honest truth…

I write about being released and someone else having control over me… That’s bullshit. Honestly. They can’t have control if I don’t give it to them willingly. The cage I am in is one I built for myself. They cannot not release me if they aren’t aware of their grip on me. They cannot give up their control if they don’t know how throughout it is. What was I thinking?! Where did this feeling of being trapped in something or by someone come from? I guess it comes from that place that doesn’t want responsibility. It comes from that place that doesn’t want to acknowledge that, ultimately, I am the one in control. I never lost control – well, apart from losing control over my emotions and my depression.

My entire writing of these last years seems to be based on an emotion that is a lie. Yes, most of my writing is fiction. But some of it is not. I don’t regret my words nor my actions. But wow… Can I be an overwhelming person. My apologies, if I overwhelmed you. I overwhelm myself all the time, too.

Fuck me… What a bunch of crap you can find on this site… some emotional stripteases too… and some very powerful pleas for something – anything. But is is my space. My place you are visiting. And I am allowed to take up a certain amount of space for myself

With lots of too heavy emotions,

Cathy

music that pulls at the right strings

Music… where to begin? It used to be my happy and safe place. That’s what favourite musicians and bands do. They make you feel safe. You see them live – 1-2-3 times, maybe even more. Safe. Always safe. Until you don’t feel comfortable anymore. Until you listen to that voice, you heard so many times whisper in your ears, becoming a distorted and uncomfortable torture. I never thought the day would come when music equals torture. When the soundtrack of your life, of your formative years, becomes the sound of your deepest sorrow.

Now, where did that come from? It comes from a dark place. A place I have been before and where I am headed to again. I was advised to not write and think for a while. I was advised to write it all out and not think for a while. Of course, I am headstrong, and I am doing what I want. What I need. I write and think. That’s what I do.

I thought it was a good idea to take this week off. I thought there would be wounds to nurse. I didn’t know they would feel like this. I don’t like to be ignored, rejected, invisible. But it seems that I am. I know that you see me right now. But that’s not what I mean. When we say that we aren’t seen, we have someone in mind who is supposed to see us. To hear our silent screams. When we reach out, it doesn’t matter who tries to catch us, if it is not the person we want us to catch, we are still falling. And falling. And falling.

The other day Nate Maingard (look him up if you don’t know him, great guy) wrote a blog post titled “The only thing missing in my life is me” and I thought, bloody hell, I know these feelings so much, I am kind of feeling them right now. If everything is perfect, why don’t I feel perfect? Why do I feel like a fraud? Why do I feel as if I am failing at life? Why do I feel as if I don’t belong? Why am I ruining this? Why am I ruining me? And then, I read this tweet:

And, Aiden is right, you know? He does great work with a clothing brand. He gives half of the proceeds he gets from In Music We Trust to a charity. Mind Charity. They care about mental illness in the UK. An important cause. So yes, he is right. No matter how dark it is and how blind I am… I made it through it all. And even if it looks as if I am not doing anything, I am not giving up.

And as I took a drag of my Luckies, I had to laugh. Out loud. Here I am. In my guest room. On the couch. Music in my ears. A book next to me. My phone close by in case someone wanted to reach me (and what do you know – of course, work calls while I am off…). There is an incense stick burning down… And I am doing what I am doing. I am being hard on myself. On top of that, I only smoke when I am not well, and it is self-sabotage, isn’t it? It’s like I know that it is destroying me and not good for me – and yet, I am doing it. But it is better than cutting my skin. Isn’t it? It’s been two weeks since I last felt the need to carve a memory into my skin. A memory that didn’t happen and that sits at my wrist now as a pink reminder that it didn’t happen. I have regrets, and I don’t have any regrets. There are reasons life happens the way it does. Maybe it wasn’t the right time for that memory to be made just yet.

A memory that was made last week was when I went to a concert of Anathema in Luxembourg. I went on my own. For the first time ever I went to a thing with a big crowd all by myself. It was scary as fuck to be there. At the same time, I was proud of myself for going. I mean, I am 34 and confident enough to take the space I need. I saw a good gig. I enjoyed myself, as much as I could. I stood in the back, between the mixing desk and a pillar. All without a drink. It was a clean experience. For a moment, I felt a complete lack of emotions. Scary for someone as emotional as me, right? I felt disconnected in a way. None of my favourite songs was played, maybe that was a reason too, but who am I to complain? These guys have played 50 shows, 11 in a row. And still, they are performing and doing what they do. And then they played The Beginning and the End – still not my most favourite song (again, who am I to complain about their setlist when a band plays for two hours straight?!), but it was the most amazing that night (for me). And as I left the venue with the crowd, I heard people talk. Some were disappointed and ripped everything apart – from the sound to the energy on stage, to the guitarist smoking without a care (and honestly, who fucking cares about that?! Let him smoke all he wants). Some were on that high you only get when you see the most amazing and brilliant music being played on stage. Me, I felt emotionless. I walked through the cold November rain and sat in my car for a while. I just sat there. And I waited. I can’t say what I was waiting for. But I watched the rain on my front window. I watched cars leaving the parking lot. And I was paralysed. My mind was totally blank. And I began to cry. Another good ten minutes passed before I finally was on my drive back home. I didn’t listen to Anathema then. I listened to Tim Buckley. Couldn’t have chosen anything more different… Goodbye and Hello.

Yes, memories were made that night. None of them was immortalised in a picture. It’s all in my head.

Being is hard. Existing is hard. Breathing feels like suffocating sometimes. It really does. But through it all – I am still there. I trust. I feel. I am. I will never be who I am not. I can only be me.

The cigarettes are smoked, the incense stick burned down. The phone ringed twice. And music is still playing. The same music. No torture. No soundtrack of my deepest sorrow now. Just there. Pulling at all the right strings.

Thank you to everyone mentioned above. You matter to me. That’s all for now.

Cathy

Would you…

… want a fantasy to come true?

… want a dream to come true?

What will you dream/fantasize about when all is said and done?

What happens if everything goes wrong?

What happened if everything turns out better than anticipated?

What if. . . ?

And what if we forget about those questions and just enjoy the moment? Will that be possible at all?

No doubts, no regrets, no grudges.

And that has to be enough.

Because, there is a difference between loving the idea (fantasy) of someone, and loving who they actually are – flaws and oddities included.

But at the same time, these flaws and oddities make someone who they are. No one is perfect.

Perfection doesn’t exist.

A plea from the broken heart

Here I stand frozen in motion. A stranger in my own light. In my own right. Unable to say what I shouldn’t think. For once, claiming my rights to really fall apart. I am coming undone at my seams. Crying, mourning my own self. And I am afraid to leave it all behind. But there aren’t many moons (and even less moans) left for me. We all will die, that is for sure. But I need more time. Just a little more. And as I slowly disintegrate from within, I wonder if I let the darkest of my soul take over and allowed it to win. I am too tired to fight. Too exhausted to stay. I just want to live a little while. Oh my heart… Just keep on beating for me.

Inhale through the nose

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Exhale through the mouth.

Repeat.

I’m only human

If you look at me, please see me. If you see me for the person that I am, please love me.
If you listen to me, please hear me. If you hear my words, please understand them.
If you want me, don’t hold back. If you don’t hold back, I will be all yours.

***

This is actually no fiction. This is all me in my most vulnerable state. I am afraid to be invisible, invaluable, used…

Thank you

To everyone seeing and reading this, Thank You.

I took a look at the stats of this blog just a few moments ago. This blog has the best year since it was created in 2012. It has the most visitors from different countries, the most shares, and the most comments and likes. It’s amazing. I like it. Maybe a bit too much.

I have been updating regularly this month. Daily, actually. I have been tagging my posts, too. Something I only started doing recently. It is nice to know that people read what I write if it is visible.

It is nice to know that people take time out of their busy lives to spend it with my words. After all, time is a precious and finite resource. And you will never get it back. I cannot repay you.

So, yes, Thank You, from the bottom of my heart ๐Ÿ’“

Cathy

musings

We have dreams. We have ideas about how things should turn out. And then they turn to waste and leave us with a bitter taste in our mouths. Until we realise that some things just aren’t as important as we thought they were. And maybe “who cares” is not meant to be hurtful but it puts life and the grand scheme of things in perspective. Yes… Maybe there are more important things than those that we make the centre of our world. Just maybe. And maybe that is the exact thought that reconciles us with what has been nagging us for days now.

There are people I would shoot to the moon if they treated me badly. And there are those who are too important to let go.

And there are those who are toxic and yet life without them is grey and empty.

There are people who infuriate me almost everytime we talk, and I let them push my buttons, because I like to have them in my life.

There are moments when I take life and its circumstances too seriously. I should let go. Not all the way… Never all the way… But far enough to allow some distance.

And in the end, we chose love. And in the end everything is okay. Everything is energy. Everything is love. Well… That’s bullshit, but everything is easier with a serene and positive attitude and with love in our hearts.

Cathy

Am I right or am I left?

I am right when I turn left

I am left when I am right

I sleep in my dreams

And dream when I am asleep

I cry when I laugh

And laugh when I cry

I am invisible when I am here

And here when I’m invisible

I am here when I am there

And there when I am here

I make no sense when I write

And I write non-sense

I listen to your whisper

And whisper when I listen

I do all and am nothing

I do nothing and am all

Two sides to every story

Two stories for every side.

Writer’s dilemma

Petty post ahead ๐Ÿ˜‰ You’ve been warned.

I am sure many fellow writers and poets can relate. You write something (a blog post, a novel, a poem – something) and you are proud and satisfied with the words that left your fingers and made it to paper or the screen. In an euphoric way, you share it (- the writing) with the world and wait for the appraising comments and a flood of votes, but… Nothing happens. “Give it some time,” you think to yourself, but time doesn’t change anything. You’re beginning to think that there is something wrong with the app or the site or something! But there is nothing wrong. You read your post again and again. You still like it, but doubts begin to creep in. Maybe you are delusional to believe your writing is good. Maybe you are annoying everyone with your words and your story and your thoughts and your existence. Maybe you are mediocre at best and your post is just as mediocre? And a vicious circle begins and you are threatened to drown in a whirl of negative thoughts and emotions. There is no way out. Just the one. Writing more! And so you write a poem with childish rhymes and post that, too, in a vain attempt to pull yourself up. You don’t like the poem at all. It’s as if you have written the same poem 142 times before. But… This bad poem receives all the “love” your treasured post should have gotten. It angers you. You don’t understand the reason and the meaning behind all this. And it slowly loses its importance too. As long as there are readers you will write. And for everyone brilliant masterpiece you write and no one reads, you write several average poems that are loved. It’s okay. It’s good. But in the long run, settling for less will leave you unhappy and unsatisfied. Every now and then (months after the initial post) a reader will stumble across your words and call them powerful and intense. And you will be proud. Proud for still being around and not having given up.

And what choice does the writer have? Handwritten exhibitionism is what drives them on.

Because if this writer is being totally honest, writing for herself and her eyes only doesn’t provide the same feeling of accomplishment that sharing her writing does.

I hate it when I am this honest – makes me appear all needy and ungrateful. I am not. I am just thinking about this kind of things.

xx

Positivity

My grandfather was Italian. He lived during WWII. He was sent to a concentration camp because he was missing a finger and was no use to the Italian military. In said camp, he learned to speak and understand German. I never learned to speak Italian but grew up with German. My Nono (Italian word for grandpa) spoke to me in German. He once told me that he hated the reason why he knew the language but loved that he knew it to be able to talk to me and my sister.

In my book, that’s positivity. The old man could have refused to speak the language he associated with so much misery, but he chose to speak it. And I am forever grateful for that.

Another memory I have about him is that he couldn’t pronounce my name. My Italian family calls me Katie. My Luxembourgish family calls me Cathy (which sounds like Cutty). He said Kettey ๐Ÿ™‚ Also makes me smile.

Not sure where this thought came from but, there it is. x

PS: if I had been born as a boy, I would have been named after him: Giuseppe.

It’s okay

Recently, I read on the mighty interwebs that “it is okay to not be okay”. Usually, I would agree. But life taught me differently. Sadly, I might add.

I have not been a good friend to my oldest (best?) friend for the last months. There are a couple of reasons. One of the most important ones is her constant negativity not being compatible with my depression. It took me a long time to admit that I have indeed depression and to seek help. And yet, I haven’t told anyone in my close circle of friends and family about it. I did however confide in someone who probably couldn’t care less… But that’s not the point.

I pushed my friends away more and more. And her too. Whenever we met and I tried to talk to her about me and that I am not well and that I don’t know how to deal with it; she made everything about her. And there came a moment when I couldn’t deal with it anymore and began to keep our contact to the barest minimum.

Yesterday I sought contact, writing a message and apologising for the last months. What I got was an accusation of creating a “wall of rejection”. Again, I apologised – and I probably said the lamest thing ever. “It’s me, not you.”

She didn’t even ask “why?” And it gives me the feeling that it is not okay to not be okay.

The thing is, if we honestly want to know and have answers, the question to ask is “why?” We don’t ask though – most often out of fear to hear the answer and not liking it.

If she had asked “why?” I would have dared to open up. I would have dared to say “I am not okay and I am trying to get out of this emotional dark hole.” Yesterday, I would have talked and explained. But she was not interested. And maybe that says a lot about our friendship. Too much?

Why is it not okay to not be okay? Why is it still a taboo to say when you’re not alright?

Why do we never ask that one-word question and why do so many people don’t want to hear an honest answer?

Everything is okay. But I am not. I am well enough to fonction and I am well enough to be passionate about this or that. But I am not well enough to pretend, and I am not well enough to spend time with negative people (not even those who I appreciated dearly once)

I am a giver, a feeder. But once in a while I have to take and get something in return. It is hard to ask for it. It is hard to admit that I am struggling.

Life could be perfect and maybe on the outside it is… But on the inside it is not. And that’s okay.

It is okay to not be okay!

5 years ago…

On December 21st 2012, I started this very blog. It was the day that had been predicted as the end of the world because the Mayan calendar ended that day. I cannot remember what made me start this thing, but it is one of the few things I seldom neglected. Back in the day, I shared a lot of music and rambled about it. That was until the day I realised that I don’t know anything about music. And even though I am passionate about it, I am in no way qualified to write about it. I began sharing my poetry and my writing but due to poor tagging I kept myself in my own little space. I didn’t read this blog or that either. I just wrote for me and used this space as a safe haven for me and my inner turmoil. Not much has changed since and yet… And yet. I am censoring myself and my words a lot more. For no real reason. But I am a bit more shallow these days. At least I think I am, I am not sure how regular readers see it.

I am sharing mostly poetry or short stories these days. The music is still present but not as much anymore.

There are times when I am more quiet. Those are the times when I am well and balanced within myself. Then, there are the times when I write a lot and the manic depressive episode is palpable through the screen. I don’t do it on purpose, but I don’t talk a lot to people; I need to write excessively during these times or I will implode. It is a part of who I am. And I am not looking for fame, but if readers can rely, I feel a little less alone. (And they do too.) And that’s something that means a lot to me. Comments are rare, but I cherish them all the more and it warms my heart to see the same usernames and avatar pop up in my notifications again and again.

Today, we are celebrating 100 followers here on micqu.wordpress.com It’s a small number, but I love it nonetheless. No post ever has 100 reads here… Most have around 10 to 15, depending on the tags I use.

Happy anniversary to us. To you and to me. And thank you for the generous gift of your time. I will never be able to repay you. Here’s to 5 more years and many more after that.

Lots of love,

Cathy

https://micqu.wordpress.com/category/about-me/

The Optimist

Let me just quickly share my own personal thoughts about the latest Anathema release, called The Optimist. It was released on June 9th (by Kscope)

I’ve been a fan of this band – their music, for the better part of my life. Through all my life, there have been elements in their music that just spoke to me in a way no other band ever could. Though, let me admit, I was never a big fangirl of the musicians. It was just the music, the lyrics. It has nothing to do with the girls who love One Direction or Justin Bieber. And no, I am not judging, merely saying that it is different.

I digress. Back to the topic. The Optimist. It took until yesterday (June 19th) for this preordered record to arrive at my doorstep which strained my patience quite a bit. I didn’t listen to any songs while I was waiting, but I read the reviews. So many negative reviews. I wondered if it was the right decision to spend money on both the CD/DVD set and on the red vinyl. After all, people don’t seem to like the record very much. Me? I like it. I really do. While I was not a fan of their previous release (Distant Satellites), I have to say that this is a really good album. I don’t think that it can be compared to any of their previous work. I read in interviews that The Optimist is a sequel to A Fine Day to Exit. (An album I don’t particularly like or dislike – I don’t have a strong opinion on that one). It is in terms of the character who tried to find a way to exit and is now trying to find a way back home. Musically, it is not. Because, as I stated above, this album cannot be compared to any other album Anathema recorded.

So… The Optimist takes us on a journey. With pianos and guitars, with electronic aspects and string arrangements, we even hear some trombone in the jazzy Close Your Eyes. That trombone was certainly a surprise but it works in favour of the song. Just listen to some of Her Name is Calla’s songs (a British band), they use guitars, piano, strings and trombone too and it works well for them, in my own humble opinion.

Sure, the Optimist is a bit repetitive here and there (the vocals are and the melodies are sometimes too in some songs), but that repetivity is a constant in Anathema’s discography and it never bothered me. Also, I thought I heard some U2, some Radiohead (Wildfires), and even some Oasis (Back to the Start) influences on this album. Nice.
I like the heavy sound of the guitar, it sets a dark(er) mood. At the same time, there is a lot of hope and… optimism (duh!) on this record. For me, it is due to the strings and the piano. They can sound melancholic, but I don’t hear that here.

I wouldn’t recommend The Optimist to first-time Anathema listeners. It is not an easy record. There are many layers to peel away and to listen to. Too many? Is there such a thing as too many layers? My personal answer: No.

Lastly: in the many reviews I read Ghosts is often cited as a standout song. Personally, I think it is one of the weakest (alongside Wildfires) on the entire record. I like the lyrics, but that’s all I like about the song. Sorry.

My own standout song is The Optimist. (Followed by Leaving it Behind and Endless Ways). Can’t Let Go is a song I imagine could work on radio stations too… When I heard Springfield for the first time, I immediately thought that it would be nicer in an acoustic version… As for Close Your Eyes, I adore the arrangement of the song and even Lee Douglas’s voice. This style suits her.

Many words to say that I was afraid to listen to a bad record and I was positively surprised that it is not. It certainly isn’t easy to digest, though.

And now, the reason why I wrote this and will share it too: my inner music nerd was rejoicing when I listened to this brilliant record for the first time, but I still had the many negative reviews on my mind. (How devastating must it be for an artist when they invest time and creativity and emotions and money in their art and it is ripped apart?!) I needed to release my own personal thoughts and since there is no one in my immediate surroundings who feels as strongly about music as I do, I share it with you. And maybe you don’t care either but you will not hurt my emotions when you’re uninterested or rolling your eyes.

Thanks for reading and now go and search YouTube, iTunes or Spotify (or wherever you search for new music…) for this album and then go and buy it. ๐Ÿ™‚ (And always remember that this little review was not written by a critic, I am merely someone who listens and likes music.)

a brief conversation with my son

 

Today, my son asked about the stripes on my arm. I told him that they are scars. My heart began pounding… I am not ready to have that conversation. Not when I am still dealing with it.
I am not ashamed. I am just not sure how to explain it without sounding pathetic and at the same time, teaching him that it is a harmful way to deal with pain and frustration… The above is an exact transcript of what was said.

xx

 

(On this picture, you can only see the bigger scars, there are faint ones you can almost only see when you really look for them… apparently, he did. Also, I am not sure why the scars are this swollen today)IMG_20170514_194638201

the storm before the calm?

My mood is a weird one. I don’t trust it. I feel serene. Guided by the light. I am satisfied with me and who I am. I am standing behind my words and believe what I say. My own wisdom surprises me and makes me uncomfortable too.

I am wondering… when I am like this – when I am the light, I wonder if I deserve to feel it. I also wonder if I am more attuned to other people’s moods then. I am always quite aware of the people around me and of their moods but maybe I am just projecting. Who knows? But yes, when I feel the way I do now, right this moment, I wonder about these things. It isn’t happiness I am feeling. But a calm. A calm before a storm? I don’t hope so… but as it is, I cannot control my emotions and I lose every reason and every rationality when they are involved.

And I also wonder if I stole someone else’s light. Did I suck it out of someone who is falling into the dark now?

I know that I am weird. But I also know that I have a huge list of qualities. It’s sad when people reduce me to one thing when I am so much more. In a way, I am complicated, but since I am very understanding and most times quite easy-going and relaxed, I am easy to live with too. I have a great sense of humour and I am interested in many things – from music (duh!) and books to politics and randomness. I am opinionated and intelligent too and as you can see, I am very modest too, lol. I am talented in many domains, I am spiritual and rational at the same time and did I mention humour? I like to laugh about myself.

Sometimes I think that we should take more time to set up a real connection with the people in our lives. Sometimes, we should dare to drop every mask and be who we are without holding back. No matter how intense or dull we think we are. After all, as long as we don’t show who we are, we cannot expect that anyone will understand us and wants to get to know us better. And maybe everything we dislike in ourselves, they’ll adore? Who knows?

I am tired of these masks –  and yes, I wear them too. With these people I show more of that, with those people, I show more of this. And honestly, I am tired of it. Sometimes I pretended, in the past, to be dumber than I really am just to make the other feel better. And it shouldn’t be that way. It really shouldn’t.

I don’t want to hide who I am and who I love. I don’t want to repeat myself and my promises again and again because the other is even more unsure of themselves than I am of me.

There are times in my life when I am very submissive… Right now is not such a time. I am strong and I have the scars to show for it. I am a survivor and I can (and will) take charge of my life and the situations that need to be taken care of.

In a couple of weeks (maybe even days) I will be fragile again. I will break apart at my seams because the emotions and feelings are agonising, but that is not now. Don’t let it be now, please. I want to keep this calm feeling and put it in a box that I will lock. I will hide the box in my soul and when the world around me is raging I will open the lid and let some of the calmness cover me from within…

 

xx

Saturday morning

Sometimes I wish I could just give up control. In everything. Let someone else take the decisions and just follow blindly. How scary and freeing could that be? I mean, just the idea of it… It definitely would keep me from doubting myself all the time. It would keep me from over-thinking. And I would just do. Just be. With a blank mind. It’s quite appealing.

Take it… Take everything I have to offer and maybe even more.

It is scary to be at the mercy of someone else, I admit it. But if you trust them? In my naive mind, it could be the most liberating thing.

Huh… And these were my early Saturday morning thoughts.

No expectations

โ€‹What if we said: “fuck it, I’m doing this the way I want to do it”?

We meet people and in our minds we imagine an entire persona based on the glimpses we get to see. We expect them to be a certain way based on appearances we string together as facts in our minds. Even if it is an unconscious thing, we label them. We put them in a box in our mind and add other people or things to that same box.

But what if we are wrong with our assessment? What if we label someone as strong and they are really breaking inside? What if we are annoyed by someone’s constant ramble, but they only do it out of insecurity? What if we expect too much?

Isn’t expectation the straightest path to disappointment. 

And what if we stopped doing what is expected of us because we are put in this or that box, and start living the way we want to live? What would happen if we stopped giving a fuck about other people’s assumptions about us? A few people would roll their eyes. Some would turn their backs. Others would smile. And we, the ones who broke out of their box would be happy. Content. Free. And a new label would be found. Hippie, misfit, outsider… And it would feel great, because no one would know what to expect anymore.

What if…?

But it isn’t so. At least not for me. I am not brave enough to get out of my box and step on top of it. I am not brave enough because as much as I want to be seen, I don’t like people looking at me. I am already a misfit in many situations. I am the weirdo with the liberal thoughts and the many opinions. I am the writer who published books and writes poetry – looked upon with a sneer and a pitiful, condescending glance every time it is mentioned at a family dinner. I am not one of them. And I don’t need to be. I am one of a kind. Unique in my own simple ways. Easily bruised. Strong enough to walk on with blistered feet. Hoping to be loved and liked and appreciated just the way I am. Faults and quirks and all. 

Don’t expect anything from me, please. I cannot promise to live up to your (or even my own) expectations.
I can only promise to be kind and grateful for every person who chooses to be a part of my journey, for every person who left the path here or there, and for the lessons I learned.

I digressed, I think. But that’s okay. 

Xx

Cathy

more than you might see

We are different. We all have different minds and different things that shake our worlds. My madness is not worse or better than yours. It is unimportant to the grand scheme of it all. But, little things can have a huge impact. Words carelessly thrown at a stranger might leave them bruised or uplifted. A smile or a hug can change entire lives. A broken string can mean much more than just a broken bracelet.

 A broken string can mean much more than just a broken bracelet

I used to wear the bracelet on the picture around my wrist. Every day for nearly a year and I never took it off. Never. The threads were worn thin and there was a moment when I was in a near panic-like state when I thought about losing this simple piece of jewelry. But I also knew that the day would come. Inevitably. For most, it is just that – another weird thing Cathy wears and fondles all the time. But it is – and was much more. Little things have memories and meaning. And, this piece is unique. It doesn’t exist a second time. I had it custom made for me with these exact words. I needed those words with me. I needed to be reminded of them. I was losing a battle. Not a war, but a battle. Inside. And while I was living, I forgot to exist. I was not there.
Are you there? Is the title of a song (shared at the end of this post). It is also the question I was asked several times by the person who inspired most of last year’s writing, and my personal change and growth in recent times too.
Those words, worn against my pulse, were a daily reminder. As I said, different small things shake our worlds in different ways.
This broken thread would be easily replaced and everything would be fixed. But it is not that easy. It never is as easy as it seems.
Letting go of this little thing means letting go of something else. It means letting hope float to different – distant, shores. The memories and the meaning that were attached to that bracelet will remain with it, always. But sometimes we can’t or shouldn’t fix what is broken, because it will not be the same anymore. It will always just be the thing that was once broken and is fixed now. And it can work, but not for this. Not for me.Sometimes, it is good to put the memories in a box and close the lid on it.
I knew that the day would come the bracelet would come undone. And in my mind, I also knew, that this moment would be emotional. Because it is not something meaningless. To me, this was – this is, meaningful.

The beauty of life, isn’t it? What’s meaningful to you could be absolutely meaningless for me (and the other way around).

Are you there?
He asked and she said yes. She would always be there. Waiting for him.
Are you there?
She wondered about herself. The answer was No. She was not. She lived in a world of unfulfillable fantasies. And he had brought her back.
Back down to earth.

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