Textures of the past

Robert Louis Stevenson once said that the past is all of one texture. He was wrong, and he was right.

Some are rough, and brittle. They’re difficult to walk through, like a small walk way littered with obstacles of varying heights and widths. Further trivialised by poor vision and lack of consistency.

Some are illuminating and cloud like. They provide us with a warmth, a feeling of reassurance and sometimes a reason. They provide a light which helps us feel that the actions of our left and right are not in vain. But just like a cloud, its transparency can make it hard to hold on to. If only it could rain.

Some are silky and fluid, with a replenishing after effect that leaves one nourished. Sometimes even lighter, slowly weakening our grips to the weights we feel so obliged to hold on to. Weights that hold no promise but only bring a pressure that we seem to feel so drawn to. Like a moth to flame in a forest of darkness.

Some are uncomfortable to the touch. They leave us with a feeling of red hot embarrassment and shameful regret, that we feel at the back of our necks. It causes a tension in our spines and a wince to our eyes. We try to encourage ourselves in remedy, ensuring that the effect is only but an integral lesson which is needed for further self preservation. These lessons however have a poor time sticking. Like a recycled bit of tape that is needed to hold up a sign, only to be hindered by ill-advised attempts of repositioning.

But some, some are so dense that they can find their way into your lungs. Into your veins, and into the endings of each and every one of your nerves. Even when cursed unwelcome, the icy cold affliction will make you freeze, with no warning and no apology.

There are too many textures that one could not spin them all, however some people can only spin one. Not by choice, and not by design. When the spool is stuck to one, it’s because it created a texture so heavy, so heavy that it forced the mechanics to bend under its own weight. For this, it is then the past is all of one texture.

If only it could rain.

The perfect match

Tags

Poetry

You were the perfect match.

However to be the perfect match, is to light the perfect fire.

To ignite at the first touch, to create warmth by the first incidence of friction.

To be the perfect match, is to light up a room.

To touch every candle and to take away the darkness.

To make things that were once unknown and foreign become familiar and comforting.

To make the hard cold wax become fluid and warm, to create life and movement.

To bring warmth to the chill, and a glow to the skin.

However the match doesn’t survive for long.

Because for a match to do its job, it has to set itself on fire.

For every moment of warmth it creates, it withers.

It grows darker, it grows sharper, it grows fragile.

It grows cold. Not by intention, but by design.

As my perfect match, you took away the darkness.

You took away the unknown, you took away the chill.

Then you were gone, not by design, but by intention.

What remains still stays, but as it remains it doesn’t stay the same.

The light from the candles begin to flicker, in a way that no longer glows, but quivers.

The free flowing wax begins to hit the floor, it begins to splash, it begins to burn.

The warmth begins to die, and the light begins to fade.

The only way to feel the warmth that once was, is to touch the candle which once burned.

It sears against the skin, but not enough to hurt and not enough to take away the comfort of the heat.

But the comfort lasts only a moment, and what is left is the evidence of the attempt.

The hard wax seals on the tip of the fingers. The seals that reveal who is to blame.

The seals that reveal my fingerprints.

You taught me how to play with fire.

Then, you taught me it’s better to live in the cold.

You were my perfect match.

 

 

 

Time & Space

I’m sick, nose is stuffy, my lungs feel too congested to work and I’ve decided the ‘common cold’ is far worse then the understated prefix it’s paired with.

Lately I haven’t quite felt myself. If the old me was a working diorama, the current me feels like an old used shoebox. The lid hooked and closed around the edges of the frame. Or maybe a perfectly good record player, but with no music to play. Just sitting and laying there, collecting the dust like its new found purpose.

As much as I want to shake off the dust, there’s something comforting about it. If somethings covered in dust, no one expects it to work like it should. If somethings covered in dust, people see it as a victim of its surroundings. They don’t get disappointed by the object, only at time. Time and the person that left it there.

x

Just throw some fairy dust on it…

Tags

break ups, broken heart, dating, fairy dust, fate, foreshadowing, heartbreak, predictions, relationships, synchronicity, universe

Stretching out the old writing fingers…

So! My mother the other day told me that I should throw fairy dust on all my negative problems, that the world is a magical place and that I need to be more open to the idea of the universe helping me.

I won’t be a complete negative Nancy about this, I do agree that the world does some pretty freaky stuff – but in my experience, every time I saw an overwhelming sign of synchronicity it never led to anything good. Let me explain.

When I was seeing my last ‘boyfriend’, we tried to break it off many times due to circumstances. The first time we said our goodbyes I told him that our relationship was like a game of monopoly. He didn’t like my analogy, he never liked my analogies. I tried to draw on the similarities about how no matter how much we wanted Mayfair, it was up to the numbers on the dice, the text on the chance cards and rather than being defeated by the emotions of things not working out it was important to realise that every obstacle was in effect made for enjoyment. We had to look at everything and see it as it was designed, time meant to be enjoyed together. This wasn’t logical enough for him, or maybe just too abstract, but he shrugged his shoulders and listened.

As the night drew to a close, we slowly got up and said our farewells, thanked each other and walked out the door together. As he walked me to my Uber something caught our eye just outside the car door on the floor and he bent down to pick it up.

It was a Monopoly Card.

Even though things didn’t work out, he still keeps the card in his brown leather wallet. Somewhere in between his license, Amex and Opal. Or so he tells me.

The next time we tried to say our good byes we were in a dark bar located in the North side of Melbourne. I remember being frustrated and less optimistic this time. As more months were added to the self proclaimed terminal relationship, the harder it was for me to stay positive. I wanted it to end on a good note, and I think I managed a smile through my fragile spirit and broken eyes. But we did agree going into this that it wasn’t going to last, he then proceeded to walk down the stairs and to his Uber. Moments later I get a phone call.

Before I describe synchronicity #2 I’ll give you some back story. He and I always used a specific app to message each other. This app was chosen because he didn’t want to use Facebook messenger and I didn’t like the lack of stickers on WhatsApp. So he found an app with all the stickers one could hope for to ensure I wasn’t left disappointed. This app also happened to have its own characters and series of stickers, one in particular being a white Rabbit by the name of Cony. A day wouldn’t go passed where Cony didn’t pop his little heady by.

“Diz… Something just happened. It’s crazy. Possibly crazier than the Monopoly Card.”

He then sent me a photo of the fuel cap of his Uber. There in all his cheery glory was Cony, in bumper sticker form, freshly pressed against the cold white metal of the car.

“Diz, it’s crazy. I asked the driver about why he had the sticker there – he said some hooligan came passed 10 minutes ago and started putting stickers everywhere! What are the chances Diz!?!”

He sent me the photo evidence and just like he said, there was Cony, jumping in the air with one hand excitedly fist pumping upwards.

Both accounts were amazing and unforgettable, and yes you would have to imagine that this was the universe telling us that we were meant to be together. These coincidences no doubt played in the decision making of us attempting to do just that. In my decision of quitting my job so I could move state to be with him – no matter the recent hardships he put me through.

If those incidents never happened maybe we wouldn’t of played it out as far as we did. Maybe on the nights he made me cry I would’ve had the courage to end it there and then – but I couldn’t. And I never would be able to. One night I even remember being so hysterical that I wrote out the words and was about to press send, but instead, I took out my sim card and bit into it. Possibly one of the craziest things I’ve done, but I couldn’t do it, after everything, how could I? However that didn’t stop him.

My mum hated the idea of me moving to Sydney. I once got home after a weekend away with him to find that my Mums kitchen tap was broken. I asked her what had happened to which she responded;

“I was thinking of what would happen if you moved to Sydney and bam! The tap burst and there was an explosion of water! Massive waterworks! I think that’s the world saying you shouldn’t go Caitlin!”

I rolled my eyes and saw this as her trying to find any excuse to prevent me from going to Sydney. Funnily enough this turned out to be nothing short of synchronicity #3.

For my birthday I went up to Sydney after quitting my job with the plan to stay up there for a couple of weeks. The weather was so terrible that it was the worst storms Sydney had seen in decades – the rain was horizontal and didn’t dull down at any point.

That night, the night of my birthday, with a few swift sentences he broke up with me. There were waterworks. Who knew a kitchen sink could’ve been so wise? That was possibly the most pain I’ve ever had to go through. When my dad died I knew he loved me and would’ve done anything to ensure I was happy and safe. But when the person you loved throws you into a storm at your most vulnerable point without any conversation…

It’s been close to 5 months since then, and I’m not going to pretend that I’m over what happened to me. But if the universe sent me that Monopoly card, it sent me that jumping bunny… I left the situation feeling like nothing. I felt hopeless and alone. I’ve slowly picked myself back up.

The other day I saw myself in a similar scenario of drama caused by a guy. Without going into detail, another clear synchronicity came up as I was saying goodbye to him. I remember in that moment laughing, and then feeling my stomach suddenly dropping. All of my previous emotions came up and I felt my self scared.

My mum told me that the universe is here to help me, and it’s a beautiful amazing place. That I have to see the positives. Unfortunately, I can’t do that. I won’t stop trying to be happy and trying to do the best I can. But I can’t throw fairy dust on my problems, nor can I allow the universe to dictate my life.

 

Maybe one day it’ll be different.

 

Till then x

Take Two.

When I was younger, I never ate healthy. I was obsessed with Nutella, never saw a reason to exercise and would religiously say to people:

“I’m young, I can eat whatever I want. I can worry about it when I get older, like 15.”

I no joke said that ever since I was 8.

2 months after I turned 15 I was diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa.

My twin sister always thought that was the creepiest thing, the years and years of blind foreshadowing. Like I had it preprogramed in my head.

 

I’m not sure if it was the constant chanting that made the circumstances fall into place, or coincidence.

 

But at the moment I’m not worried about an eating disorder.

 

It’s depression.

 

Except the number in my head isn’t an age.

 

It’s two weeks.

 

x

When does it stop…

One of my ex boyfriends once told me things don’t get better, they just get worse. People keep on dying, terrible things continue to happen… and that was his excuse for explaining why my depression was irrational. Logic I either don’t understand, or logic I’m too afraid to ponder about…

…but I’m afraid I’m currently pondering it. As each day passes, my depression is getting worse. My brain feels heavier and less flexible, my emotions feel either missing or torn away in a numbing ache. The more I feel it, the more I feel like no one quite gets it. I wouldn’t want them to know how it feels, but I don’t like people pretending that they do – over simplifying it and prescribing a healthy lifestyle to fix all my problems.

I found one person that got how I felt. I pushed others away in hope to bring this person closer, unfortunately that ended in disaster – just like was foreshadowed in the opening statement. I pushed other people away only for him to follow them.

And now here I am.

More alone. More empty. I wish I could remember optimism, the feeling of assured excitement and enthusiasm.

My writing is irritating me right now, which is irritating me more because it’s the only outlet I have. I think I’m just going to have a sleeping pill. I can’t do today anymore.

One of the last things I asked him was,

“Do you believe that depression goes away?”

I preferred the question about the chicken and the egg.

x

 

UpDown. UpDown. UpDown.

Does every nightmare start as a dream; does it always start in gentle enthusiasm then escalate into something uncomforting. Cold and prickling with pain, harsh and aching. Searingly surreal, and undoubtedly terrifying.

 

Everything that’s up, must come down. Do they bounce? Is it a constant balancing act of heights and depths – like a rollercoaster that someone created using only the movements of copy and paste.

 

If naturally occurring patterns are common, and algorithms are predictive – what would be the binary of life? The Morse code to understanding why things happen the way they do, the timing they choose to make their mark and the harshness they choose to push upon their impressions.

 

If these are words written out of apathy and oozing dizziness, out of numb addiction to seeing a word…if is a silly word. You shouldn’t start a statement with if.

 

My eyes are blurry because I left my glasses somewhere I don’t want to return to. I’d give up one of my senses just to ensure I don’t have to feel what I felt. I’m not sure if there’s any point to me writing down sentences which only make sense to me, then publishing it for all to see. It’s like to a stand up show using only inside jokes, and I’m the only one giggling at the ‘punchlines’.

 

I want to kindly allow you to tell me when to stop, but again, another numb and meaningless statement in the forum of a one sided conversation. I’m doing this again to pass time, not to open up any wounds and see what falls out. Just to sit with me and keep me company whilst the second hand ticks and the minute hand slowly but surely glides.

 

What happened to me is now happening to my sister, its same same but different. Sort of like how we are same same but different. I wish I could find out why this always happens, why it always begins with me and ripples to her. At the moment I like the idea we have the same star chart – if there was ever a close idea of an algorithmic pattern to life it would be astrology.

 

Oddly enough at the moment I don’t like thinking about the future, I don’t like thinking about the day ahead, nor 10 minutes. I can’t create plans in my mind. It’s like everyone else is currently situated at a road with a series of forks, a maze or labyrinth as such. And I’m staring at the enclosed corner of a room – but it doesn’t worry me. I like looking at the pattern of the wall, the flaws in the indents and the sweeping of dust. I’m perfectly content right now looking at the smallest possible things, I couldn’t imagine consider planning a step. There’s too much around me right now to move, it’s almost like the opposite of claustrophobia. I’m perfectly content in my current tomb. It’s interesting and safe. No cold breezes, no surprises.

 

I guess something did fall out of the wound just then, hey? The moment you realise you’re content with your lifestyle because you describe it as a ‘tomb’…

 

Til next time x

Cold soup, Count Dracula & MC Escher.

There’s a little purple rope attached from my writing implement to my talking implement. A 100cm pale purple USB cable, from Mac book to iPhone. Usually I keep it attached at all times, like a safety cord to a treadmill, not because I worry the battery will run flat but because I have a habit of constantly losing my phone in a sea of blankets and pillows.

 

I almost always write things in the comfort of my bed. It makes me feel productive in a very meditative state. At the moment I’m writing on a big couch, covered in a M.C. Escher like patterned throw, three matching red linen pillows, a red felt thermal blanket my mum threw on me moments ago and a Count Dracula toy, which my sisters work friend stole for me when I said I found it intriguing.

 

My objectives today are to sort out uni, decide on a job, and slowly heal from my current health infliction (throat infection, I have a lovely video documenting the extent of the damage, but even a graphic warning wouldn’t do the imagery justice). I’ve been in bed for three days, my hair has been in the same messy bun – only evolving into more of a static mess hour by hour. It hurts to yawn, laugh or swallow. I really like food, but not enough to justify the pain it creates at current – my only options as of late have been cold soup, and frozen raspberries with changing option of ice cream or yogurt depending on how healthy I feel like being.

 

I watched every episode of Black Books in a day, 2 seasons of House, a horror movie I fell asleep through and half a stand up comedy show that reminded me laughing hurt. I used to be a sickly child when I was little, so I’m pretty good at this ‘resting’ gig. It’s an odd process, being unproductive in the aim of being optimally productive.

 

I think I’m writing out of boredom, also I’d rather write a blog post then talk to people write now. I wish being social was as easy as posting a collection of words on a world wide forum. I had a bad week with socialising, I guess I just realised that it’s really important to be choosey with the people you decide to spend time with. I never realise how destructive it was if you made the wrong decision. I think I over saturated my social calendar of late because of my newly appointed status of unemployment and being single. I just wanted to put myself out there to see which direction I wanted to go next – but I think that was the wrong tactic. Now I just want to go into hiding.

 

Ideally, I would love to deactivate my social media for a while – write for 30 days straight, and see what I end up with. Unfortunately, I chose to direct my new possible career in social media… unfortunately I’m good at social media, and socialising, but I have to honestly say I don’t think it does any good for me. I was never social growing up, I’d rather start up in the sky and play with my imagination then play with other kids. I think I knew better when I was four, than now at twenty-four.

 

It would be nice to have a reset button… sorry for the pointless rambling. I’m usually better at untying my thoughts and putting a moral or a epiphany on it. Lets blame the sickness, shall we?

 

Until next time x

Can I borrow an hour? I promise I won’t be long.

Train rides can be really boring without phones, or earphones or reading material. Train rides are just boring, specifically ones that go for an hour and twelve minutes. Before I was used to writing posts when I was on flights, but since the break up I doubt I’m going to be doing any Sydney trips soon.

 

I’m not sure if I’m going to miss flying or not. I miss the excitement; I miss the feeling of love. I miss the butterflies. But I don’t miss all the tears, or the anxiety or all the stress. I don’t really want to think about any of it to be honest, I’d much rather think about the future and be optimistic.

 

New career, new outlook, new new new new new. I don’t know if I feel different because of the change or because of the Prozac. Usually I write these posts to see how I’m feeling, but right now I think it’s best I don’t introspect too deeply. Mainly because I’m scared of my emotions. I don’t want to feel any of the pain I felt before, I don’t want to dig it up or describe it.

 

I’m mainly starting new paragraphs right now to defer from the topic of emotions, yet here I am… bringing it up… yet again.

 

Ok. So! Drinking.

 

I’m doing way too much of it lately. I don’t know why, but I feel like a completely different person.

 

Ok, and again. Let’s stay away from the ‘f’ word.

 

Game of Thrones finale is tonight!!! …

 

Fuck it, all this blog is, is about emotions and feelings. Why escape it, right? I’m obviously typing this either, A because I’m bored or B because subconsciously I think there’s some necessity to it.

 

I used to work late at night, and now I’ve started work in social media and sort of professional writing. I think I prefer day me, however I also preferred getting an income. Have to start somewhere, hey? All I know…

 

Sorry I wanted a new paragraph.

 

All I know, (was that a bout of OCD!?) is that I’m happier and excited. I’m meeting new people, excited about things yet I don’t think more than twenty-four hours in advance. I’m not sure if that’s a negative or not, or rather me being precautious because last time I ended up planning ahead of time I got hurt. Badly.

 

I’m not sure if I have any readers anymore, other than the ones I link to a certain post to explain the reason why I am the way I am. If there are anymore of you out there, I would love to have some topics to write about. Pick an emotion, a word, anything.

 

I want to… continue changing, and I think I can’t do it listening to my emotions… mainly because I’m currently medicating them away. It’s funny thinking about an emotion but coming to a blank – like looking out the window assuming to see a view only to see a brick wall. I’m not sure if that’s my personal attempt of self preservation to block me away from the emotions that I fear… well just fear really. Is it normal to have a phobia of emotions?

 

Thinking back, I’m not sure if I’ve cried since the initial 3-week procedure of Prozac. I think I cried enough before, but when you start to become almost allergic to your emotions… is that a thing?

 

If an allergy is the physiological way of fending off a contagion of the body which may cause harm, which right now my emotions are, would it be right to say that I’ve grown an allergy to my emotions? Or an intolerance? Are they poisonous, or toxic? Is the first sign of anxiety directly damaging, or do I have a reserve? I don’t think I’m quite at the moment to test the theory.

 

Haha start out writing on a train to pass time, hoping something cheery might come out – mainly because I’m slightly paranoid of the people behind me peeking at my screen and reading things about me… which really is silly, when I’m posting this for the world to see anyway… I’m rambling, aren’t I?

 

Well… I’m bored, and right now you’re all I have. I have… 20 more minutes I think until I reach my stop.

 

So… to pass the time I’ll write about a person. I won’t give them a name or any hint of identity. All I’ll say is I miss them. It’s not the obvious. It’s just someone who’s turned into more of a passing thought then an option. Option to talk to, confide in, laugh with and learn from. It’s funny how at the end of the day, it’s the people you really never knew that can be the reason for sleepless nights. Wondering thoughts of what could’ve been and what never will be. I’m not sure if anyone else shares my predicament.

 

But…when writing I suppose I assume I’m directing my feelings at someone, or more my words to someone.

 

10 minutes left now.

 

5 more minutes ( I had to edit ).

 

I would think that every writer types out their words with a specific certain person in mind. Maybe someone they wish was reading but know they won’t be, or maybe someone they know will read it, curving and manoeuvring their words carefully around the specifics to ensure anonymity.

 

Looks like this is the last stop.

 

Thanks for the entertainment.

 

Till next time x

TBT

“Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl. And her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.”

 

I fell to these words when finding the correct way to describe my connection when writing the eulogy. Except it was me wanting to answer his laughter.

 

I woke up this morning after having a dream where my dad had made a cameo – but being a dream it wasn’t actually my dad, it had to be a lot more intricate and contorted then that. Someone had entered the house, someone strangely familiar but estranged nonetheless. He played a game of impersonation,

 

“Who do you want to see me play next?”

 

“Dad.”

 

I remember he started to fade into his looks, his hair grew sparse like my dads. His face became more round, the words that came from his mouth were his. His voice belonged to my dad. His eyes, were blank.

 

“Your eyes need to change. You’re not him. Your eyes are black.”

 

I grabbed the sides of his face staring, hoping the harder I look, that maybe I would see the blue grey come out. The same blue grey of my own. The same blue grey he gave to me.

 

I saw them flicker and slowly haze into the colour. I grew excited, but it never quite got to the point were I saw him. He sat down and started saying things my dad must’ve once said and my subconscious clung on to.

 

I felt soothed, I felt relieved, I felt anxious.

 

Sometimes you see things in a dream and at the time feel lucky that you get a chance to see someone again, and there are times in which you know it’s a dream, and the time you have is scarce. So scarce you try not to get any happiness from the moment to avoid the impending disappointment. I think that’s how I live my life now.

 

My alarm went off.

 

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling… stretched out my arm to stop the noise. Closed my eyes in the naïve hope he might come back… which I knew wasn’t going to happen. Once I’m awake, I’m awake. Falling back only greets me with sleep paralysis.

 

I stretched out my arm again to get my phone, the motion reminding me I had to get up to go to the airport. I did my usual routine of scanning the notifications, this time slightly more sceptical than usual.

 

One read, “Why aren’t you at LTZ tonight?”, the bar I frequent so often half the population believes I’m on their pay roll.

The next couple in green that historically gave me excitement, this time led to a feeling of suspicion and tiredness.

 

I went on to check my blue notifications, which led to confusion and guilt.

 

I had 40 minutes to get ready to leave to catch my flight, oh how I miss those butterflies.

 

I wish I knew what happened to them. Did I kill the butterflies? Did I send them away? …did he poison them? Did I give them to someone else?

 

A million crazy and abstract thoughts can travel through ones’ mind when they’re on a plane. 40,000 ft above the world, among the clouds and the sky which I spent my child hood staring at thinking of amazing possibilities.

 

I either looked at the sky looking out for planes, imagining it was carrying my dad and he was going to come home to surprise us all. Or I would imagine others things, usually involving something happy and exciting… like my toy pink bunny coming to life and being my partner in crime, or imagining if Pokémon were real.

 

Now I don’t look at the sky as much, I look at the ground, or the drink in front of me. I don’t think of happy things; I imagine the worst possible scenarios for everything. I have this compulsive idea that if I play out the scenarios in my head they won’t happen in real life. Or at least if they do, I’ve come prepared.

 

I think it’s this new way of thinking that’s made the butterflies disappear. I think I’ve poisoned them all. I think this is why I can’t ever feel happy with something, because I can’t be content with happiness. I didn’t prepare for happiness, I prepared for the worst.

 

I used to think the only person I wanted to impress was my dad.

 

Thank you x