I used to look at older people when I was young and think it must be lovely not to be a tangle of uncertainties and social awkwardnesses. I think it was a mirage. Maybe it was a straight out con.
that’s one way I deal with pain. To see it as part of me. And as part of recovery. I guess I’m remapping my brain, and distracting it from a painful sensory overload.
And, now, here I am, unravelling some of the tangles life left me.
I wrote a little story last year. It was about music and its potential power and beauty. It explored the terrifying notion of how it might feel to exist without music in our world. It was a tender little piece. … it had magic, for all its lightness and air. It had depth.
Trees curled and curved in, up and over, and boulders pushed the earth aside. Hat tucked his spidery legs underneath and settled down on a mossy rock. Silence enveloped him.
There were many moments over the last few months when I wished I’d been on time. Then one moment gathered all those moments. When I needed it most, I was there.
time is a river
I put markers in
like stepping stones
Some days, I wonder why I write stories. Is it to get published? Yep. Can’t deny that one. Is it to be read and heard, and maybe loved? Oh, yes. But why does it make me ache if I don’t?
Where you might see softness, I can find strength. Where you think you’ve found weakness, I can see depth.
Hearing music, being able to play it, singing it beautifully or singing it as if no-one else exists in the world. Tapping it out, hearing it as you run your fingers along a fence, sensing it in the pulse of another. Feeling it. It all blends to a sweet and personal harmony.