alicia_h: (Default)
There's no use worrying about the weather outside right now. The spring is coming in sneakily as summer but we have to put up with the rain in between bouts of bright sunshine.

Autumn and winter passed isolated from me in my depressed state. I suppose it helped moving somewhere slightly new. I hope not for a simple circle of seasons now but something more akin to a spiral. Perhaps one with corners that stand out even to my dulled brain.

Without a spark is there anything worth putting down. Of course there is but there needs to be a fire to blaze so strongly that the light and heat must escape somewhere it can leave its mark when the initial flame has died. I'm surprised though to find that I keep finding embers that have not quite died. They invite me to stoke them back to life. It won't be the same fire it was at first but I must remember it will be born from the ashes and will find the fuel the old one failed to find.

Under the lighthouse I've found treasures that make my heart ache for the person who lost them. The door is closed to all who would pry. The window I see high above me is cracked from some unknown trauma inflicted either from the inside or out. Her little sister still lines up after all these years. If I could have only discovered the secrets of the modern Pharos.

I've discovered I cannot function without something on in the background. Radio, audiobooks and music. It has been the same for me since the start when it came to me on cassette tapes that are long gone, even the mystery version of Pandora's story where the horrors of the world had insect wings that fluttered against the box's lid and voices that begged and wheedled to be set free.
My room torments me when it gets into a state and yet it takes me days before I can see a way to cut through the mess. Now I need to teach myself to throw things away. It's hard for me but I must learn this lesson before I start thinking it's a good idea to hang on to real rubbish. But where do I draw the line when I still have scribbled notes for a course I will not be returning to.

And the books. So many books and I'm always buying and borrowing more. Is my stepmum right to despair?
alicia_h: (Default)
The tears I shed for you were the ones I shed with you. I'll share this with you too, that we were together in spirit and soul as siblings as much as lovers for there were times we were closer than friends but did not consummate that closeness.

The storm carried us away until we were lost, tossed upon the seas, swept up in the waves. Another time I walked in the snow until it was so thick upon the world that I could not distinguish a single landmark or find my way home. I always preferred being lost to knowing every step of the way instinctively.

The water is wide, I cannot get over. Not yet, not without our boat we bought together and row it in harmony until we reach the other side. That oak tree we carved our full names on as children when we played at being engaged for the first time and optimistically double-barrelled our names at 7 and 9 still stands as a testament to the falseness of childhood fantasies of romance.

Sorrow follows me everywhere I choose to wander, dogs my trudging footsteps everywhere I'm forced to flee in the direction of. The sand records my slowing steps for the briefest time as I walk towards the sea. The waves threaten to erase my most recent progress long before they can wash away my old traces that they can use to follow me easily. It is a constant race against the water.

If I can turn back and jump on a train now, I could be somewhere new by nightfall. Somewhere old perhaps. I have not been home in nearly half a decade now, not really home in any sense that I intend to stay there. I can outrun the sunset if I can only catch up to the chugging train.

When I sent our children away, I told you and myself that it was all for their own good. They must learn to fend for themselves. It wasn't even for themselves, not when you really think on it. They got their food and beds and education handed to them. They had it far better than we had ever hoped to. We weren't to know what would happen out there. We weren't to know what would happen over here either. I've called to them at nights countless times. They grow impatient with me. Their voices tell me to hush. They tell me to let them be.

When their apparitions visit me, I am shocked by their filthy faces, clear in the candlelight. They tell me I am imagining it. They are completely clean, they tell me. The rain that pours relentlessly through the hole in the ceiling washes it all away as we stand there. We are all new now. Even you and me.

The children's visits are proof of that. They don't even cry these days.
alicia_h: (Water)
Responding to this exercise to generate ideas for NaNoWriMo:

wordplay of all kinds
incongruous images

feeling lonely or seeing or thinking of someone who is lonely or frightened
feeling that people I know have changed
perhaps feeling that I've forgotten how to relate to people
the uncertainty of the future (two years at university and now I may be forced to pursue a different path)

friendships and relationships (romantic, intellectual and physical)
-loss and end of friendship
-forging friendships

loneliness and isolation

labyrinthine houses (haunted, of course)
sprawling secret passages
mirrors and reflections (long ago dream of my mum threatening to send me to the mirror garden)
automatons, robots, artificial intelligence, sentient computers
black holes and stars and space travel imagined and possible
weird time effects and time travel
mathematical mysteries
quantum cat
alicia_h: (Science)
one world there
one world not
one world remembered
one world forgot
one man happy
one man sad
one man appreciating what
one man never had

light all the lights that never were here
secure all the locks
and leave the cat to uncertain fate
sealed within your lead-lined box

inspired by a Wytch, the Doctor and that Cat
alicia_h: (Default)
maid in the mirror
reflection of my sin on a sinless face
my secret fades as slow as the crawl and carry of time
the leaves redden, braving the approaching winter with autumn battle colours
crawl and change of time
she stares
blankly expectant
horrific truth and honesty yet to be given
fear of inevitable exposure long promised
inexorable crawl and carry of time, changing by the tick, forever honest, forever lying
in his arms
my fear
hear fear
his fear yet unknown
forgotten honesty
mine he was mine
never the years
never the fears
never the primrose promises
guessed his answer never sought
promised unasked and never bought
bring my own
within this room
within this body
within the silence
within my womb

written in response to:

(7 minutes rather than twenty)

with the help and accompaniment of these Blackmore's Night songs )


alicia_h: (Default)

September 2017

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