Love is not
an expensive bunch of perfect, red roses, wrapped in cellophane and ribbon and presented
by a disinterested delivery man. It is the single nodding daisy, stolen on a
whim from a strangerís yard, and carried all the way home in your loverís hand.
Love is not a brightly-coloured box of candy, picked up from the service
station with your cigarettes and coffee. Itís a homemade, heart-shaped cookie,
offered to you with sticky chocolate fingers. Love is not blue skies or
sunshine. It is dancing like idiots in the rain.
Love is not
gifts. It is the gift.
Love is not an expensive bunch of perfect, red roses, wrapped in cellophane and ribbon and presented by a disinterested delivery man. It is the single nodding daisy, stolen on a whim from a strangerís yard, and carried all the way home in your loverís hand. Love is not a brightly coloured box of candy, picked up from the service station with your cigarettes and coffee. Itís a homemade, heart-shaped cookie, offered to you with sticky chocolate fingers. Love is not blue skies or sunshine. It is dancing like idiots in the rain.
Love is not gifts. It is the gift.
Here I go; playing catch up thanks to the long-running
refusal of 100 words to allow me to spew my mind sludge into the annals of
history. Now I have something like twenty days to catch up on if I am going to
meet the 100 words a day quota and finish this December batch. I foresee a
bunch of pointless, uninteresting detritus will come to epitomize this, the
final month of 2011, but what am I to do? I can hardly be held responsible for
the failure of this little gathering place, now can I? No, I think not.
There isnít much better than sitting alone in my room at
almost three in the morning, all by myself with no one to bother me; no one to
impose their will upon me, my space or my time. Radiohead concert on my
computer and Thom Yorkeís indescribably beautiful voice in my ears. Sitting
alone, in the wee hours of the morning .. soaking up the ephemeral brilliance
of Radiohead, all by myself. Dancing, from the waist up; not caring how stupid
I look. Making faces at myself in the mirror and being enveloped in the
unadulterated enjoyment of the moment.
There is nothing about me that you love. The girl I was, the
girl you thought I was, is gone. Or perhaps she is not gone; perhaps she just
never was at all. I cannot be what you want. I am this girl; the one you canít
understand. The one who is cold and loveless. The one who recoils. The one who
withdraws. That is the girl you see, but it is not who I am. You donít want to
see the beauty of who I am trying to become. You canít love me because I am not
Over the last month I have seen so many signs that I am
starting to think I have become the universeís pet project. Tonight a fellow
blogger took the time to like my 100words entry, which lead me on a reciprocal
journey to visit the blog from whence they came. What should I find there but
yet another post telling me to live. More specifically, to live my life as if I
might die tomorrow. To stop being miserable in my unhealthy relationship and stop
waiting to do the things Iíve always wanted to do. Alright, already. I hear
No matter how many bells you jingle or how many singing angels you
hark, you can never recapture that feeling. As Christmas passes from being the
most anticipated and exciting event in our young lives to merely an annoying
parade of irritating television commercials and bitter battles over whose
family to eat lunch with, it becomes increasingly difficult to dig up any scrap
of Christmas cheer at all. The harried and meaningless gift buying, the hours
of cooking and the requisite stuffing down of too much food have replaced that
simple wonder we all felt once upon a Christmas morning.
The table was
resplendent with festive cheer and heavily laden with the traditional fare of
the season. Family, friends and strangers alike gathered together to celebrate
the day with too much food, a little to drink and some rather unexpected drama.
Christmas in Australia
falls in early summer, and though we were treated to the much loathed, sticky
humidity we have come to expect, the sudden torrential rain was more of a surprise.
Not as much of a surprise though as the streams of water that drenched the
table as the makeshift guttering system failed in a most spectacular fashion.
the fact that 100 words has not allowed me to submit an entry to my December
batch, I am now playing a quite serious game of catch up in order to complete
all thirty one days in time. Looking back over the days I have not written an
entry, because I was not allowed, I am having a difficult time remembering
anything relevant to each date to write about. I know that I have spent a lot
of time in worried contemplation about an upcoming offer/trip to France. That
has consumed much of my brain space to date.†
I need to sleep. On glancing over at my reflected face this
revelation becomes crystal clear. My skin looks oddly doughy, which roughly
approximates the post-Christmas condition of most of the rest of me. This year
I did not do so well with my ďjust say noĒ campaign. I feel the threatened return
of the muffin top. I also feel lethargic and sort of on the verge of vomiting,
pretty much constantly. Christmas cheer my ass! What good is all this
indulgence if all you have to show for it is an expanded waistline and a
suitcase full of guilt?
She wraps you in her sinuous tendrils and you surrender to
her embrace. Dreams beckon like a waiting lover; softening the edges of reality
and inviting you to fall. The lure of amnestic respite is more tempting than
the sirenís song; soothing a will worn thin by discontent and fear. White-knuckled
fists release their grip and you slip towards the windowless silence of nights reprieve.
There will be an eternity to untangle the chaos before the silver coins are
pressed against your eyes. Now the darkness creeps under your skin; its relentless
quest to bring down the curtain is irresistible.†
Waiting, again. I find myself searching through endless
streams of pointless information in the vain attempt to stay awake. To stay
awake just so that I may have mere minutes with you before sleep inevitably
takes me. I am waiting to hear your voice, whispering to me from the darkness.
Waiting to listen to you breathe in my ear, rhythmic and soothing as we lie
together on opposite sides of the world. Waiting for my reward for making it
through another day without you. You are not here tonight, and as I always am,
and always shall be, I am waiting.