Not quite ‘unstoppable’ but still pretty good

A couple of weeks ago, I was… a little miserable.

My confidence was low. I didn’t feel like myself.

On the one hand, I was annoyed that I was spending so much time doing nothing – what a waste.

At the same time, however, I felt resigned – lazy – weak. I didn’t want to do anything. My motivation had seeped away.

In hindsight, it seems melodramatic.

But I guess, everyone has those periods.

It’s like a haze, I guess, that somehow manages to blur our sight. It’s weird. Feelings are both amplified and numbed.

And then when you get through the ‘not feeling so great’ bit, you can’t remember what was so bad in the first place.

For the last month or two months, I’ve made a conscious effort to keep myself busy. And I have been, extremely, extremely busy. So much so that, I haven’t had the chance to do things that I want to – meet friends and family, read, blog…

(I really should have had better time-management.)

Yet, I’m glad I kept busy.

Because somehow through the ridiculous hours and deadlines and whatever, I’ve somehow found some motivation.

I’ve learnt things about myself which surprised me.

It’s pretty much well-known to everyone around me that I’m an introvert, that I’m shy, that I’m quiet.

I’ve always thought I would be terrible at public speaking or teaching or anything involving me being vocal.

I’m just too awkward. Just too anxious. Just too shy.

But I guess, until you push yourself into new situations – you don’t know what you’re capable of.

Over the last few weeks, I have had to talk to strangers in public, I have had to try and explain complex ideas, I’ve had to be encouraging – I’ve had to let my passion for a subject show.

And weirdly, crazily…

I enjoyed it?

So strange. Seriously, I cannot get over the fact that I actually enjoyed talking. I am someone who can get palpitations just walking across my office to the printer – my self-conscious brain tells me I am disturbing others, people are staring etc. etc.

In short, I hate attention.

And yet, I pushed myself and it was great.

I loved it.

I don’t feel Unstoppable.  (Too rational and aware of my own fallibility for that).

However, I feel pretty good right now. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last two months it’s this – I should say yes to more opportunities, no matter how outside my comfort zone they are.

Toothbrushes kissing

It’s the small things, that she misses.

The toothbrushes kissing,

on the windowsill.

The two pairs of keys,

dancing in the hall way.

The shoes fighting;

his trainers army straight,

her heels tumbling,

on their sides.

The sounds of two alarm clocks,

fighting for attention.

The phone chargers,

keeping each other company.

She misses listening to the conversations,

of his coffee machine,

and her kettle.

She misses the childish behaviour,

of the television,

she misses how it used to disturb her peace.

(Keep it down!)

Mud stains.

Tapping feet.

Overflowing cupboards.

Extra washing.

She misses it all.

Most days though, it’s not too bad,

She can ignore the fact that toothbrush is lonely,

ignores the fact that the keys,

are doing a solo performance.

Most days, she can put the heels up straight,

she can tell herself that she’s okay,

convince herself that she’s thankful.

for one alarm

for tea in peace,

for the absence of annoyances.

But then that day comes around,

and her house won’t let her have peace.

It fights against her.

The single set of keys,

jingles

louder

and

louder

and cries

for

it’s partner.

The single alarm,

wails.

The kettle grieves.

She hides under her duvet.

And tells herself to

Stop.

Stop thinking.

But the TV roars.

And the memories come back.

And it’s all kissing toothbrushes, dancing keys, footwear fighting, alarm clocks singing,

It’s ‘I love you’

It’s ‘I’ll see you later’

It’s a

knock on a door

It’s a

scene from a movie

Not real.

Not real.

 

It’s ‘I’m sorry for your loss’

Not real

Not real.

Too real. 

 

Cold Burn

Her mother told her to stay away from fire.

‘Don’t get too close.”

It wasn’t a problem,

she was never a daredevil,

the fire didn’t call to her,

the warmth wasn’t alluring.

The chances of the flames touching her,

were slim to none.

She stuck to the outskirts,

stood far away from it,

content in her isolation.

She was stronger than the others,

resisted the temptation.

Someone should have told her,

there was more than one way,

to be burned.

It started slowly,

the cold,

then began to sit in her bones.

All alone, she started to shrink.

There was no warmth,

there was no heat.

The fire felt Oh, so far away.

She could spot it in the distance,

its’ red and orange halo,

surrounding the crowds,

all huddled together.

They looked smug…

and snug.

But she pitied them all the same;

didn’t they know,

how dangerous it was?

Fools.

Yes, the were fools,

she thought,

as her teeth began chattering.

The flames were at a safe distance,

far

far

away

but there was some-

thing,

some-

thing

occur-r

-ing,

it started at the t-t-tips,

and made it’s way up,

it burnt,

it burnt,

it burnt.

 

The fire suddenly looked inciting.


 

Not sure about this poem- a big experiment!

Daily prompt: Burn

My mother

My mother is warmth.

I watch her in Awe.

How she exudes her love,

her kindness,

her humour.

My mother and I,

are very different.

She is good with people.

(I am not).

She is resilient.

(I am not).

 

My mother is strength.

She’s the comfort to childhood nightmares,

she holds my dreams,

she knows my fears.

I never knew it before.

We argued.

We had disagreements.

I always said,

she wouldn’t understand.

I misunderstood

her warnings,

her advice,

for…

dictatorship.

I was a teenager,

(synonym for stupid).

 

My mother is empathy.

She forgives my transgressions,

she showers me with her love,

her concern,

and I…

I push back and say

“gosh, I’m twenty-one”.

 

My mother is not perfect,

she is over-protective,

a perfectionist,

she is too sensitive

and we argue,

we argue,

but these arguments,

are becoming

further

and

further

apart.

More and more,

we spend time

talking.

And more and more

I am in awe.

 

 

The abandoned

They made for a beautiful picture,

your Abandoned dreams.

Neglectfully discarded,

they still managed to scatter

beautifully on the ground.

It was strange watching them.

Each time you looked,

you saw something new.

Another piece of the story,

of the dreams and their shattering.

It was strange.

And sometimes,

when the light reflected harshly,

painful.

The glare was too strong.

You had to turn away.

Sometimes you could walk,

among them,

understand the reasoning,

for their abandonment.

 

On most occasions, the

shattered fragments lay dormant

and buried.

Abandoned under a sea of other choices,

until you step on one of the sharp corners,

and they prick you.

Angry at their abandonment,

they stab you.

It’s uncomfortable,

to say the least.

And then they start to reflect the tales,

of what could have been.

This bit’s the hardest.

If only you’d tried.

 

If only you’d tried.