In love with the Ghost.

It's not as if the bowl of mess eventually dries up or evapourates over time. One just learns to clam down so that it doesn't tip over anymore, leaving a trailing mess all over the carpet. It is very pleasant, actually to recognize and embrace the solitary nature of... all this. I feel like it's a dull, quiet, black mass sitting at the bottom of my bowl-shaped heart, going nowhere, and calling out for none. The only irritating thing is that it does take up a little space, leaving less room. 

I guess my point (at the risk of sounding 16) is that you're strong enough to walk this on your own, especially when you feel like no one understands. Because, truth is, they can only be there with and for you, but they will never be you. This is empowering.

I don't like to talk about the things that I know will make you angry, because it makes me sad to see you experience non-happy feelings, at my expense and on my behalf. But I know that means that I hide  away a little, and you'd want that less.

Damn.

Dear neighbour who scrubs clothes early in the morning thus waking everyone up. I hate you.

And it's time that I love.

I talked a little about pain the last time, about looking out for its sources, its purpose and its innate solution. As "Within the infant rind of this small flower/ Poison hath residence, and medicine power... Two such opposed kings encamp them still..." etc etc etc. Today I thought about strength and its different kinds and how it can (and has) evolve(d) within me. To cut a long story short, I thought about the kind of strength I wanted - it is young, it is brave, it is just and, most importantly, it springs from an abundance of joy. It isn't a strength that shields me from the weight of days long past, but one that redeems it. One that turns a cringe to a solemn nod and grave embrace. I want to walk back into the dark rooms and hallways and not have to seek to close the doors. I want, instead, to love. And from that, be truly free to face everything that ever happened and that ever will with all that I am meant to be. 

I think, the fact that I can sort of articulate this, is a little taste of it all. As my TV told me this evening: There is one way to honour a life - forgive yourself.

And they all pretend they're orphans and their memory's like a train, 

You can see it getting smaller as it pulls away. 

And the things you can't remember tell the things you can't forge

That history puts a saint in every dream. 

Well she said she'd stick around until the bandages came off 

But these mamas boys just don't know when to quit. 

And Mathilda asks the sailors "are those dreams or are those prayers?" 

So close your eyes, son, and this wont hurt a bit.

Time :: Tom Waits

I suspect, with the purchase of tinted lip balm, I might be morphing into a girl.

Perhaps a Lady K should write this story.