
I watch the snow drifting pale on pale through a sky yawning grey in an endless expanse of forever, rooftops bleeding white on white and drifting lost ghosts in the sleeting grip of a winter never ending. The candle on the mantelpiece flickers vanilla thoughts into the quiet of a house breathing dusk into my eyes.
I sip Irish-laced coffee, closing tired eyes and allowing the hot need to slip down my throat and warm the shivering spirit which cowers in the dark corner of a soul gone dark.
I have changed.
The past four years have laid an indelible mark of pain along the long line of thought and hope that once was me. Sometimes, I marvel at how knowledge can become so physically corporeal so as to scar forever marks of knowing on a mind that once believed it knew truth.
I find it gently ironic that his marks have left permanent scars on a soul shut down, scored and marked forever this life with his words and the sting of his repudiation while my back remains a pale expanse of skin, lightly freckled, warm and throbbing, smooth and untouched and only the fading memories of warm lashes and delicious sting of his once caring to sustain.
I look back over centuries of agony seared into the psyche of stupidity personified in someone who should have had the sense to know better. I miss that innocent child, the one who believed that connections like ours were inviolable and forever and in the comfort of promise drew dreams of a reality thought authentic.
I struggle to forgive the silliness that engendered 30 years of belief in a dynamic I though immutable.
The fragrance of coffee, laced with the essence of my childhood, wafts in the quiet of my thoughts and I drift, eyes unfocused, losing myself in the shadows of remembered moments. Snow stings memory against the gauze of maybe and my eyes storm drifts into the morass of conflicted thoughts which gather ache into a rumbling mess of confusion.
I have changed.
I stretch, muscles of remembered freedom, thrust upon me, denied and shorn of strength, but wakening slowly, reluctantly but in the reality of the now, inevitable.
For when all is said and done, I am a warrior.
It is as if I have been suspended in a waking dream of possibility and passionate belief and now the crassness of real day has crashed into and shattered into a thousand pieces the fantasy of life lived and pulled me into the harsh light of the now.
I lay my cheek against the cool pane of glass and let my eyes flutter and drift with the sleeting winter tears, separated from the fragile skin of me only by a thin line of defence, as fragile and delicate as a breath and mourn the death of my submission.
I sip Irish-laced coffee, closing tired eyes and allowing the hot need to slip down my throat and warm the shivering spirit which cowers in the dark corner of a soul gone dark.
I have changed.
The past four years have laid an indelible mark of pain along the long line of thought and hope that once was me. Sometimes, I marvel at how knowledge can become so physically corporeal so as to scar forever marks of knowing on a mind that once believed it knew truth.
I find it gently ironic that his marks have left permanent scars on a soul shut down, scored and marked forever this life with his words and the sting of his repudiation while my back remains a pale expanse of skin, lightly freckled, warm and throbbing, smooth and untouched and only the fading memories of warm lashes and delicious sting of his once caring to sustain.
I look back over centuries of agony seared into the psyche of stupidity personified in someone who should have had the sense to know better. I miss that innocent child, the one who believed that connections like ours were inviolable and forever and in the comfort of promise drew dreams of a reality thought authentic.
I struggle to forgive the silliness that engendered 30 years of belief in a dynamic I though immutable.
The fragrance of coffee, laced with the essence of my childhood, wafts in the quiet of my thoughts and I drift, eyes unfocused, losing myself in the shadows of remembered moments. Snow stings memory against the gauze of maybe and my eyes storm drifts into the morass of conflicted thoughts which gather ache into a rumbling mess of confusion.
I have changed.
I stretch, muscles of remembered freedom, thrust upon me, denied and shorn of strength, but wakening slowly, reluctantly but in the reality of the now, inevitable.
For when all is said and done, I am a warrior.
It is as if I have been suspended in a waking dream of possibility and passionate belief and now the crassness of real day has crashed into and shattered into a thousand pieces the fantasy of life lived and pulled me into the harsh light of the now.
I lay my cheek against the cool pane of glass and let my eyes flutter and drift with the sleeting winter tears, separated from the fragile skin of me only by a thin line of defence, as fragile and delicate as a breath and mourn the death of my submission.