Secret Library

It's hidden deep you know

That secret space within my mind

That place where no one goes

And none can find.

It’s where thoughts spark

And ideas flow

The rhythms in the dark

Where secrets grow

I write stories in my head

And talk to made up names-

Of people long now dead

With strange and secret games

Shelves and shelves of dreams

Each waiting at my call

And I with infinite means

Control it all

Indeed at times myself I cannot find

This secret library within my mind

My Impossible Future

If I could imagine a future for myself that would make me the happiest, it would be living in Greece, by the beaches or on one of the islands, with a house overlooking the bay and a sailboat moored in sight.
 I would have a wonderful husband who would sail with me around the islands in the summer, and I would make gorgeous meals in my beautiful kitchen. I would be a writer with some success, I would go to the markets and have picnics on our boat, I would cure olives and have a wine cellar.
And I would have dinner parties all summer and mulled wine in the winter. We would be a close knit community and know our neighbors. I would have a moped and a cat named after one of the Greek gods. Castor or Pollux perhaps, or Hephaestus.

It's so idealistic, so romanticized, I don't even know if such a place could exist. But if it did, I think it would look something like this:
 A house on the hillsides of Greece, on one of the ancient islands which once housed Odysseus. This is where I would find my inspiration, where I could look out my window every day, and find true satisfaction.

Society tells me to be successful and have a career, that writing won't cut it, and I'll be destitute and desperate, living off my husband. Half of me wants to be ambitious, successful in my chosen field, the other half of me can think of nothing better than filling my days with hobbies and beach combing and cooking, a real old-fashioned house-wife (sans the children for now) and isn't it funny how I feel guilty and embarrassed to even admit that this could be my dream, because society dictates that those values are old-fashioned now, un-feminist, sexist even. Shouldn't fair values and an equal society simply mean that we have the freedom of choice, and whatever that choice may be, we should not be judged for it?

Sometimes I think we are all still just as stifled by society as ever, just in different ways.

On the nature of compliments

I have a funny thing about compliments. I cant accept them gracefully and it's not because I'm fishing, I just don't react well to them.
In all honesty, deep down its because I don't feel deserving of the comments. I think they are a lie to make me feel better while secretly they are judging me, thinking the opposite of their words, their eyes weighing me accusingly behind my back.
Sometimes they will make me smile and stand up taller, but the next moment I'm second guessing them, wondering what game they are playing, where it will come back to hurt me.
And isn't that just fucked up.

 I think a large part of this comes from the development of social media, and also society in general. We are told from the beginning, whether it is to our faces or subliminally -barbie dolls and ballet, makeup and the colour pink, supermodels and size four clothes - we are told how we should look, what a perfect girl should be like. And if we don't fit into that mold, woe on us.
High school is the hardest, made worse by social media. They smile and then behind your back, whisper things. School has its own society, and to be at the top requires ruthlessness, and the ability to claw your way there. One must stand on their 'lessers' to walk as giants.
And social media - that strange and abstract platform, where nothing feels real. Where one can be anyone, say anything, without real-world consequences. I cannot think of anything more dangerous, for without limits, we can become monsters.

Presents

I love giving people presents.

There's something to be said for imaging that person, every aspect of them, examining them in your mind, their likes, wants, interests, things they have said to you in conversations, and finally hitting upon the perfect object-the one they spoke about with longing, or something you know they will love.

Carefully wrapping it and then drawing a card with something quirky, something unique, something that is entirely them, even if they don't realize it.

And then the best part, when they rip through the wrappings and see the gift.

But the true gift, the one that makes it worth all the money and time I could spend, is their faces.

It's selfish almost, the amount of care and enjoyment that I put into gifts, it's not just because I want to make them happy; to show their friendship means so much to me that I try to translate it into the care of finding the perfect gift, it because it makes me feel good, I get a rush off knowing their happiness, seeing their disbelieving faces when I present them with this thing I have picked.

I probably sound pretentious, and it's not like I give the best presents in the world, but I do my very best. And to know that I have made them happy, that their eyes are shining and they are grinning and look on top of the world-that's because of me-that's something unique, something I love.

It makes me feel special, and worth something.

There's a hole in my story 

There's a hole in my heart 

And this storyteller is falling apart

                                  -The Passenger

Exit

The final exit in a play,

those last few words across a page,

penultimate speech the actors say,

upon that hallowed stage,

last act, the final scene,

swift and quick emotions rage,

as shattered is their dream

his face all harrowed flesh,

That final froth-corrupted scream, oh-

 Exit life, and enter Death 

A.A. Milne

I think I need to read Winnie-the-Pooh again I discovered the authors writings are beautiful.

'Some people care too much. I think it's called love'

'I used to believe in forever, but forever's too good to be true'.

Winter

Sometimes the hills look like fallen giants, their spines arched convulsively in death throes, now long grown over by the tall grass and trampled beneath some farmers feet.
The spine of the world, and suddenly the name makes sense, the angled mountains so sharp animals do not dare brave their slopes, the rivers wend an alternate path to avoid this geometric oddity and the sky sets itself at a crazed angle as the sun struggles to stay above the reaching hills.

Deciduous trees cling grimly to the mountainside, their roots arched in agony, the weight of the world bowing their bony fingers. They contrast sharply with the deep green hillsides and plush valleys that fall alongside these reaching giants; their pall like snow has freshly settled on their branches, all dead, all bare.

Their contorted limbs seem to whisper it with the dry rustle of their golden leaves now shed like robes and pooled between their roots.

Winter is coming.

The walls are painted red.

Why did they paint them red I wonder? They look like blood, or roses, or wine. That deep rich red that looks almost soft to touch. I feel like if I put my palm against the wall, my hands would come away crimson.

Did they do it to evoke warmth? Red is a warm color. Its also the color of passion and rage, jealousy and death.

It wraps around me, tinting my eyesight rose, in this universe of walls.

“The nuclear arms race is like two sworn enemies standing waist deep in gasoline, one with three matches, the other with five.”

                                    -Carl Sagan