Category Archives: chapters of my life

for a story to be truly, effectively told, one must first split that story up into parts. small or big.

no story is told in a single breath. no novel is written in a single day.

this is that story. that novel.

enjoy. :)

114. i can tell you know

i’ve changed so much under your guidance, but one thing has remained the same – give me a challenge, a living breathing red-blooded challenge, and i will take it.
veni, vidi, vici.
like yesterday.

a stranger fell in love, yesterday.
you could see it, the way he gathered the smiles and attentions as if they were diamonds falling from the sky – before anyone else could see them to steal them.

it was worth it, you know, the month of not eating, the lonely walks and hunger pangs, when you were dans la France. i, again, get the reaction i used to be so accustomed to: the sleek appreciation of men. for beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but as a rule, these days, less is more. and you should know, a woman needs no cambridge degree to attract a man with it in his possession. we can safely learn from history that the meek and mild do inherit the earth, just as the bible says.
sharp tongue cuts nothing but your chances of success.

not quite sure why, but i rather liked him. call me crazy, but i think it was his degree. his singing wasn’t bad either, but i’m not the sort to fall for that.
he’s not you, granted, but times like there, my inner hunter wakes from slumber. rich, clever, funny: why not make the most of the spoils?

no, i don’t mean that.

i can tell you know.

113. you would have done it

breaking up is never easy i know, but i have to go – the abba song plays on a loop in my head, ringing in my ears.
is it time to call it quits?
count the losses and move on?
i don’t know. we’re just about to move in together. i know, wow! two weeks til we finally land in each other’s pocket. and i’ve been waiting for this. and you don’t care. you can’t even be bothered to buy the plates when i’ve bought all the cutlery, the knives, the pots and pans.
i think back on us and wonder if you ever cared. was there something always niggling in the back there?

three years five months. a long time.
how many girls could you have fucked in that time begs the question. how many more women like the french madame would have offered to suck you off if you’d been single? mind you, it clearly didn’t stop her. approaching you in your lunch break day after day, a preying mantis, with luscious lips and killer eyes (imagination, my darling, is no friend of mine). she’d have seduced you in no time. you said yourself you would have done it, had i not been in the way waiting for you back in london, withering away like a flower in the desert.

for what are all the men in the world if i can’t have you?
a common misconception of women in love.
i wonder if the air is clearer now, when i don’t love you in the same way i did. the heart stops still. it waits for you, as we continue to flitter the best years of our lives on each other.

112. if i would be this happy

so your brother is going to cambridge. we went over there with congratulations: chocolates and a card, as you do, because i’m proud of him. though not as proud as i am of you. you deserve something like that so much more and i think we both know that.

looking back now, do you remember the day we were waiting for our results to appear on the screen of the computer? the tears and awfulness of that day? the sitting on the grass in the field near your house, later, the weather lukewarm, sun popping in and out of the clouds? because i remember. you got your grades but i didn’t. one mark away from getting into the right university, one mark away from solidifying myself away from you.
i knew then that something wanted us to be together – who knows what would have happened if i went somewhere else? knowing me, you would be a memory. knowing you, you’d hate me for that.

how poignant it all is, looking back. but i don’t regret a thing. whatever will be will be and all that was makes us who we are now. i sit here now, wrapped in a towel, readying myself for an evening out with you (tenessee williams’ “sweet bird of youth” at the old vic), and wonder if i would be this happy had something else occurred?
what if i’d got the grades, what if you didn’t, what if some force of nature ripped the fabric of us?

and i wonder, if we knew the future if we’d have done it all again.

111. traveler at heart

the night was gloomy yesterday, moon acquiescing to the smattering of grey overbearing clouds. we didn’t go anywhere and i wished we had.  i didn’t feel like reading, the longing for the impalpable weight of your breath on my skin so overbearing. the long stretch of time loosened memories, it made me heavy with anticipation of our holiday next week – hiking up mount snowdon, just the two of us.

going to university (feels so long ago now!) made me realise how little of britain i have really seen. there were people there, from china, singapore, malaysia, who flittered their summers away on lancashire plains, up and down landmarks, around scotland and wales and i felt like i hadn’t seen britain at all. psychologically, i think, we always long to see another culture, another way of life because we think it will shock us, inspire us, change us. what we fail to realise is that our own culture is just as beautiful and just as unique. so i’m digging up my old walking trousers (if they still fit) and going up spending three nights where, granted, people still speak english, but where the way of life is not what we’re accustomed to in London – it’s quieter, peacefuller, more at one with nature.

i love the hustle and bustle of life here, the dip and pull of waves of people rushing places, but sometimes it’s nice to be in the multitude of green with the feeling of life at a standstill, catching a breath. our last trip to wales (july the eighth twenty twelve?) reaffirmed my love of london – llandudno was smaller than expected and everything shut at five, giving its evenings an eerie, cold feel. but the beauty of the surrounding was irrefutable – i longed to take the blue skies and green hills with me upon return.

so i’m excited, definitely excited. i think i’m a traveler at heart.

109. but i couldn’t

i thought of making another blog, starting a story from scratch, erasing the past i had myself forgotten; but i couldn’t. i couldn’t think of what to call it, couldn’t make my own words, having used yours for so long.

so, still, i write to you, though you are mine. i still write to you for who else could I write to, who else makes my heart slurp up the blood quite so greedily, who else can take the whole of me with one look? if he exists, and doubtless he does, i haven’t found him yet.

you swept me off my feet watching sunrises by my side in the train, gaze lingering to my thighs, lips ready to go for the jugular. you courted me through the snow, waiting for my other loves to die a natural death. you won me, fair and square, because it was i who awakened the predator in you and blood-lust blinkered you. i let you into the darkest part of me and you took me but if you stopped loving me, i would stop loving you. i must admit, there are nights when i wonder what that pain would feel like.

over time, i understood i never meant to be the best, only desired. i’m not ashamed of that – all that we are, all that we have stems from desire. the instinct to conquer is stronger than the instinct to love. you should know that because i don’t miss X and Y. you should know that because i still write. you should know that because once in a while i tell you that i don’t believe in love.

i’m that girl you met all those years ago that told you i was gonna fuck a lotta guys, just different.

108. flesh and blood

intrinsically, we are all the same: flesh and blood, bones and dust. and when we are born, the world flutters under the weight of us. we are the oxygen of life.

as a woman, it is hard not to feel the nautical beat of potential life swimming somewhere deep down inside, the taut knot tied tight. and only the tide of red flushing the possibility out is a concession of peace, a book falling shut with a gust of wind, oyster shell clamming up. we learn to breathe only for ourselves again.
we are liberated, we are free. from responsibility, from fear, from life, yet unborn, screaming to break out with a pair of lungs not yet formed.

and yet, on the other side of a coin, we are told that once formed, the foreign clump has rights? jeremy hunt and patriarchy. it’s men’s world, just as it ever was. we strive for humanity but religion clouds the eyes. are statistics not enough? what’s humane about bringing an unwanted child into the grim ouskirts of this world?

i grew up in ukraine. the newly independent, drained ukraine of the nineties, worse even than it is today. i was a hotly unticipated child, the following story is not about me. the story is about a friend of my mum’s who said something i will never forget. at christmas, i take my kids to visit an orphanage to see how lucky they are to growing up in a family.
there’s in excess of 100,000 orphans in ukraine even now. 90% of them still have living parents, parents who don’t want to or can’t look after them. at 16, when they leave orphanages, they, more often than not, take to the streets to live the life of crime.

now, i’m not saying abortion is right but if ever i was in a bad position, i’d want to have that second chance, the opportunity to do what’s right and not throw a part of me away onto the scrapheap of life. pro-choice was never just about women, it’s also about the suffering of children born only to be abandoned.

then again, what would you know about that, mr. jeremy hunt,  educated at oxford, born to a sir?

107. in the rain

sometimes i think i only live inside your blood because i haven’t learnt to live in seperation.

you’ve been saving me so long, you know. and now, how do i tell you that it wasn’t worth it, my love? death will come and get me in the end and it will transpire to you that i was always closer to plath than to anais.
the death instinct shakes the salt out of me, it’s the pearlescent blue of the vein branches;  it will reach the heart eventually, it’s always there, diffused in the blood.

i’m always going somewhere, bumping into hurts, renewing my lease on life. and we all know life doesn’t come cheap and death doesn’t come fast for plain janes like us. sometimes i wish to break the mould like sylvia plath, but for now you love me and i’m still tough and sharp like a piece of shattered glass.

i see vendors of big issue on the streets and i wish i could take them all in. as a child, i planned to set up a house where homeless would sleep until they got back on their feet. now, all grown up, i can only smile at such grand dreams and buy the magazine from the kind face smiling at me in the rain.

the world is full of pain.