once this was my safe haven.
that changed, like everything changes, life swirling us all about in a glass of rosé or champagne, or cheap white wine, if you’d rather.
and i notice that i’ve become agreeable, but no more than that. i’m still all here, all me.
and then on tuesday the rainbow of my life seemed to have been broken up into the component colours and merged together, forming black.
is black a colour? i don’t know. all i know is, i couldn’t possibly write on tuesday or wednesday. or yesterday even. but with time comes acceptance. so here i am now, accepting my failed anonymity.
Y has read my diary, this. every word, or most, violated with his eyes.
and i asked him not to.
i asked everyone close to me not to read it. everyone complied. but him.
i didn’t send a link. i didn’t tell him the name i assumed or the posts i’ve written. i merely read him a poem.
the last poem i had written here, trace of us.
i didn’t read it so he would find me. i never thought he would.
i read it because i felt like i needed to read it to someone and you wasn’t here. i read it because it was about him.
next thing i know, or rather remember, someone, and it could have been anyone but something tells me it was him, typed trace and put the cork essence of us blog into google.
he found me.
he was the only person i read that poem to. the only one. and it can’t have possibly been anyone else.
the search was done less than an hour after i read him the poem.
and though i didn’t start the blog for him or X or you even, i thought of deleting it or not writing any more.
but in the end, i haven’t started this blog for him so what if he reads it?
i haven’t started this blog for him and he won’t be the reason i end it.
Posted in chapters of my life
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certain things hit me with a strange ferocity. different velocity, acceleration, speed, but they are have one thing in common -somehow they wound me gently, taking care not to hurt too much or break more bones than will heal naturally given time and care.
it’s often words. soft, sometimes inaudible, but always taboo.
like the wednesday past, when i met your past love and she told me of the things you and her did, the way your breathing would take on an animalistic quality, as if the lion i know in you was roused, the way your face would contort at the end of it all, the way it made her laugh.
and then there was the way she asked about what we have done. and i told her. why wouldn’t i? let the vulture take its prey and feast on it. we all need nourishment of some kind and i guess my nourishment was hearing it all out in the open. everything has it’s price and well, she’s only me in retrospect.
those little things are enough to drive us insane, but i think we ought to face them head-on. that way we are the hunters and not the hunted.
and then there was this morning and a text from you telling of your time in france and how, by chance, you ended up sleeping only meters away from your parents and their squeaky bed last night and the night before.
and i don’t want to fill in the gaps.
my parents wouldn’t.
but we are all different, non? my morals are not yours. my horror is different to yours. ukrainian normality does not always collide with the french, i know that. you laid there in silence, but me, i’d get up and go to the bathroom, garden, i’d go out.
and suppose that’s us in twenty or thirty years time. does it scare you? it scares the blinking daylights out of me.
but what do i know of fear?
maybe i ought to go to war.
so here’s my rebuttal: we do not see things as they are, we see things as we are.
Posted in chapters of my life
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