It's kind of funny

It’s kind of funny how you consider yourself so. It’s kind of funny how you act in such a way that shouldn’t be so. It’s kind of funny that I realized, just a little too late that, you need to be let go.

Yesterday I let go of the past, and today I forgave an old friend. It is kind of funny how things work out, and how they don’t. It’s funny how everything you need to know, comes to you just when you need it to. And how you know that tomorrow will come, but you never know if it will come for you. It’s funny how when winter comes, your partner and you break up and you have no one to snuggle. But in summer, you know your bound to meet someone new, and it will be too hot to spend all day Sunday in bed.

It’s funny how I’m writing this, and the words are coming out, without me even thinking of the words I want to say.  Everything seems, to be super funny today! 

A Spanish Saint.

It seems to me that society has crept up on me. I do not wish to follow, I refuse to be conditioned to the conditioning of my neighbour. These four walls and growing higher as we speak. I am feeling lonely, surrounded by all these people talking their speak. It's clear to me now, that I won’t be free until I’m not here. I need to get away from here, and land somewhere other than there. I want to close my eyes and open them to a place I have never seen before. I want to walk slowly down a footpath in a backstreet of a country I have never been to before, and see faces that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

I need to find myself in his arms. The arms that for so long I rejected. The arms that will strangle any comfort out of me, and position me in a positioning of awkwardness. 

The DOLL HOUSE

Antique porcelain doll existing in a modern-day world. Vintage lover from a long time ago, where oh where is my darling? Cupid… run along, run along, do not fall down that hole. Angel wings, my dear friend, time is precious, can you not see? Running faster, my feet are not moving… I can hear your breathing. Why do you sigh? Your heart is full of thick black ink, Oh yes, I read between those fake words, did your mother never tell you, “Actions speak louder than words?” Yester-year shall come tomorrow, and with bring the sunshine. Open your eyes and see little one, that you are by no means better than me! Hesitance, tut, tut! Say what, you say? An outlandish prank, your lipstick is pink… Ahhhhhh, at last, a smile for me! 

Oh No Little Birdy.

Tick. Tock Tick. Her cherry-red lipstick is imprinted on the wine glass. Her black sequined dress is gleaming glittering quaintness. A grotesque elegance for the blue-eyed girl. His jealousy is prickly and sickening, such a juicy incidence. Shallow and stale, he is nutty and sour. The other is running, backwards and downwards, spiralling straightforward into the nothing. No!... something it itchy, an exuberant mess. Old-fashioned and gentle… red wine spills, this gifted little nonentity is something of the sort, a royal obedient, ripe and ready. Thump! Thump! Thump! ... Laughter is the best medicine. 

Something.

Disconcerted, fatigued, and apprehensive… her bittersweet courageousness is disquieting. Stop! She trembles; it’s exasperating, but this discouraged disgust is somewhat delightful – warm and fuzzy… she feels vague. Suspiciously sympathetic for his malicious fowl play, her critical uncomfort is puzzling, she takes in a lungful of air, she feels queasy. Ah, The wonderful kindliness of an incensed vivacious nothing! 

Reading between the lines, she is caught between the lies that built the walls of their relationship. He stands next to her, but his presence is barely there. He is cold to touch, and his breath maintains an unpleasant smell, built on beer and lies. Her senses are deceptive. She asks herself if she really wants the truth. Maybe life is easier to live as a lie, to believe what we want to be, to be happy, even if somewhat fake, rather than face the facts and unwillingly be attacked by the cold hard hurt we all know love brings.

Fifteen Minutes To Quarter To Four

Feeling so inept so immovable; she is questioning what was ever the point? A reoccurring sequence of little voices inside her head; they are whispering to her so gently of all her greatest fears. Her motionless crawl toward the door consumes her strength inside, before she even got the chance to steal it back from his clenched fists. Her inability is overpowering, it stands over her like he does with those eyes full of abhorrence and antagonism.  She is sitting in the darkest corner of the bedroom, curled up hidden behind their chest of draws, full of his clothing; it stenches of his impossibly accepting scent. She finds serenity in the wall she is banging her head against. She is screaming out for help, begging for something to lift her soul up, but these four walls have no answers. And she would give anything for silence. She can hear him screaming to himself, like those voices inside her head, she is broken down and trying to find a way out, a way out of her own head.