An Unfamiliar Present

She feels strange. There is something unfamiliar about the present place she is in. She is not used to this kind of present, and to her, that is a little worrying.

     She is not used to being okay.

That says a thing or two about her, about her past, about her life. She has grown accustomed to the feeling of not-okay. And now the feeling of okay is back and she does not recognize it - or she didn't, not right away. She's not sure how to treat the appearance of okay. As an old friend, with a hug of acceptance and welcome? As a temporary respite that she will have to hold onto, and that she will eventually lose again for a while?

     How long will this present last?

If it lasts, she feels that she could begin to understand how the here-and-now could be a gift - what we call the present could, for once, live up to its namesake. But then again, if this old friend okay does not last, she wonders if it's worth it. If okay is only here to build up new hope that will only be crushed anew, is it worth it?

     She hopes so.

Terrible Words

   Half of her shelf is filled with books. Half of her shelf is littered with words scrawled on scattered papers, words that she wrote down just to get them out. When they stay inside too long, she chokes on them. They make her lungs stutter for breath until she can take in the essence of ink on paper and find breath again.

   Words have been described as beautiful, crucial, and indispensable. Words have been described as necessary and incredible, words have been loved and cherished and clung to for dear life. But the truth that she sees is that words

     are terrible.

   Not terrible in the sense that the words themselves are evil or ghastly or horrendous, but in the sense that they are nightmarish. They pressure her to write them; they drive her to abandon other passions in surrender of them -

     of words.

   Words hold her captive while demanding to be released, contradicting and arguing all in the name of expression through her lips and fingers. Words are powerful, they emanate and shake with untold secrets of strength. Will they save this time, or destroy? Will they take her to joy or anger? They harness a power that cannot always be controlled, and that instills in her true fear. Why take the risk of pain when there is the alternative of not using the power at all? She could just stay silent on the sidelines, as she so often does, but sometimes, so often, the pressure

     is too much to resist.

   Half of her shelf is filled with books of clear plot and path and purpose, and the other half is cluttered with unfinished thoughts and indecipherable ideas. When she tries to bring the two halves of shelf together, she ends up with only a strange, enchanting mess that she can never quite set straight. She wants to know:

     Does that mean that the words are meant for her alone?

Or is she allowed to rearrange them in an attempt to share them half-understandably with the world?

   There is always the half chance that her words will inspire something beautiful, but paired with the other half chance that they will wreak havoc in their terror, is it worth it to take the risk? Where will this expression through lips and fingers take her,

     if anywhere at all?

   This she asks of the letter-masters, of the word-whisperers and the sentence-sewers: is there gratification and worth in a pursuit of taming even a small amount of this power? Is there even the slightest chance of victory for her? Will she drown in the power of the terrible words, or will their beauty shine forth, shine true, and bring her to a place of half goodness? Half of her shelf is filled with books, and the other half is filled with dangerous words, and it lies with her to decide

     on whether she can keep them to herself.

Falling Into Place

It is easy for her to imagine that with a simple future accomplishment; the reaching of a goal; everything will fall into place. Everything will be as she has always hoped it would be.

     Easy.

          Pleasurable.

               Perfect.

Even though she knows that's a lie.

There must come a point in the future where she realizes, fully and with life-altering surety, that nothing ever all falls into place. Some future achievement does not guarantee the safety and security of a happy future she has always dreamed of having. There will always be pain. There will always be hardship. There will always be more to strive for.

Yes, she realizes that now, but it is a matter of mind versus heart. She knows reality and what really is. But it is difficult to convince herself that the happiness proclaimed in Hollywood adaptations of life and the way everything falls into place once Protagonist's goal(s) has/have been achieved is not. A mentality that is thrown at her from every single angle since the very beginning stages of childhood, that once the movie comes to an end and Protagonist solves the problem, everything falls into place. Protagonist's life falls into order. Happiness is achieved. Love is fulfilled and free of negativity. Life

     is perfect.

          But no.

Struggle and pain are a part of the natural order. Life is a series of ups and downs, of joys and sorrows, of pleasures and pains, and there is no point somewhere in the middle where she will reach the top and stay there. That is not how it works. That is not real. She realizes this. She believes it. But there is a difference between realization, belief, and knowing.

     Realization implies stunned surprise.

          Belief implies faith, not necessarily based on what is obvious.

               Knowing carries her past realization and belief to awareness, surety, and acceptance.

That is where she is trying to go, and that is where she cannot seem to get. This hope she has that reality will come crashing down, revealed to be some cruel joke, passing the stage to the glamour and beauty of fiction and make-believe, is a hope unquenchable. A hope unbeatable. If only she could just stop hoping, she might be able to learn to know the truth of reality.

     She realizes it.

          She believes it.

               But said quite simply, it is something that she does not want to know.

Burgundies, Purples, and Plaids

She sometimes looks at her life as though through the eyes of another; as though it could belong to someone else. She notices patterns. Clothes of the same few shades and colours. Mostly blues, reds, burgundies, purples, plaids. What draws her to them? What part of her subconscious makes her choose so many of the same?

There is a story there, somewhere within her and buried in her past, that determines these patterns so camouflaged in her life. She wonders what parts of that story intertwine to form those patterns. She wonders when the patterns started, and what triggered them. She wonders how her own life choices were strung together, because she has fully lost track and does not expect to ever regain her way. There is an explanation out there somewhere, perhaps hidden under more layers than are possible to rifle through, but she does not know it. As far as the idea of knowing oneself,

     she is at a bit of a loss.

Why is a toasted blueberry bagel nostalgic of brightness, and a packed box the symbol of terror? Why is an airplane inducing of excitement; a train the promise of adventure; while the winding, narrow, bustling streets of a busy city are cause for worry?

     When did tea become comfort over chocolate?

          How did books become more company than Man?

When did 'friend' become a difficult, impossible word, while hate rose on wings of freedom to the height of dominance? How did patient and compassionate warp to reveal the cynicism

     and anger 

           beneath?

                What turned death to fascination and life to meaningless drawl?

But at the same time...when did nature become her epitome of inspiration? When was her perception of beauty altered to include so much more than before? When did she learn to appreciate all those little things; the little happenings, the little words; that pulled her through the overwhelming harshness of big things? How did blind faith change from an impossibility to her daily choice, and when did it become just a little

     easier?

She does not see any progression through all of her questions, and she does not see a pattern pointing toward any answers. But she sees the underlying repetition of routine, tied with comforts and terrors that she has unleashed upon herself, upon her own life. She sees her character and her personality emerging in a tangle of contradictions, and a string of patterns, that she cannot make sense of - nor should she try. If she is a walking, talking mass of contradictions, then she will express that through her pattern of living, regardless of whether or not she knows the reasoning behind it.

     And since when was she an element of reason?

Etiquette

Etiquette went against every fibre in her being as the bane of rebellious souls. The posh, pompous, uppity attitude crushed the feeling of freedom and aroused in her the fleeting feeling of confidence that would drive her to defy taught regulation. The all-knowing, all-seeing restrictions burned her enough that she felt strong enough to rise in defiance.

     A shame that it was such a fleeting thing.

Those rebellious outbursts gave her the sensation of being alive, even lively, and free of these all-consuming obsessions with criticism. They granted her the brief illusion of a powerful and confident character that she so longed to be brave enough to embody.

     Why couldn't she attain it?

Rebellion is either seen as powerful or obnoxious, and for those very special moments of brazenness, she couldn't care less which impression she displayed.

     So much like confidence.

Why is confidence in her and those like her seen as obnoxious, overbearing, self-absorbed, haughty? Why not self-discovering? Inspiring? Contagious? Or for the sake of all that's good in the world, encouraging and spirit lifting?

Does it have to be seen as disgusting? Is that all that narrow-mindedness can rage on about? Must her confidence be seen as detering, while her lack thereof is spit upon as weakness?

She cannot win if that's the case, against such pompous-bellied, hideous, wharmongering.

This desperate cling to tradition and etiquette is a guide to misery, depression, and suicide, and if that is not evident enough to you now, then when will it be?

When she - when anyone and everyone - has lost all self-respect? When they rush to pitch themselves off bridges in droves? Can you not see what you are crushing within her - within them all?; the hearts being stilled and the breaths being silenced?

     She is not your pawn.

          You have. No. Entitlement.

So why would her confidence be a threat to you at all?

     She is not yours to possess.

          You are not the focus.

So where in hell did you ever gather that impression? How the hell did you ever become so misguided?

When she rises up again with the confidence to stand tall before you and never submit; never kneel; what then? Because it will happen, as it has with so many more before her, and you can be certain that she will not. Back. Down.

Her Confidence

She is the definition of inconsistency; a fighter one minute and reduced to cowering in tears in the dark the next. Brimming with excitement and promise at the sound of praise, until the encouragement fades from her mind and her doubts get the better of her. Confidence is said to be in high-heels and vibrant makeup, but she doesn't have the confidence to wear them. She doesn't have the confidence to be confident while wearing them.

What is she a part of?

     A circus?

          A stage?

               Some grand demonstration where everyone watches and criticizes but forgets that even performers have actual feelings and emotions in effect at every moment of every day?

She listens because she can hear, but she believes the doubts and the criticism for different reasons. Because her mind is geared to think that she's not good enough.

     She will never be good enough.

          She cannot. Be. Good enough.

               And it hurts.

There is a longing for confidence there, within her, pounding on the inner cage of her consciousness. There is an eternal longing to let go. To stop doubting. To start moving forwards, brimming with confidence and promise and a brightness in her eyes.

     But the light has gone out.

There are no matches, there's no flint and steel to kindle a flame behind that confidence. She doesn't know where to look. She doesn't know where to find it. An inner mantra goes only surface deep; she doesn't have the confidence to believe her own words. Outward encouragement and appreciation spurs her forwards only as long as her doubts don't tackle her right back to the ground again. Belief is hard to come by, except for the basis of her mentality:

     She is not good enough.

          She will never be good enough.

               She cannot be good enough.

                    And it hurts.

But where did that belief stem from?

For her on those days...

     ...when her body makes her feel like her internal organs are imploding and she bleeds accordingly

You have nothing to be ashamed of.

     On days when her mood has more dips than a swing dance and even just the thought of roller coasters make her nauseous.

You are well within your rights to be disgruntled.

     On those days when she can't eat for groaning and she can't sit upright long enough to see the food on the table.

Your pain is valid and you may cry accordingly.

     On those days when she feels like being murdered and she contemplates the murder of any unfortunate soul in the vicinity.

You do not - should never - need to apologize for something natural and beyond your control.

     On those days when she feels filthy and ashamed and thinks the subject is taboo with anyone other than her closest lady friends.

Scream your affliction in the faces of all and blatantly refuse to apologize.

     She is no more appreciative of her menstrual cycle than the rest of the world, but she is condemned once a month for being born as she is. She can't talk about it for shame, and she claims instead to be feeling ill. They all shy away in fear of contagion, and inwardly she scoffs and scorns:

"Oh you fools, if only you knew. This is no disease, this is my life. Please, run, as far as you can, before I tear your faces from your skulls to remove your scrutiny."

     She doesn't need the added attention, nor does she want the abandonment. And we wonder why her mood swings so far?

     "It's not so bad"? "Just deal with it"? She'd like to see you try. And not just once, but for months. Month, after month, after month; knowing, waiting, dreading, and having no escape.

     On those days when her body is ravaged by cramps, and the aftermath of the Battle of the Somme makes its horridly crimson appearance, this is for her. 

Are You Okay?

She thought she was okay yesterday. And then today, okay was a whole three universes away. She had forgotten that okay was a very temporary thing. Okay didn't like to stay; to hang around and catch up on the not-so-okay that it missed in absence. It left before things got not-so-okay and then showed up again right on cue.

So how could she forget just how temporary it was?

Okay was heartless. Okay was cowardly. Why did she want to be okay in the first place? She couldn't remember. She couldn't remember, and that was precisely why. After she forgot, okay looked like the picture of perfection; the image of redemption; her only aspiration of any value anymore. Okay was the plain that she needed to be on, and she was leagues below in the less-than-okay, less-than-happy, and far less than where she needed to be. She was always looking up, looking on, at the trail of claw marks and scratches, and blood and sweat and tears, trailing after okay in its treacherous wake.

She thought she was okay yesterday and then okay abandoned her and left her drowning under the crushing waves of reality. There is up and there is down, and then there is a state of stagnant limbo smack in between, and the only state that is worth staying in is up. But that is impossible. Up requires down. Down requires up. Limbo is just a phase that happens somewhere in the middle, when up and down are slow in coming. Limbo is almost worse than down.

Limbo is hollow and empty, like a pair of lungs holding their breath at one stable level. Limbo doesn't move up or down; limbo doesn't breathe. If there's anything she fears more than falling down, it's staying still and giving up on breathing for a day. Giving up on moving. Giving up on living. She cannot deal with the feeling that there is nothing in a day worth doing; nothing in an hour worth trying; nothing in a minute worth thinking; nothing in a second worth seeing. She does not want to feel nothing; she does not want to feel like she cannot move because her body and her mind tell her that there is no point. She cannot stand the feeling when her own consciousness and subconsciousness alike turn against her and freeze her in place for what feels like an unfeeling eternity.

The better the up, the better. The worse the down, the better. Because nothing is worse than floating in a suffocating pool of nothingness, knowing that there is more than this; knowing that there is less; and feeling like there is no reason to fight for or against either anymore.

She thought she was okay yesterday, and then okay slowly dissolved into nothingness and she couldn't even claw for it back anymore, because nothing was worth it. And there are few things less okay than worthlessness.

Her.

She is delicate on the best of days; shattered on the worst. Her heart trudges through the murky days until she rockets to the skies for the briefest of respites, and then gravity drags her back down into the pitch black of life. She bounces back again, and away, all over the place. She never settles. But she sometimes stops, when the murk drags her down and freezes her limbs so terribly that she cannot bring herself to move them again. And then something, or someone, pushes her forwards and she jerks through the sticky mess to clamber out again, filthy and worn from the weary trudge. There is always a way to come clean, and eventually she feels

     Renewed.

She travels up and down from the height of bubbling laughter to the low of wrenching tears all in the span of a few seconds' time, when she loses control of everything, or rather of the illusion that she ever controlled anything

     At all.

She is terrified of the unknown; she cannot stand the out-of-her-hands though her hands are always too full to hold anything else anyways. She grasps at bright possibilities and claws away the shadowy predictions, and she sometimes falls and ends up scratched, battered, and bruised as a result. She runs too fast and tires out, and then she moves so slowly that she never wants to start running again. She can't stand standing still and she can't move to move on; there's always something to get in her way. Often times it's

     Herself.

She's been broken and glued back together more times than she cares to count, and the half-patched cracks and scratches always seem to throb and sting with memory of a painful past she wished she could forget. And if the cracks were to heal, then the scars would be there still to remind her. The moves she tries to make to change are painful. They stretch the scratches and widen the cracks, pulling at her from every agonizing direction all at one time until she curls up and cries and wishes the pain away, again

     and again,

          and again,

               and again.

She's out of sorts and out of luck, but she never believed in luck anyway. Fate and destiny have always been questionable because it was always her choices that got her from here to there, and now her choices are too hard to choose from. She hates decisions but she want to move, and to move she has to make that choice, with her tired limbs and her mind full of protests; she must choose to move against every cell and every fibre

     Of her being.

Except for that small part of her that still resists, because it is and always has been there, and it always pushes back at the dark, dank pain that consumes the rest of her. She hasn't stopped altogether yet, and that small part of her is still there, fighting. There is a point, and she knows it. There is an end; a result; and she can feel it. There is a light somewhere, up there, up ahead, and always,

     always,

          she can see it.

She is delicate on the best of days; shattered on the worst. Her heart trudges through the murky days until she rockets

     Far from earth.