1. Writing

As a way to encourage my writing, I had the idea to write about my first times. Hopefully, it’ll be a weekly challenge, and anyone can join in.

Writing

Vivid imagination was a gift of mine, very easy to fall into when time allowed. I’m able to get lost in my mind for days; my mood easily affected by the lives that lived in my mind. This is a story of a little girl’s first attempt to write, a story of passion screwed over due to fears.

Years ago, as a child, a story screamed at me to be written, an urge that was not new to me but simply had lacked the self-deprecation that prevented me before from taking such a step. That day the urge was stronger than I have thought it would be, and I wanted to write. So I took out a favorite notebook of mine and wrote my story. I wrote in explicit detail as it would be seen by the eyes of a child. Filled with new burst of emotions, my tiny hands shook but continued scrawling over the papers. The character grew in shape and color with each sentence. I remember the need to show my work to my parents, the need for their pride and love and I remember having this deep belief that they would love my work and would encourage me to become a writer.

Deeming the piece ready, I reread my unfinished scrawny story in an attempt to fix any mistake. I left my room, allowing my feet to carry me to my mother. I don’t remember what she was doing at the time or which room she was in. I reached her and my mother being a supporter of arts, she had in her eyes pride, after all her young child was talented enough to write her own story,

A peak into my childish story, though, and confusion settled in. English not being her native language, she asked me ‘What is it you wrote?’

So I narrated the story to her, I told her of a girl who lived among us. A girl who was abused by her parents. A girl who constantly thought of death and escape. A girl who cried alone in her room, because she was in so much pain. A girl who was too young to think of life and its unfairness.

I remember her gradual shock that was quickly covered up with a strained smile, she forced a nod and fake pride spoke volumes. Not knowing that a child sees and senses just as much as the adult. I remember leaving her and heading to my room, feeling confused. My father arrived home from work, I had at the time thrown the story away. Shredded the paper into pieces, angry with myself for aspiring to be a writer, for getting my hopes high. The child choosing to blame herself for disappointing her mother and later father.

My father called for me later that day, asking to speak with me. I walked into the room they sat in, thinking I was in trouble. Both my parents had grave expressions, and the moment I stepped in I was bombarded with questions: Have we ever mistreated you? Have we ever abused you in anyway? We love you and we would never hurt you, why would you write a story such as this? Eventually, the questions turned into a lecture of sorts, on what true mistreatment is, on how I’m lucky to have parents like them, on how my cousins are not as lucky and as they spoke my guilt and self-hate grew. The child wanted to hide away from the world.

 

I remember my frustration, my anger for their inability to understand as I attempted to explain that it was just a story. One of the many stories I lived in my mind, that I’m aware I’m lucky. I remember the hurt, I remember not being heard, and I remember, in frustration, quieting down. It was not the first time they hadn’t listened to me; it wasn’t the first time they had assumed on my behalf. Silence was easier as I have learned at such a young age. Finished with their lecture, I was finally allowed to leave to my room. I walked in with an attitude of defeat, I took a final look at the garbage bin where my story laid there in shredded pieces. I remember the silent tears that I wiped away angrily. I remember making a decision that day: I’ll never write again.

I stopped writing ever since and it took me years to gather my courage to leave behind that childish decision. It wasn’t till I had another strong urge for a story to be written, the urge fought me till it became an action. I wrote then and I secretly enjoyed it. I never, though, shared my secret with anyone and every time I wrote a piece, I shredded the paper. It took me years to have the nerve and to break that promise. Looking back to what my parents did, I understand now it was fear. Fear that I was unhappy, fear that they did something wrong, and fear that they were bad parents, and so they mistook my story for a personal experience.

Dr Faustus (Modern Retelling)

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Faustus. I was unfortunate enough to be born in this century in Egypt. Why misfortunate you ask? Because things couldn’t have been worse for me. I used to be a straight A student in school and college. While that should mean that I am well educated and know a lot of stuff about a lot of things, I don’t. Our educational system works on memorizing. That means after the exams and no longer using the info, all the things I learned evaporated from my mind. The other part of my problem is work. I have none and I can’t find any. Nothing says Egypt more than a 30 year old unemployed man.

So to recap; I am 30, barely know anything, and have no hope of finding a job. And that led to the stupidest decision I have ever made. It is the sort of thing that you hear about or see in a movie and think to yourself “Who is dumb enough to do that?” The answer turned out to be “Me”.

I think it is time for some clichés to set the mood. It was a long dark night–at midnight to be specific. I was walking in a lightless street, feeling as lost, confused, and angry as I’ve been feeling for the last decade. I came by a big long crossroad, also dark and deserted. A very weird looking guy suddenly appeared right in the middle of the crossroad. He was tall, and devilishly handsome (pun intended). He seemed to be emitting darkness and coldness, like he was the source of all of it. Needless to say he made me feel uneasy. If this had been a movie that would’ve been the part where a car suddenly shows up and kidnaps me. Or a helicopter appears out of nowhere along with black vans filled with agents with guns coming to arrest me. But this is real life where that doesn’t happen. But apparently, weirder stuff do.

Back to the mysterious guy. The closer I got to him, the more silence seemed to prevail, and the more the world seemed to disappear. When he spoke, his voices felt disembodied; if he wasn’t the only one around, I would’ve thought someone else was speaking. It felt like it didn’t come from his throat, but from inside my mind, and yet there was an echo to it that filled the world around me.

“Hey Faustus” he said “Don’t you know it is dangerous to walk into a dark crossroad this late at night”

As you can expect, the first thing I said was “How do you know my name? Do I know you?”

He laughed a very gloating laugh “I love it when people say that. You do know me, or at least know of me. I am the great Lucifer. And that is how I know who you are and everything about you.”

“OK” I said uncertain of what I was supposed to do or react. No one ever told me what I should do when I meet a crazy person.

He sighed exasperatedly. He was obviously bored of having the same conversation over and over again. “Humans are so narrow-minded. You know of me. You know I exist. And yet when I appear before you, you act like I am a fictional character from fairy tales”

Then the most unnerving thing happened. His pupils were on fire. Or to be more accurate, they were fire. My first instinct was to run. But I was too scared, and let’s admit it, too intrigued to run.

“You didn’t try to run” He sounded proud “I knew you were different. That is why you were given the honor of meeting me and not one of my demons”

He looked at me like he was waiting for me to say or do something, but my mind was completely blank. That seemed to really annoy him, A LOT. I guess he must have had somewhere to be and this was taking longer than he wanted.

Suddenly there was fire everywhere and that was enough to snap me back to reality. I looked around panicking, thinking if I don’t run I’ll get burned. But it seemed to go everywhere but 6 meters in every direction around us. Even smoke didn’t dare come near us.

“Now that I have your attention again, let’s talk business”

“Business?” That I didn’t expect.

“Your life sucks, no offence. And it is not going to be any better in the future. So I’ve decided to offer you a deal. I will make you rich and successful and anything else you want – you’ll set the terms you want- in exchange for your soul. And don’t ask me what I am going to do with it. It is too obvious and it is none of your business”

“I’ve seen enough movies to know that” I said, terrified of the thought. “And when do you get my soul?”

“Tell me first your price, and then I’ll tell you when you’ll pay for it”

Every part of me was telling me to run and forget that this ever happened. I recalled everything I’ve heard about those who sell their soul to the devil (even if I didn’t believe it then) and how they rot in Hell for all eternity. And I remembered the movies I’ve seen; they die before their time, as soon as they achieve their dreams. The darkness inside of me took its turn to speak “Is there really something called Hell? That seems more like a scary tale they tell children and adults to get them in line. And even if you don’t sell your soul, you still might go to Hell after you die. The only difference is, you wouldn’t have had a good worthy life and have gone to this so-called Hell for nothing”.

For some reason, this seemed to make sense to me. It was a valid argument. And I was so tired of being a loser and having everyone remind me of how big of a loser I am.

“OK” I screamed out without even realizing it. “I’ll give you my soul but I don’t want a limited time offer. I want to be a genius like Bradley Cooper in Limitless. I want to be able to start my own company. And I want to live a long normal life and you get to have my soul when I die”

“I accept this deal, but with one small alteration. You say you will start your own company. So let me give you an incentive to make you work hard; the minute your company fails, you die and I get your soul. As long as it is a big successful company, your soul is yours”.

“Fine”

And the deal was struck. A contract appeared in my hand accompanied by a sharp pain in the left chest, right on the heart. I looked and I saw blood on my shirt.

“The contract has to be signed with your blood”

I put my finger on the cut to cover it with blood and signed my name at the bottom of the contract. Just as I wrote the last letter, the contract and the fire disappeared. It was just me and him and silence once again.

“Good luck, Faustus” he said it in a way that made me feel it was meant to be a curse. And with that he disappeared.

That was 6 years ago. The cut on my heart never healed, and the bleeding never stopped. I’ve tried everything. But even with all my money and all the advancement of medicine, a simple cut turned out to be impossible to treat.

As per my deal with Lucifer, I am as smart as Cooper in Limitless. I can see every possible scenario to every situation. I can see the end of a game from the moment it starts; the result of every variable. But when it comes to my life, every scenario I see seems to end with a fire. When I choose a girl to marry, I see the wedding set on fire. Whenever I consider a deal for my company, I see my company on fire.

That is why I had no choice but to always go with the safe usual options that everyone always does. And that is a source of great irony. All my life I thought if I had been a little more intelligence, things would have been so much better for me,. Now I am one of the smartest people on the face of this Earth, yet I can’t use my intelligence for my own advantage. Keeping the company successful in order to keep my soul for the longest time possible turned out to be the hardest job I’ve ever had to do. I work 24/7, travel all over the world, and that is barely enough; the company is merely doing OK. I became the modern day Uncle Scrooge; I have more money than I could ever need, but I have no time to spend it or enjoy it. Personal and social lives haven’t been an option for the last 6 years. And neither has sleep.

It turned out that Lucifer added a gift to the deal; I can create and control fire. At first I was so excited remembering all the cool movies I’ve seen where characters were able to do that and how much fun they had with it. So I started to “have fun” with it. I’d make my friends think their car is on fire and then create an explosion around it. Then after they freaked out and when the smoke clears, they see their car is intact. Yep, that was all my “genius” mind could think of. At first I did this prank on my friends, then family, then random people when I was bored. But soon I started to realize why Lucifer gave me that ability; so I’d never lose sight of our deal, so that I’d never forget my fate, and so that I’d never enjoy the deal. This “cool” ability became my torture, which is why I stopped using it. But that didn’t actually help. I now see my future residence in every fire I come across, no matter how small. Even cooking became a punishment for me.

My life now is a living hell, looks like there is no escaping it. My deal with Lucifer has brought me nothing but torture. Before, I had nothing and was miserable, but now l have no life. I have seen all the things I once wanted to see. I have done all the things I had wanted to do. And I have all the things I had ever wanted to have. But they don’t seem to mean anything to me, or bring me any joy. Every waking and sleeping moment of my life, I am regretting that night, thinking no matter how much life sucked back then, at least the little things made me happy; my friends, family, occasional outings and parties. At least I was able to sleep and escape from life for a while.

And this brings us to where I am right now, outside my company, at 11:58 PM, taking a last long look at the nightmare I once longed for and sold my soul for. I guess the old saying is right “Be careful what you wish for”.

Peep peep.

I look at my watch, it is 12 AM. Talk about a happy coincidence, I didn’t mean for it to happen at this exact moment, but the irony is too sweet to let it pass. I snap my finger and watch the yellow and orange as they rise, spreading warmth all around. It is unstoppable as it makes its way to the top like I once did.

In a matter of seconds the fire is everywhere, not an inch of the building was spared. And since this is Egypt, the fire truck won’t be here before a minimum of half an hour, and maximum next month. That means it is going to be a job well done.

Lucifer suddenly appears before me, confused and dumbfounded. I look at him and give him a finally relieved smile. “What can I say, I missed you and couldn’t get a hold of you so I decided to plan this happy event to see you”. If it was possible to make Lucifer feel like the stupidest man wandered earth and the heavens, this has certainly done it. “I don’t understand! Why? I should be the one to burn it or do something to force you to give me your soul”

“I’ve had enough, I’d rather be dead and tortured out in the open, than to be secretly tortured in the disguise of being blissed. And this stupid move is nothing compared to what I’ve done 6 years ago.”

He just stood there, still unable to grasp what I’ve said and done.

“Do you want to take me now, or should I get another ride to Hell”

That confused looks never wavered from his face as he approaches me still trying to comprehend what I have done. And here I am, standing next to Lucifer himself with a relieved smile on my face. I take a last long look at the glorious fire and suddenly; it all turned black.

I Want To Be Happy

​I want to be happy….

Sounds simple. Pretty basic. I mean, we all want to be happy. It is a universal thing. We all agree on it.  So was is it so hard? Why aren’t I? 

I have asked myself that question so many times and I am still nowhere close to a possible answer. My life isn’t bad. I am grateful for what I have. I am thankful for every person in my family even when they at their worst. I have no real struggle or issue. My parents don’t leave in distress and they never abandon me. I have friends that were pretty much made for me. I have a job that while it doesn’t pay well, it leaves me with a lot of free time and flexibility.

So what is it? 

Why aren’t I happy?

I decided to stop asking myself that question and try to find out what would make me happy.

Maybe I am shooting down people’s suggestion and ideas too early!  Maybe they have the answer!

Will being in a relationship being me happiness or will it just bring hassle and drama?

Will having more money make me relaxed or will my expenses increase as well, leaving me in this endless cycle of having barley enough?

Will developing my hobbies and talents give me a purpose or will it become a task that I have to do?

Will anything I do ever make me happy or will my mind and life find a way to sabotage any chances I get?

A Stroke of a Brush

Frivolous colors splashed on the canvas creating a massive explosion of emotions hidden but burning under my skin. The black hole within me decreases in size with each stroke of brush; breathing becomes easier with each expression of color or shape. Nothing is clear; no intention is applied on the oil painting just plain frustration and anger. Being engrossed in my painting silences the voices in my head; they become a mere buzz that is eventually reduced into eerie silence. I don’t know what scares me more, the voices or the silence. I can’t handle being alone and yet all I want is to be alone. I start breathing heavily as my strokes become more and more aggressive and anxiety creeps up to me. I work harder and my colors change from brighter to darker colors, and the hole in my heart grows steeper. My art is my voice but I speak a language no one understands so I’m still unheard. I scream my pain and frustration through the colors I have but I’m not allowed to be seen or heard. After all I am privileged, who am I to complain, who am I to break free of the chains surrounding me and who am I to even believe I’m chained at the first place. So I break free only through my canvases.

 

Simple Desires chapter 6

You know that moment before the impact, that split second between oblivion and the shattering truth, like that instant in some hospital corridor when the doctor is heading down to tell the anxiously waiting family that piece of news that will slowly unravel the fabric of their existence, these tightly woven memories and constants that will soon change after the doctor pulls at the binding threads.

I’ve always been intrigued and drawn to examine such moments or what I call the ‘’the seconds before the impact”

To this day I still remember my first “seconds before the impact “and unwittingly I thought it would be my last.

It was 2 a.m and Chris hadn’t returned from god knows where , I had completed the evening with my mum so she wouldn’t get too worried and had found out that Chris had rushed out claiming he had an urgent work matter to deal with.

Had he noticed me?

Did he hear me as I came down the stairs?

I kept thinking about that awful scratching sound and the blood…….

what was bone chilling is that Chris didn’t seem to care about the mess,  and part of me felt he sought relief in that mess he reveled in the savagery he was inflicting on his skin

Was his other arm like that?

I sat on my bed unable to sleep until I knew he was home safe, I’d tried calling him but his cell was closed.

At 3 am I heard stumbling behind the wall adjacent to mine, I quickly headed out to the hall unlocking Chris’s door –we had each other’s keys in case of emergency- as I rushed through his disheveled apartment I didn’t have a moment to notice the waning signs.

Chris was never messy, in fact he was agonizingly immaculate bordering on OCD

This wasn’t normal

Something was disturbingly wrong

I headed quietly towards his bedroom bracing myself of what I might see…

“Chris”

He was balled up in the corner next to his dresser, his head was bowed and I could see he was shaking

“Chris” I called again not knowing what to do or how to begin to gather those shattered pieces bundled together in the corner

“Chris, sweetie can you hear me?”

I approached him silently afraid to make a sudden move, he looked like a wounded animal, and then I heard that blood freezing scratching sound again.

“Oh god “I covered my mouth, tears welling in my eyes as he continued to scratch the already raw flesh of his forearm completely oblivious to my body crouching in front of him.

His sleeves were no longer  clean , but instead stained with his own blood , and I got a feeling that Chris had two self-harming states , the controlled one he had at my mother’s house and this frantic unstable one he was having here in the comfort of his own apartment

I called his name again but he didn’t answer. I forced his chin up to see his face but he was so stiff and wooden

I tried again trying to seek comfort in his warm green eyes, but they were closed in a grimace, brows knitted and his mouth was slightly opened his breathing shallow.

I could smell the alcohol in his breath.

Chris never drinks.

I buried my face near his neck whispering comforting words coaxing him out of whatever hell he’s been trapped in.

“Chris sweetie please , you’re hurting yourself , please Chris don’t do this honey , Chris listen to my voice” I kept pleading with him through my tears ,my body was so pressed to him that we might as well been one .

I slowly reached my hand to his frantic one, touching his bloody fingers “Chris you’re breaking my heart Chris please, I’m so sorry I didn’t know, please forgive me”

His sense of urgency slowed down and I took the opportunity to grab at his hands holding them tightly, he tried to struggle resisting my touch but I was so determined to snap him out of it.

I pressed my face harder to his neck “it’s ok, you’re ok Chris, I got you, its ok I’m here I got you, you can stop now “ I kept chanting the words over and over until I felt him relax into me , I hadn’t noticed then of course but later I realized that it was the first time Chris had let me be that near to him or touch him

When I felt him completely relax, his muscles unwinding. I slowly took him by the hand urging him up, thankfully he complied.

I led him to his en suit bathroom and sat him at the edge of the tub, I grabbed the nearest towel and soaked it with water .all the time I made sure I was still holding his hand, I was so terrified to leave him alone for a minute fearing he would return to his self-harm.

I quickly reached for the antiseptic he had in his mirror cabinet, unsurprisingly I found a soothing balm that was also anti scarring.

I cleaned his wound , pressing gently at the raw skin , all that time Chris’s eyes were almost closed as if he was barely conscious to what was happening , I feared the antiseptic would sting but Chris hadn’t even flinched as if he was completely numb,. I applied the soothing balm and slowly wrapped his abused arm in gauze and cleaned the mess we made

My hands hesitated when it came to what I wanted to do next. I slowly reached his shirt unbuttoning it but Chris’s eyes suddenly shot wide in panic

What are you doing? His voice was terrified and shaky, his eyes glazed and unseeing

“Chris it’s ok sweetie, I’m just going to take off your shirt and get you a clean one “I said soothingly

Chris did not seem to comprehend my words his eyes were still wide, cold sweat erupted on his forehead

“Please don’t do this, please I won’t do anything please I’ll sit quietly I won’t fidget “Chris’s voice pleaded with me, his eyes filled with agony

My heart sank and shattered and bled

I realized Chris didn’t know it was me ……..Chris saw someone else in my place someone who had hurt him.

Someone who the mere action of moving caused him to terrify Chris to that extent.

“Chris baby it me, Ceels “I sobbed out

“Chris, its Cecilia you didn’t do anything wrong honey I just want you in a clean shirt “I ran my hands through his soft hair.

His mesmerizing green eyes focused on my face and a bewildered look replaced the terrifying one

“Ceels?”

“Yes it’s me Chris, I’m just going to remove this shirt ok “I kept my eye contact, as I slowly unbuttoned his bloody dress shirt.

Chris’s eyes stayed on me drinking me in as if he thought I wasn’t real, I slowly finished my task and tried to push the sleeves off his shoulders, but he stiffened

“Chris I’m just going to slip it off gently” I said soothingly, afraid he was confused again

But he wasn’t, I could see that at this moment he knew who I was but he was still afraid

I gently slid the sleeves off, shushing him and telling him he’s going to be fine, when my hands pushed at the sleeves removing them from his arms I gasped …….

I was wrong …..The moment I found him in his bedroom wasn’t my moment of impact…

This was.

 

Miserys’ Mistress

You are miserys’ mistress. Even if fortune looked your way and gave you the night of your life, you would still sneak back into miserys’ arms.

You claim you desire joy or one of her friends. You claim you yearn for peace, when in reality you allow drama to engulf you.

You are miserys’ bitch. A sly one at that, a submissive slave who may appear to obey when beckoned when in reality it is you who beckons misery.

Misery likes to think it owns you, you let it think it makes all the decisions and has all the power, that misery has a hold on you… It is misery who is your bitch, your plaything.

You throw yourself into a poisonous codependant relationship with each other. So twisted you both are, it’s hard to tell where either of you begin or end.

Misery and you may have an agreed upon open relationship, one that involves daliances with others such as pain, depression or hunger, but you always find your way back into each other’s beds. God forbid you may sleep apart.

Even if you won the lottery or found your one and true soul mate, misery will always follow, not out of choice but because you’ve chained it at the ankle.

God forbid you’re ever torn apart.

The Struggle Within

The pain that followed the punch was unbelievable, it coursed through the child’s body as every part of him screamed for attention. The boy was hunched over gasping for breath. He shook but not in fear nor in anger but in misery. The being that hovered above him was just a shadow, a huge dark unclear silhouette, which just ignored the boy’s existence.

Determination set in the boy’s shoulders as he straightened and looked into the shadow’s unclear face, managing to fuel its anger again. It jerked and took a step back in confusion before it attacked again with a forceful slap across the boy’s face. Stoic, the boy said nothing as he fell to the ground. Silence descended within the abyss they are in, only the heavy angry breaths of the silhouette was audible.

It didn’t take long before the child became determined again, refusing to be ignored. The child stood but instead of a boy, it was a girl. She sniffled and wiped her tears off her black and blue face, her eyes filled with willpower as she stared into the silhouette’s face. It didn’t take long before it kicked the girl, and her body flew far away before it hit the ground. Her body fell lifeless and the shadow grew restless. It walked around mumbling, unable to fathom what was going on as she began to move and gain her strength again. As she stood her body changed and grew into that of a man.

The man stood and limped his way towards the shadow. When he was close enough he lifted his eyes and stared at its face. The silhouette was already prepared, and the moment the man looked at him, it punched him. The sound of a breaking rib echoed through the abyss, and so did the sound of a screaming man. Groaning, the man’s body began shifting into a more slender form.

A woman instead was holding her side, groaning in pain as she began to roll over to get on her feet. Barely able to stand up straight, the woman looked straight ahead at the shadow. She was prepared for what was to come. It didn’t take long before the silhouette slapped her and punched her till she fell to the ground. Motionless, the woman’s body curled and shifted into a shadow.

The silhouette in anger and confusion screamed, as it slowly dropped to its knees on the ground next to the unmoving shadow. It didn’t want to see them nor acknowledge them. It didn’t want to do this over and over again. They wouldn’t leave it alone in ignorance, because they wanted to be seen and accepted and that is the constant inner struggle that we have within our own abyss.

Week 22 – The Phoenix

I can’t look away; my eyes are glued to the scene. I hate what’s happening but I can’t help but admire its beauty. How can you look away when the phoenix is about to burst into flames only to rise again from the ashes! Even as you hear its painful screams, you are hypnotized by that glorious scene that it becomes a siren’s song. You want to get close but you don’t want to risk disturbing the master piece in front of you.

So no, I can’t take my eyes off him and I am not even sure I want to. I have seen him strong and powerful. I have seen him kind and passionate. But this! This is something (of fantasy).

The foundation has been rocked, cracked, and now it is about to fall… I can see the lights dimming in his eyes. He is about to break, go back to the starting point to which he thought there was no return. He is losing himself. His mind is frozen from the shock.

I can’t take me away off him. I don’t want to miss it.

I have been in love with him for so long. I know him from the inside out and every time I knew a bit more, I fell for him a lot more?

To see him like this, broken, crying, is worse than ripping my own heart out.  How can something so painful, be so beautiful?!  why can’t I look away?!

I want to approach him, help him, be all that he needs me to be. But I know he doesn’t want me to. If he has to break, then he has rise again on his own. He doesn’t want any help, and he doesn’t need any. All he wants, is to feel my presence, my belief in him. For the only one who can rebuild him, is himself. Only he has the power. He is the phoenix, powerful no matter what. He will burst into flames and be born again, stronger than ever.

Week 22 – Yearning

There are things I know I’m missing, which can haunt me to no end. I don’t always know what they are nor can I see them clearly at times. I’m thirsty for something, yearning for it – but what? No clue.

What can desire bring me? Will satisfying that itch, that yearning, will it make it all better? Would I be happy then? Will happiness cling to my chest and will peace take board?

I often doubt it. Sometimes when I know what it is I yearn, I know the harm and consequences that may occur. Many have tried to convince me to silence the voices that tell me not to give in to temptation. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

I pride myself on saying “no”, but it’s frustrating and can be insulting when someone belittles my intelligence or beliefs. “Sure, I’ve been waiting for you to give me permission all me life.” When will it be okay to say yes?

There are times I yearn for something not so harmful (you know unless some freak accident kills me, or I contract some unknown disease that will later be named after me). Live by the ocean or the sea, camp out under the stars in the middle of nowhere. Trust a stranger and sleep on their couch. Open my heart, even if for a short while and let myself feel… try things that scare me. I yearn to live. I guess that’s the clearest image most times.

However, it’s the smaller things that can get to me at times. The day to days. The things I miss or wish for; the company, the care, the peace, the noise…the love. I find myself thinking about my mother often lately. I would think of those moments I disappointed her, or the moments I did something that hurt her in some way and I would beat myself up for not being a better a daughter. I wasn’t bad, but I still have those bad memories I thought I had forgotten or let go. It’s the love that I miss the most. I guess I beat myself up because I never showed her how much I loved her – that I appreciated her more than I’d showed.

There are moments I feel I’ve lived too long and times when I feel I haven’t lived at all; that the end will find me all too soon. I hope the end doesn’t find me too soon.

Week 21 – Cliché

Sometimes trying to figure things out can be exciting, while at other times it can be frustrating. It just happened to be one of those days – I couldn’t get my brain to work, no matter how much I urged it to.

I stared at the page for what seemed to be hours. I couldn’t see it, couldn’t feel it. It just wasn’t coming to me. Where had that thread gone? I was clouded by fog, dense, grey and suffocating fog. I needed a high powered fan to clear it all away.

A lack of clarity can be interesting at times, while more often than we’d like, it is utterly frustrating. Gah, I already thought of that! I needed that light, an Edison light bulb floating above my head. The switch! Where was the switch? It used to be so easy before – the juices were running and it was all flowing.

Once upon a time… nope not that.

A long, long time ago in a land far, far away… nope.

There was once a… a… A what? A boy, a girl, a cow?

It wasn’t working. Not even the clichés were helping. Maybe I could have written about a one legged pirate with an eye-patch and… and… a parrot? No something different, how about a monkey? Lame. I was running out of time. Cliché, cliché, CLI-CHE. Cliché, cliché, CLI-CHE! The conga line music clung to the walls of my brain.

I should have just shut it down. Seemed pointless, why was I even bothering with it all? I clearly didn’t have what it took to keep up. A false talent if I say so myself. I didn’t care anymore, I decided that I’d just spew whatever dregs that still hadn’t found.

I’ve been dry for too long. In order to create, my well needs to be refilled. Where’s that oasis?