Just thinking

I inhale, the cold night air chilling my lungs as I gaze from my window. I wonder where this tidal wave of black came from. I find no answers in the still night, watching the rain as it continues its relentless assault on the ground, tiny droplets falling on the hard earth, looking like small falling stars as they catch the light from the street lamps.

I turn from the window, pulling it closed behind me as I return to my desk and the suffocating silence of my room. I glance around, my eyes finally resting on the shelf above my desk. Filled with trinkets and photographs, a reminder of days gone past, a collection of memories. Each photograph a snap shot of a moment. No explanations, just single moments in time, frozen forever. an assortment of toys, bracelets and a tiny treasure chest filled with marbles from my childhood sit alongside. I turn and further investigate the contents of my room. What would this room say about me to a stranger? That I'm short of space? That I'm holding onto my youth with a desperate hand and a sinking sense of loss? Both of these things would be equally true.

When do we become adults? When is it that we finally lose the innocence and joyful ignorance that we carry as a child? When do we become that which we swear in our youth that we will never be? I don't know the answers to these questions, I only know that time eventually claims us and strips away our childhood innocence, leaving us naked and without defence to find our way in the big wide world as a grown up. We build our lives based on all that has befallen us and we stumble blindly through this maze we call life. Making plans that never happen; all kiss sore lips and mascara tears. Broken homes, empty hearts and missing families, green disease and the disappointing assurance that this is the way of the world.

Remembering the things I believed in during the hazy days of summer in the garden of my youth, I wonder if there is a place in the world for such dreams anymore. Something tells me there isn't. We move from childhood dreams into the excesses and expectations of adulthood, never realizing the value of what we leave behind. Demands and the pressure to have it all fall constantly on our shoulders and I wonder if one day anyone but me will realise that it's okay not to have everything and that having enough is worth much more.

Coffee Cups and Notebooks

I glance at the time and with a start, I realise I have just wasted the entire day doing absolutely nothing. I sigh and pick up my cup; the contents are cold and slosh around noisily as I clumsily put it back on the desk. The light from the window has faded and my room is blanketed in shadow. I reach for the lamp in hopes of bringing some light into my little dark corner of the world.

Layers of dust cover the shelves above my desk, fuzzy grey blankets covering up the mementos of years past. Tomorrow, I tell myself, I’ll get out the duster and clear them away. Empty perfume bottles, pretty on the outside but empty inside are lined up on the shelf, half finished song lyrics and a locket that says ‘I love you’ complete the scene.

I never wear the locket anymore, it hangs from my shelf, a grim reminder that pretty words can still lie. Any affection I might have held for the person who gave it to me lost in a fog of deceit and a handful of paper dreams. For a moment I allow myself a trip down memory lane, carefully skirting past the black holes and dark alleys that live there. I search for the tiny golden moments, fresh as the moment they were born, soft around the edges and coloured with the hazy glow of a summer afternoon.

I can’t live in memory alone so with the knowledge of better moments, I send myself hurtling back to reality, landing with a bump as always. A wry smile and the after taste that comes from too many coffees and not enough sleep lingers. I get out my notebook, the soft scratches of my pen against the paper and the smooth flowing ink in stark contrast to the storm that is brewing inside me.

Writing smoothes away the rough edges and I feel the start of a proper smile, soft and sad but a smile all the same. The storm passes and with it and remaining traces of anger I might have felt. The notebook slips from my hand as my eyes close slowly, the sleep I have been denied in the last few days finally reaching out to claim me, soothing me in its warm embrace.

This morning I woke from a dream filled sleep. Not exactly refreshed, more puzzled as I try to decode the fragments of dreams I remember. A cup of coffee and a read through my scribbles from the night before and I’m about ready to face my day.

A butterfly on a string, dreaming of escape, that would be me.

Of Rainfall and Revelations

Today I felt like my heart broke into a million tiny pieces, pieces that will never again fit together to make a whole. Dawning realisation struck me some time mid afternoon, and the knowledge it brought almost floored me with its intensity. I caught my breath and soldiered on, no use crying over what has already past and can’t be changed. With a heavy sigh and the crashing sound of a thousand dreams dying all at once, I put on my makeup and prepared for the show, fake smiles for all, a forced laugh and another round at the bar if you please.

Caught by surprise by the knowledge I suspect I already knew, I choked down another piece of self prescribed poison and allowed myself a single moment to bathe in the glory of self pity. Shiny eyed and full of false cheer, I made my way out into the big wide outside, my bus journey seeming to drag as I made my way into town to complete the load of errands I had been given the task of completing.

I wandered through town, the revelations from earlier in the afternoon still swimming around in my head, taunting me. I gazed at the strangers pushing past me, no longer angry at their rudeness, just sad. Sad for them or me I wondered as I continued making my through the crowds. The rain continued its gentle fall throughout the afternoon, the sky grey and dull as the landscape inside me.

I returned home, my previous state of sadness now replaced with a numb disinterest. A glance at the blank screen of my phone and empty email inbox assuring me that once again, I haven’t missed anything. A sigh and a cup of tea later, I find myself wondering when the universe will let me in on the joke, or if it ever will.

Today I learned that hindsight is both a terrible and beautiful thing. Without it, I would never learn from my mistakes but I have a sneaky suspicion that it exists purely so the universe can let me know it got one over on me yet again.

A butterfly on a string, dreaming of escape, that would be me.

Boxes and Butterflies

I catch my reflection in the inky black pool of my guitars surface: I look tired. I always look tired; I don’t think it’s a lack of sleep, more a tiredness of life and everything that surrounds me. Frustration is common for me these days, as the days blend into one and the frustrations I feel build with every passing moment.

Glancing round at the four walls that have become my prison, I am overwhelmed by the need for escape. The same posters as five years ago adorn the walls and the collection of toys on my shelf sit blanketed in dust that I no longer have the energy to sweep away. A box full of birthday cards, photographs and silly notes is open on the bed. Memories of better times and things lost in the misty grey of the past. I allow myself a smile as I look through the box, breathing in the scent of innocent dreams and long forgotten feelings; I wonder how many more things will find their way into this box and how long I will hang onto it.

Caught in a wave of nostalgia, both unexpected and bittersweet, I catch the tear before it falls, not wanting to bring sorrow into this box that contains all the happy memories I have ever had. Cinema tickets, a bracelet of star beads and a four leaf clover, pieces from a life tinged with sadness and the shadow of monster that refuses to die. I dig around in the bottom of the box, my fingers close around the tiny butterfly charm I thought I had lost. The light dances across its tiny surface as I hold it up. With a smile, I remember the day I got it, warm and hazy and filled with laughter. With a start I realize that this box is filled with not only memories but all the hopes and dreams I once carried.

The box is covered with pictures of butterflies and I suddenly see how often they appear in some form in my life. As a child I was always fascinated by the transformation butterflies underwent, from a tiny ugly caterpillar to a proud and beautiful butterfly. I catch sight of the delicately coloured glass butterflies hanging in my window, catching the light, the colours playing across my walls like miniature moving rainbows. I place the butterfly charm back in the box, laying it to rest with all the other memories, waiting to be rediscovered some other day.

The wave of sadness I’m suddenly engulfed with catches me off guard, I find myself at a loss as I try to rationalize it. With a sigh and a lump in my throat, I find the lid to my little box of memories and place it back under the bed in the space it belongs.

A butterfly on a string, dreaming of escape, that would be me.

Of Friends and Foes

Friends, funny things. You expect them to be there for you when you need it most. Sadly, I found out the hard way, it often doesn't work that way. False friendship is worse than none at all.

Circumstantial friendships,

Draw blood with blunted teeth,

Eat deep inside my coffin walls,

Live long inside my grief,

Enchanted distributor,

Spill vicious lies and bile,

Wait patiently destroyer,

For painted lips to smile,

Illuminated wonder,

Come shine your light on me,

Give me eyes to breathe again,

And a heart so I can see.

A butterfly on a string, dreaming of escape, that would be me.

Facebook the Destroyer

It dawned on me, the day I collected my things, that he was never going to be able to make this work. Overwhelmed by this sudden realization, I stumbled for a moment before righting myself and continuing my lonely walk to the train station. Just this once, perhaps the only time ever, it was not me who was in the wrong.

I walk down the hill, tears blurring my vision and I’m not sure if I’m crying for what was, or what could have been. I dig in my pockets for a tissue, the stares I am getting from people passing me by tell me I’m really not hiding my tears very well. My vision is distorted and everything looks like it's underwater, as tears continue to stream down my face in a seemingly never ending flood of emotion.For a moment, I think about turning back and demanding answers but I know I will never get them. He is too wrapped up in himself to think about what he might have done to me. I walk on, weighted down with the troubles of a lifetime and a bag filled with memories.

Some hours later I find myself at home and now the anger is creeping in. I can’t understand why this happened; I can’t understand why he would do something so cold. Even a phone call would have been better than what he did. I bite down on the rage, knowing that it won’t get me anywhere. My hands are curled round the handle of the bag I brought home with me, knuckles white against the inky blackness. I let go of the bag, the rush of blood to my hands making them tingle and I slump into my chair, the liveliness and enthusiasm I had found within myself a few weeks prior to this washed away in a sea of bitterness and disappointment.

With a somewhat greyer view now settling on me, I sit quietly, knowing that I cannot hold onto this anger forever. I hear the ticking of the bedside clock, a slow reminder that time will not wait for me. My eyes are swollen from crying and I feel the tiredness I always get after it washing over me, settling on me like a blanket, warm and fuzzy in its familiarity.

It dawns on me suddenly, I don’t miss the man, I miss the man I thought he was and with this thought I settle myself for sleep, ready to dream of a better life, without the sorrows of the evening or the sorrows that may still be to come.

A butterfly on a string, dreaming of escape, that would be me.

Music......

Music, no other thing in my life can transport me the way it does. From the delicate strains of classical pieces, to the ear crushingly loud anger of thrash metal, there is no other thing that can move me the way music does. From a young age, I always felt drawn music, drawn to the passion and the feeling behind it. From singing childish rhymes in the garden, to singing along with my favourite bands from the sweaty, heaving crowd of a concert, I have never felt as alive as in those moments.

I used to be a singer as a child, full of confidence and song. As years past, I lost this confidence, never quite realising what I would be missing. Imagine a bird without song, still able to fly, still beautiful in its own way but lacking that special something that made it complete. I feel like that bird,without song and trapped in cage that has no door. I came to realise, that though I may be without a song of my own, the songs of others would take me on journeys to places I could only dream of. In recent years, I have taught myself to play various instruments in the vain hope of finding my song again. I live in hope that one day it will return to me and fill me with the same delights I remember.

For now I satisfy myself with the output of others, I let the words and the music wash over me and just for an instant, I can see into the worlds of other people, feel their pain and share in their sorrows and joys. In these moments, I am taken to another place: a place somewhat different to the one I occupy. I live for the excitement of opening up a new CD, staring down at the untouched surface of the disc, breathing in the smell of new paper and plastic. Should I read the covers? Appreciate the artwork? No, these things can wait, the music is there waiting for me and like a mythical beast waiting for a fresh virgin to appear on the rocks, I must satisfy my hunger. For me, there is no thrill like that of hearing a new band for the first time. From the opening strains of the first song, to the final notes of the last, the joy I find in these windows into other worlds cannot be matched.

I have no doubt that music shall remain a great passion in my life for many years to come. For this, I am truly grateful, for without passion we are loveless and without love, we are less than we should be.

A butterfly on a string, dreaming of escape, that would be me.

This place, this prison

I take a walk down my street and with a sinking heart and the ever present feeling of disappointment that seems my only friend here, I look around.I spy fallen litter bins and a flurry of activity as the contents race down the street without care. I pause for a moment, watching as they spiral, rising and falling with the wind and I wonder how it would feel to fly away. I look to my left and see the now familiar sight of broken glass,torn newspapers and dirty nappies, piled without thought at the side of the wall. I think about picking them up as I pass but instead I walk on, filled with the knowledge that if I did, there would be another pile there tomorrow to replace it. No cares it seems, as the grass by the roads grows higher every day and the flowers that once bloomed here are choked by the increasing tangle of weeds now carpeting this place.

I hear shouts as I walk, the same tired insults and pleas for attention that are a constant source of noise here. I wonder if anyone else notices the dull, concrete grey that makes up this jungle we call home. Moving unnoticed through the streets, I watch an elderly woman struggle with bags too heavy for her frail hands and I offer to help, spurred on by some desire to make a difference, no matter how small. I recoil at the terror in her eyes, are we all such monsters now that the only reaction I get is fear and suspicion?

I keep walking, my former desire to do a good deed washed away in a sea of despair. The scent here never changes: sour beer, sweat and desperation clinging to every corner. A young mother passes, barely out of her teens and dressed to kill, she looks tired as she tries to tend to the needs of the three young children she has with her. A shout and a slap silences one of them for all of a minute before his wails echo down the street like a car alarm, as annoying as it is repetitive. No one looks or thinks twice, this is the soundtrack for the estate, the song that guides its inhabitant’s home. She pushes onwards, the youngest child dirty but sleeping in its pushchair, holding tightly to the threadbare blanket that barely covers up the bruises that trail across its tiny white legs. No shoes or socks or even trousers, just a blanket to shield it from the wind and the rain that has just started to fall.

A walk past the local shops, takeaway after takeaway lining the street. A pregnant woman hangs out of one of the doorways, puffing on a cigarette, her cut off top barely concealing the weight of her swollen stomach as she drags deeply on the stick of tar she holds in her hand. Does she know what she is doing to the unborn child inside her? Does she care? I turn away, not wanting her to see the look of sadness that crosses my face as she throws down her finished cigarette and reaches into her pocket for another. She leaves the takeaway laden with bags, food enough for all the family. No cookery required here, just a menu and a phone number.

I make a turn and head for home, the light is fading and with growing unease, I quicken my pace so as not to get caught outside after dark. I hear the rumble of motorcycles, the giddy, intoxicated laughter of the local teens, the drink fuelled start of the mating calls that follow and I wonder if there is such a thing as innocence anymore. I pick my way through the carpet of glass and discarded pushchairs, sad reminders of the fact that there is nothing here for me anymore. I find myself staring through a break in the clouds and wonder who watches from the sky, if anyone at all.

I wonder if I’m the only one who dreams of escape or if the strength for such a thing is merely illusion, washed away with the bitter taste of too many beers and not enough love.

A butterfly on a string, dreaming of escape, that would be me.