Take away my fear

I wish you were here to take away my fear

Knowing that you are just around the corner

A touch and a swipe on the screen away

Today, I need you to be here in my ear

I need to hear your voice, your words

Just for me and for you; you and me and you

Your guidance would help me through this struggle

Giving away my thoughts and my control

I feel this mind is losing a battle again

But I don’t dare to get in touch with you

I can’t burden you with my egoism

But…

I wish you were here to take away this fear

highlights of the day

I did not do much today. Much to my husband’s dismay, I imagine. Lately, I am very tired. Exhausted really. There is no physical explanation, I had everything checked, and yet, I am tired all the time. During the summer months, my schedule at work is a different one. It allows us to go on daytrips with the kids and do other fun stuff we usually can’t do because of the number of kids. (I work at a daycare center for kids). My own kids are away a lot too. They have summer vacation until mid-September and they visit aunts and uncles and grandparents. (instead of having to go to summerschool or something like that). I work three days a week and have two days off. Today was an off day. I slept in. Or at least I tried. Truthfully, I slept until 8am and then I began to read the news on the internet and caught up with the social media. (twitter, IG, facebook, wattpad) I watched a bit of Netflix (the New Girl… I am not a particular fan of the show, but the episodes are short and there are a couple of funny scenes in it) and when I got hungry around noon, I made lunch. And this is the actual highlight of the day because for the first time ever, I made tomato-soup from scratch. It was fairly easy to do. And it was delicious with a tad too much garlic though. I read some more (an actual book!) and watched a movie (on Netflix again – handsome devil) and then I decided to take a bath – where I read some more (on my kindle this time). I cleaned the house a bit, but not too much, and then I sat down at the laptop to write. I had 789 words ready but then I had this feeling – you know the one? The one where you look at your words and realise that they are pretentious crap that no one wants to read – and that rightly so? Well, my post was deleted. I made myself a cup of coffee and ordered two tickets to a concert this Saturday, before I finally decided to write anyway. They say a writer needs to write. I don’t consider myself an author – I have an issue with labeling myself and other people.

I have not been inspired to write stories lately. I can’t put my finger on the reasons, but I guess it has to do with the fact that I am so tired. I do have ideas, but as soon as my pen hits paper, they are gone. Weird, but it happens to all of us. It just feels like an internal drama to me, because I used to sit down and write entire chapters of stories. I haven’t done that in years and in a way, I don’t miss it but I feel that I should write for the people who read those early stories. Almost as if I feel guilty. But only almost.

From time to time, I wonder what makes me special and unique. And I can’t come up with anything, really. I am kind and compassionate, I try to help as much as I can. I am a dedicated mother, a shy person, I can be funny and sometimes outgoing too. I am loyal, supportive, I can speak to you in four different languages, I know how to use words with an emotional impact and I like music a bit too much. But are those really things that define me? Is the fact that I chew chewing gum while driving my car something that makes me me? Sometimes, I feel like a little kid. At 34 I should have figured life out, one would think, but is there really something to figure out? I like to go with the flow and I like spontaneous decisions – when I can make them. I don’t like surprises and I don’t like mean people. But I like men and men knowing how to play the piano and use their words correctly – that’s something I love a lot. (how did this fact slip into this?) I like sunrises because they are more hopeful than sunsets and I like clouds. I like the sound of rain when it is pouring (and it is raining a lot right now) and I marvel at rainbows like a little kid. I love soap bubbles and voices. And green eyes. Feeling appreciated too…

How this post started out with my day and ended with a description of me, I don’t know. Of all people, I am the one who knows me the least.

I wrote some posts in this book lately:

Burnt Wood

They will not take a lot of time to read because they are all under 500 words long – some of them aren’t even 100 words long. If you ever want to know what else I write, you should try and hit the link. I am a pretty great person, you know? I just don’t always have the right way of looking at myself.

So… you really read this far? Thank you. And now I exceeded the initial word count by 100 words. Isn’t that something?

Here… you deserve a song:

Radiohead – man of war (from their album OK NOT OK 1997-2017)

I enjoy this song a lot. (I didn’t watch the clip, lol)

 

Have a great time…

Cathy

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/

awake

She lay awake in bed; wide awake. The time on her alarm kept moving forward until it was 04:26 in the morning. She only heard silence. No birds tweeting in the trees, no chirping in the grass. In the far distance, she thought she had heard thunder, but maybe it has just been a plane. What kept sleep so elusive? It was a memory.

I made a mess,” he chuckled. I need to take a shower,” he said still trying to catch his breath. “Will you stay on the line?” She was somewhat surprised by his request, but she agreed. “I won’t take long,” he added. She heard the rustle of his sheets and the padding of his naked feet on hardwood floors. Doors opened and a shower curtain was pushed aside and then she already heard water running. She could almost see the water cascading over his naked, still flushed body. She heard how the water got caught in his hair and how it was released with a splash against the tiles. She heard bottles being open and shampoo being squeezed out. It was all so mundane, yet so intimate. And then he began to hum. She smiled. She loved listening to him. He wasn’t holding back. Just being himself. It filled her with a sense of serenity. Words were added to the sound of water. They didn’t make sense to her, and yet… She kept listening in. The water stopped and the curtain was pushed back again. Was he brushing his teeth now? The sheets were rustling again. “Are you still there?” “Yes, I am” she said fondly. “I need to go, I need to meet with my brother.” It wasn’t how she had the call expected to end, but he never did the expected. “I’ll get in touch, okay?” “Yes, yes okay. Take care.” “It was nice talking to you, sweetie. Bye” It had taken three months before he got back in touch.



She had been listening to his new record. It had been released weeks prior to her sleepless night and one particular song felt familiar. For days she wondered why. Until it hit her like a brick wall. That day in the shower, he had hummed the melody and sung some of the chorus’s words. Had she inspired a song? He hadn’t said anything in that regard but still… A girl can dream, can’t she?
“It’s in the way you need me,” he sang.
5am. The sky was changing its colour. A little over an hour before the alarm would go off. And she tried to hold on to his memory. A man who had since left her life. She still saw him at the edge of her life, but it became easier to ignore him these days. It became  easier to not wait anymore. Most days anyway…

pictures of us

This is me when I’m with you
and this is me when I am not.
I still believe that we can be in tune
And I pretend to miss you a lot.
Pictures of us

This is how I imagine you to be
and this is who you really are
I am not blind, I can see
There is a new model waiting at the bar.
Pictures of us

This is how we fell apart
and these are the tears we shared
I’ll still keep a space in my heart
where we don’t need to be scared.
Pictures of us

This is how we moved on
and this is who we became
Both of us are strong
Too many times we were the same.
Pictures of us

This is me when you’re not there
and this is my freed mind.
I stood in front of you, bare
and you saw, you were not blind.
Pictures of us

This is me and the happiness that was your gift
and this is you living under clouds
It is me who is missed
whose face you will not see in crowds.
Pictures of us

This is me and I will not forget
and this is you, you are all set.
I promised no regret
Thankfully staying in your debt.
Pictures of us

This is me when I am in the dark
and this is me when I am the light
You ignited the first spark
I drink up the night.
Pictures of us

This is how it used to be
and this is how it really was
frames filled with memories
loving them just because (they are)
pictures of us.

untitled (suggestions welcome)

Leaves dancing in the rain
Sun licking the morning dew;
Reflections in the window pane
Grey skies turning blue.

Behind a concealing mask
Feelings are an uncomfortable mess,
To understand is an unbearable task
And it’s easier to leave than to stay, I guess.

Toxic thoughts and actions;
Driving​ so-called friends away
Understanding their reactions
But missing them forever and a day.

More light in the dark
More tears in an ocean
Another life’s mark
Overcome by emotion.

A head full of spinning thoughts
Cowering in the corner of my mind
To unfurl their knots.
Once again, I am left behind.

A soap bubble of for never
Floating up to the clouds
A memory to stay forever
Hidden from the crowds.

I am the shadow in my light
I am the hope in my despair
But after my lastest sleepless night
I can say that I am still there.

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

a strange connection

There sat a man on the stairs. His hair was hidden underneath a black hoodie, and his pale hands clutched a mobile phone. His jeans-clad legs were bent, and his knees were hugged by his arms. His head rested on his knees. He looked like a tired, sad man. His eyes were at once empty and overflowing with a raging storm. Maybe he was homeless. No one could tell for sure. Appearances can be deceiving in this day and age.

A busker stood next to a pillar. His fingers picked at the strings of his worn guitar, and his voice pronounced every word he sang with as many emotions as he could muster that day. His guitar case lay in front of him; opened wide, so that passersby would be tempted to toss in some of the loose change they kept in their pockets. So far not many coins were spread out on the black velvet. The romance of busking in the underground and being discovered accidentally by someone influential was wearing off. Sometimes he wished he hadn’t quit his day job because of a fluke. He had, though, and there was no turning back. And now, he played for people who hurried past him without seeing him and homeless drunks like the one on the stairs across from him.

I stood at the busker’s left and observed both men. Both had a similar aura. Tired of their situations. Not of their lives, like me. I felt a momentary connection with these strangers while I projected my own struggles on them. The man on the stairs looked lost in thoughts and mesmerised by the busker singing and interpreting songs we knew from the radio. And rightly so. He sang a beautiful version of Mad World. I hummed along.

The man on the stairs moved his lips in time with the lyrics too. Three strangers who had no connection whatsoever connected over a song. It was magic. I smiled at myself. It was a strange and foreign sensation for me. During this brief moment of contentment, the man on the stairs looked into my eyes. He nodded ever so slightly and, to me, it seemed as if his eyes were less tired then. A glimmer of hope was shining through his eyes and enveloped my own hopeless self.

The train arrived and the spell that had surrounded us dissipated and vanished with the throng of people invading this space that had been so magical mere seconds ago. The stranger was swallowed by the masses, and when the rushing brook of busy people had turned into a trickle, he was gone, and the busker was packing his guitar away. I turned to leave too. Without direction, without purpose. I had missed the train.

the rainbow’s nook

Rivulets of emotions
Growing into a rushing brook
Year in and year out I’m going through the motions
Hiding inside every rainbow’s nook.

As the earth unfolds its verdure
The sun turns into a comforting embrace
The birds singing their songs without allure
And the trees are standing tall in all their grace.

I feel my spirits awaken
And letting go of winter’s thoughts
My foolishness forsaken
As I accept my lovable flaws.

The wind and the weather;
They cannot bring you back
My heart floats like a feather
Mending my soul’s crack.

The spring’s healing powers
Are filling my being
As I stop to smell the flowers
Finally feeling life’s new meaning.

I can breathe without you by my side
And push the clouds off my mind
I don’t need the rainbow to hide
Because spring finds me refined.

pleading to the full moon

The moon is blinding me
Hiding our sin
I am not sure if I am okay

If I could just see…
If I kiss the sweat off your skin
Could our love see another day?

If we drowned in the sea
Or let the sun wear us thin
What if the love let us sway?

How wrong could that be?
Would we believe the voices within?
And would we take a chance to let our love stay?

How many days until we are free?
How many lost battles until we win?
There has to be a way.

paper man

Paper man
Pale and unseen
Crumbled and bruised
So many ways
To be de-creased, uncreased.
But no one is there
To pull at the edges
Of your sheet.
Too many lit fires 🔥
Too many coffee stains
Not a blank page anymore
And still
There is room left
To write a new story
Paper man.

where did our hearts go?

I know you are there
but I don’t know where
I’m trying to find you in the dark
To feel your presence in my heart.

Staring out into the cold
Reaching for your hand to have and to hold
Our love has gone away
There was no valuable reason to make it stay.

And while the world keeps turning
my soul keeps yearning
for you – who completed my lost mind
and to whom my heart was assigned.

 

sinner

I put tulips under all the pillows, and then I set fire to the house. I watched from a safe distance and listened to the wails of the approaching sirens. I was convinced that the house was haunted and the only way to get rid of the evil spirits was to burn it down. I sound crazy, and maybe I am, but what’s done is done. The flames ate at the house, and the clear blue sky turned to a dusty gray. It was hot, and I jumped back when the first windowpanes exploded. A crowd had gathered to look at the spectacle. My neighbor looked on in shock. I heard the voice of his ex-wife and saw her with the kid on her arm. She looked more annoyed and less alarmed. I didn’t like her. I should have burned her too. Evil witch. I turned to go, but my neighbor held me back. “I am so glad you made it out of there alive,” he pulled me into a hug. I froze on the spot. Why did he care about my well-being? No one cared about crazy old me. I didn’t move, and I didn’t return the hug. I pushed him away and made my way through the gawking crowd. I passed the firefighters who were laughing and joking. It was just another day at work for them. One of them was showing his cell-phone around. “I cheated on my spouse. And it wasn’t the first time.” He laughed out loud, and his colleagues clapped his shoulder as if they admired him for deceiving his spouse. For the second time in a short time, I froze. I knew I had to kill him too. He was a sinner. There is no place for sinners in this world. I moved closer to the firefighter. His scent reminded me of the smell of the T-shirt from a B-52’s concert I had bought in the 80s. A strange association, perhaps only made because their song “Rock Lobster” was blaring from the stereo. Rude. These firefighters were rude. I remembered the time Leslie called me a leech. It was time to spring into action and get closer to the firefighter. “I was in that house,” I announced, feigning breathlessness. I saw his eyes blaze. He clearly loved to be a hero. “Let’s get you to a paramedic then,” he had his arm around my shoulders, and I took the opportunity to play the weak victim. I melted against him, and he straightened his shoulders to catch me. “I feel so weak in your arms,” I breathed against his neck. I felt his breathing change, and I smiled to myself when I dropped my arm to brush it against his hard bulge. He was an easy one. In no time I would have him where I wanted him to be. “Take me away from here, please. Take me somewhere private.” He just nodded and snapped his fingers in the direction of another firefighter. “I’ma gonna take this fellow somewhere safe. Got it? Cover for me.” The other man’s smile spoke louder than words as the hero escorted me off the premises of the burning house. I stirred him to a hotel down the block. I insisted on checking us in, and he agreed without putting up a fight. The room was tiny. A typical cheap hotel room. It was perfect to finish this hero’s life. Above the bed hung a picture with a man wearing a plate on his head. It was odd, but the vivid colors made it something special. For a long time, I looked at it. The man pushed his body against mine, and I let him. He kissed my neck, and I let him. We undressed clumsily. He was in a bigger haste than I was. I ordered him to lay down on the bed, and he did. This was going to be so easy. He was beautiful to look at. I straddled him and kissed his lips. It was the last kiss he would ever taste. The kiss of death. The only one this sinner deserved. He struggled a lot. But I was stronger than he was. I was stronger and possessed by the voice in my head. I needed to end his life. And I did.

After I got dressed again, I picked a tulip out of the floral arrangement on the small table and placed it on his lifeless body. I stepped out on the street. The smell of fire clouded the road. I took a deep breath and exhaled with a satisfied sigh before I turned to walk down the pavement; never looking back to where I was coming from.

It runs in the family

​My grandfather lied to my grandmother, I guess it runs in the family. Didn’t Shirley Bassey sing about history repeating itself? I looked at the letters on the table in front of me. My grandfather had written them to his mistress, and now, after his passing, I had found the mysterious box in the back of his closet. It had taken some effort to open it. Keylocked without a key. The tingling in the pit of my stomach had been right. Secrets. Hidden for decades. I chuckled. But, there was no humour in the sound. I had been lying to my wife too. I had written letters to my mistress too. Well, emails, but it was the same, basically. I scrambled the sheets of paper together, folded some of them neatly and put them in their hiding space again. I shook my head. The revelation, the impact of it all, and the way it would change my whole family if I chose to not keep this hidden, had come in an innocuous coffee shop. Of all places. Family secrets were strewn on a worn Formica table in a public place. I felt embarrassed. I looked at the other tables around me. No one seemed to mind me. The table next to mine was vacated, all that was left were dirty dishes and five bucks on the table. I waved the waitress over and asked for another double espresso and a blueberry muffin. She smiled at me, taking the purple lollipop out of her mouth. For a moment I thought I had seen a piercing on her tongue, but maybe I was wrong. The air smelled of the artificial sweetness as she held the lollipop between her fingers while she jotted my order down. The woman was nice enough to look at, but I wondered why she couldn’t remember two simple items. She winked at me, put the lollipop back in her mouth – and, this time I definitely saw the shining piece of metal on her fleshy tongue before she turned and moved to the counter. I looked after her. Definitely someone I would take to the hotel, I thought to myself. I released another mirthless chuckle and looked at another letter. I almost blushed from the words I read. The handwriting was pleasant and easily readable, but the words… It was more descriptive, more detailed than I ever wanted to know. My grandfather seemed to have been quite the stallion in bed. I thought back to my business trip to Berlin last summer. I changed positions to accommodate my emerging boner. Yeah, my grandfather and me, we shared the same genes. On a whim, I decided to keep the letters to myself and ask the young waitress out. If she was only half as good as the German girl from last summer, she knew exactly how to use to piercing in a way that would bring me lots of pleasure. I grinned when she approached. I didn’t have a guilty conscience because of my wife. As I said, I guess it runs in the family.

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.

 

lover of mine

​Lover of mine

I see the glittering sun setting at the end of the ocean

Your face cast in ethereal glows.

Oh how I am reminded the way my heart is on the line.

Golden shadows hush over heaven and earth

And as the world falls asleep,

Our flames are ignited, we can feel it in our spines.

Darkness consumes us, but not from within

A blazing fire keeps our souls entwined,

In a million there is no lover’s story of this kind.

Days fall asleep and nights are awoken

Moons are full and some are broken,

But all is fine, as long as you’re with me,

Lover of mine.

Welcome to Eternity

And so it began. Her reflection in the mirror faded with every time she dared to look. Her skin became grey and her eyes had lost the living spark. Color was a distant memory she only vaguely remembered. Grief had taken over the moment he had passed on. She rubbed her face with bony wrinkled hands, trying to find the person she once was. But she was gone. He had taken everything with him, and he had left her with an old and worn shell.
She shuffled to the bedroom and closed the windows. The evening breeze was crisp; winter was lurking around a corner. She shed the last pieces of her clothing and laid on the bed, folding her hands on her soft stomach. Then she closed her eyes and conveyed the images of him that she had stored away in her mind. They came, and took her away. Away from the grey. Away from the grief. She felt her feet touch the ground and her eyes sought out details to understand where she was. She was in a strange land where no age and no pain existed. A land between life and death. But she didn’t know that yet. Her vessel was still inhaling air to fill her lungs, and making her heart beat on.

She could hear his voice; Henry’s voice was teasing her, asking to come see him. But whenever she turned toward the direction of the sound, nothing was there. No one was there.

“Henry?” Her thin voice reverberated through the nothingness. The uncertainty spread inside her body. The soles of her naked feet felt a change in the surrounding before her mind was able to catch on. Where the ground had been of sand and gravel before, it was now cotton-like and soft. Walking became more like floating. A familiar laughter made her walk on with a smile. She was where she wanted to be. For a moment, her chest had felt constricted, but it wasn’t anymore. Panic that had threatened to arise was pushed back down. She knew that she would be fine, because he was near.

There was no way to describe what she saw around her. There were no shapes and yet everything was of different shapes. There were no colors and yet everything was so very colorful. There were no sounds and yet, it wasn’t quiet either. Everything felt familiar and well-known. Almost intimate. Even the smell of the air reminded her of a place she had loved once upon a time.

“Henry?” she asked again. She felt the touch on her bare arm before she saw him.

“There you are, my love,” he replied and kissed her forehead. “I missed you, what took you so long?” She needed a moment to answer. She took his cheeks between her hands and exhaled sharply. “Henry, is this you? This can’t be you.” The man looked familiar, but he was young. So very young. Her Henry had been old and sick, marked by his age and everything he had seen in his lifetime. His hands covered hers. The heat of him seeped into her. His smile was contagious and familiar. “It is you,” she whispered, stepping back and bringing her hands to her lips. If this was Henry, what did it mean? How could it be? The blurry shapes and colors changed around her. She was on the farm she had grown up. The grass was green; the shade of green it has after a recent summer rain. The sky was blue and cloudless. The barn that had burned down and had killed livestock stood tall and was painted in red and white. Looking down, she realized that she was standing on a wooden porch. She was wearing a thin dress she had loved because of the flowers on it. She turned around. Everything was familiar. Young Henry sat in a rocking chair looking at her.

“Did the other shoe finally drop?” he chuckled and reached his hand out to her. He was engulfed in light. The glow was so bright, she almost had to look away, but she couldn’t. She took his hand and he pulled her toward him. “Oh Henry,” she sniveled. “Are we…?” She didn’t finish her question.

“Yes, Vera, my love. Welcome to eternity.”

her mind is troubled

​Sadness. It covers her like a veil. For no reason. There are no passed memories trying to shred her future to pieces. There is no longing for a love she can’t get. There is nothing. Just emptiness. But the void inside hurts. And the tension, the inner pressure, rises. And rises. Her scars are prickling. Thoughts of suicide, not her own, just the act of it, are circling her mind and poisoning her writing. And the scars. They are begging for an addition. Open the skin. Release what’s inside and let it drip down the outside. It’s getting harder for her to avoid temptation and triggers. Everything is alright. She said it so many times that she stopped believing the lie. Just one tiny cut. Just one more. An addiction. And her drug is the pain she will not feel, only see in crimson droplets and opened skin. The box cutter lies on the shelf. Just one cut. It will make everything alright. Stop telling these lies.

https://youtu.be/FZoojCO2Jbk

I posted this little thing minutes ago on Wattpad. The comment touched me and made me happy

waiting…

Thursday night. 7:56pm. I am waiting. The sun is setting. It’s getting colder. But I keep waiting. Every once in a while, I take my phone out of my pocket to check for missed calls or messages. People are looking at me. I keep waiting. It’s only our second date. A concert date. A band that I like a lot but I had no one to come with me tonight. I asked him. Enzo. He said he would love to come. Enzo is Italian. Looks like one too. Dark long wavy hair, brown eyes with a sparkle. Really pretty eyes. His voice is a bit nasal, and he seems nervous all the time, buzzing with a restless inner energy. I have a cousin named Enzo too. Italian heritage and all that. But I am still waiting. The music started inside, and the crowd waiting outside where I am is thinning. The bass is droning. Where is he? I hope nothing happened. Another look at the phone. There’s a message.

Sorry. This is not going to work. Enjoy the show. Sorry. Delete my number. We shouldn’t get in touch. Got back together with my ex.

I read it again. But I don’t understand what I read. I had no idea that he considered going back to his ex. Then again, it was not a subject we had breached. I am torn. Should I go in, buy a couple of beers and listen to the music? Or should I go home? Yes, I was excited for our date tonight, but was I that attached that I will drown in self-pity? I consider my option. I look down the street. It’s nearly empty. Illuminated by the orange city lights. I look back at the club’s entrance. Two men who wouldn’t fit into my closet are guarding the doors. They are laughing. It makes them appear even more intimidating. 8:25. Shit. I have never been to a concert on my own. But I really want to see this band. I take a deep breath. It’s funny how sighing or taking deep breaths relaxes me. Out of my huge tote bag, I get my ticket. I paid for it. I’m going in. One of the burly guys scans my ticket while the other ask to see my bag. I should have thought about that earlier. Could have saved me the embarrassing moment of showing how many used tissues I carry around. Love will tear us apart says the man who scanned my ticket. I don’t understand. He must be good at reading people because he jerks his chin into the direction of my bag that is inspected. Indeed. The words he said are written on my bag. I just smile and nod. I hold out my hand for the obligatory stamp. It’s a teddy bear. Childish. Who chooses these things?

I walk inside. The music is loud. Too many people. And I am alone. I try my best to fit in. But I might look lost. At the bar, I see an opening. Maybe I am lucky and can order a drink without feeling out of place? To my surprise, it does work. The usual shouting and international signs for beer are used, but I get what I want. I turn around to make my way closer to the stage. A man stumbles into my path and something cold is poured down my front. Jeez. Jerk. I shout, looking at the mess he made and the merged beer and whatever liquid he drank that are now on my shirt. I am not sure if he heard me above the music. Our eyes meet. I know those eyes. They are green. Very pale. I take a step back. Small, cautious step. It’s him. Fucking hell! Him; the band’s guitarist and singer. And I just called him a jerk. I feel the heat rising in my cheeks. He looks at me. Watches me with his head tilted to the side. There is something like disappointment on his face now that I recognised him. Should I apologise? I didn’t do anything wrong. But he’s famous. Everyone around us is here to see him. And he poured his drink down my shirt. It’s a weird moment. I only see him. I know that there are people around us. Many people. But they are out of focus. Blurry side notes. Come, he orders and gently wraps his hand around my wrist. Too stunned, I just follow him. He pulls me toward the merchandise stand and asks for a T-shirt. All the time he has his hand on my wrist. He must feel my pulse against the calloused skin of his fingers and hand. I can feel it. Mine. My heart beat. It’s very fast. Almost uncomfortable. He turns to me and smiles. Again he orders me to follow him. And I do. It’s actually not careful to trust him. A stranger. But somehow, I do. Maybe I fell for the illusion that I know him because of his familiar face? Apart from my two greeting words I haven’t said a word. My mind is racing. My heart is too. He pushes doors open and shows his access all areas badge. In one hand he holds a shirt. In the other he holds me. What’s happening here? The music is not as loud anymore after we walked through another door. There are tables with food and more strangely familiar faces. People are laughing and teasing each other. Others are checking instruments. Batteries are put into guitars, strings are tuned. He shows me a door and gives me the piece of cloth he had been clutching in his hand. The one that hadn’t been on me. The moment he releases my wrist, goose flesh spreads where his touch has been. My skin is already missing his touch. Silly thought. I should dismiss it. And I really don’t want to wear a band T-shirt. But I am soaked. And so I give in.