day. In all fairness, it was in agreement to my exclamation that I am a catch, but all the same. And seriously, I am. There are endless words describing just how awesome I am. How about funny. Witty. Intelligent. Intellectual. Cute, sparkly, quirky, insane, charming, hot. And of course awesome. (And not modest.)

But despite all these great qualities I'm still not being caught. In all honesty though, I don't think it's necessarily that no one's trying to catch me, but rather that I don't want to be caught, or I don't want to be caught by the people trying to catch me. And I suppose that's fair enough.

However, there seems to be an epidemic rippling through society; it's like women nowadays have become as emotionally retarded as men. It's all about protecting yourself from hurt and disappointment. And we don't want to waste time on someone who's not worth it. Of course, that's understandable. But at the same time, we're allowing what little time we have to get wasted on waiting for something.. I don't know... Better?

I have so many single girlfriends - don't think I've ever had so many single girlfriends at the same time! And they're all great and would make some man a good wife (calm down, it's a joke!). But the excuses - "I have lost my confidence"; "I don't think we have anything in common"; "he had something stuck in his teeth"; or even worse, the ones that are in some sort of holding pattern with some dude: "I'll wait and see what happens, maybe he'll be more available after they've signed the contract". When did we all stop living? Is this what getting older does to you? You have to consider things x100 and lose all hope before you dare to enter? Making excuses for why we don't do things.

We're wasting so much time, waiting or being scared and not wanting to get hurt again. NEWS FLASH! Life is suffering! What's the point in being semi-dead for the next 40-50 years just to make sure that your precious feelings don't get a little frayed? At least then you know you've lived. Of course as we get older, we know what we don't want, but probably still unsure exactly what it is we want.

Because the truth is it doesn't exist. It was made up by ad guys to sell stuff, which we happily buy in to. We want to be told what love is supposed to look like, so we recognize it when we see it. But we'll never find that one perfect person because that person will never exist. So isn't it better to stop thinking so much and grab happiness where we can find it? Stop wasting all this time in an effort to protect our little feelings? Isn't life supposed to be a bit of fun?!





Author's note: This is a general pondering; I'm not talking about myself. I know exactly what I want and where to grab my happiness. 

Inamorato

It’s always like the first time. The way your touch me intoxicates me. Every strand, the myriad of molecules, every neuron in me is tingling in anticipation as I look up at you, explore your skin, your hardness, your softness, with my body. I taste you. I fill my lungs with you. I can never get enough of feeling you inside me, under me, on top of me, moving slow, moving fast. And when I’m exhausted, you lull me to sleep. Our moments together are so tender, yet so rough.

You never cease to surprise me. There is always a bit of you that’s unknown to me. As you lead me to new streets, new bars, new adventures, and tell me tales of times past, of ghosts, of greatness, I forever fall more in love with you. Time stops; it doesn’t exist. But somehow, it always ends.

Thinking about you, even when I’m with you, makes me breathless, my chest tightens and it hurts. Because, I know, you will never truly be mine. To you this means nothing. As soon as I leave, you will forget about me. You will tell other women your stories, show them your heart, take them to your bed and make love to them. And then watch over them as they sleep.

But I can’t stay away from you. I have tried. You’re in my blood; you pulsate through me. I hear you as I put my head on my pillow to rest. I feel you as I'm running along the Thames in the rain. Do you ever think about me when I’m not with you? Do you ever miss me, miss having me next to you? I sometimes fool myself into thinking that if you knew how I feel you’d confess your true heart. And then we could be together.

Our relationship is breaking me. But I am forever yours, New York. And as we kiss goodbye, for this time? forever? I close my eyes. I don’t want you to see me cry, so I walk away without looking back. I don’t want to know if you are still standing there, watching me walk away, if maybe our parting is upsetting you too. I don’t look back because I don’t want to find out that you’re not standing there watching me walk away.

Still there's a light I hold before me
You're the measure of my dreams

184 days without shoes

It's official. Even I have now come to the conclusion that I have a ridiculous amount of shoes. A fucking tower I stumble over as I try to get in or out my front door - I would guess about 15 pairs, the shoes I'm currently high on are stranded pretty much exactly where I left them when I took them off. On the shoe rack, shoes are stacked on each other, three pairs high in some place, and to be honest, I don't even remember what shoes I have there (I do know there are pairs I haven't even worn yet, but don't ask me what they look like). But that doesn't really matter since I can't get to the shoe rack anyway, because to get to it I'd have to first climb over the shoe tower and then climb over the 11 boxes containing, yes you've got it, shoes.

I recently discover that the following ins't actually true:

I discover this after having bought six pairs in, um, 4-5 weeks. Turns out everything was exactly as it was before I got the shoes and it made no impact on anything apart from my credit card. (Which incidentally got even more abused as I also had to buy new outfits to go with the damn shoes.) And that actually made things worse. Here I am, a bunch of shoes, a massive credit card bill, and the same shit hanging around my neck. (That's a metaphor - just explaining in case you're simple.)

So, I will be shoeless for 184 days. No, that doesn't mean I'll be walking around barefoot, it just means that no new shoes to be purchased for 184 days. A shoe buying embargo. (Though the jury (which will, er, probably be me) hasn't decided yet if someone else can buy the shoes and then I'll give them money...) It has almost been one month already (not counting the little kinda, sorta exchange that may have meant I had to give money to get the shoes - that's not what is entailed in buying, is it?) and I'm beginning to feel this is a really good thing - maybe there will even come a day when I'm not known at work as "the girl with the shoes".

But somehow I'm pretty sure I will come up with a "logical" reason for why I need to buy new shoes before the 184 are over.

The sound of you and me

The sound of you and me is luminous. It’s standing in the front row at a gig, a summer breeze on naked skin through an open window, the buzz from the first draw on a cigarette, The Shining when you’re nine, a flickering candle flame. It’s scintillating. You and me - I like the sound.

The sound of you and me is suspect to others. Or perhaps obvious. We know too much, talk with authority about each other. A conspiratorial closeness is sensed in the way we stand as one and share affection without words. To others we sound like we belong together. And yet, we don’t.

The sound of you and me is silent. A drowsy head resting against a shoulder in a cab on the way home. A hand running through hair. A finger touching a cheek. A kiss. As we undress each other, our clothes whisper secrets as they fall to the floor.  Our eyes screaming the truth, but there is no sound.

The sound of you and me is borrowed. But it’s all I hear.