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.