Ceenoa

To write, Words streaming through a brain, fingers tapping at the keys.  Ideas not leaking through.  Why is it that when the time is there, the words are not?  Why do we want to capture some ephemeral, nebulous idea, percolating in our brain, or chain our emotions by surrounding then with letters?

For me, it sometimes is cathartic.  To try and express what my grief feels like.  Dreams where I search for Andrew, but can never connect, the endless attempts to call him on the phone, never knowing his number, never him answering the phone, over and over again.  To try and write to define the feelings that this engenders in me on waking.  A malaise of sadness and frustration.  An aching need to find this man, my man, to feel again that connection, the completeness that is now missing.

Don’t get me wrong, writing isn’t just about that, I write about silly things that amuse me, my attempts to understand computers, my fight with food, my children.  There is plenty of happy mixed with my morose.  As the years past the balance changes and the happy begins to outshine the sad, mostly.  Happy is always harder than misery, at least for me.  There is a little element of lazy, ok, maybe a medium size element, in my construction.  Reasoning goes thus, if I have to push yourself to be happy, am I REALLY happy.  The answer of course is yes, but sometimes my stubborn streak thinks NO.  I can fight myself better than anyone else!

I’m not, by nature, a bubbly type personality.  What shows on the outside often isn’t a good reflection of what is happening inside.  Sometimes I’m not even sure what is happening on the inside.  I try to live day by day, but I feel the clock ticking, and as I get older, I notice that tick get louder and louder.  I can feel a panic set in, the knowledge that time isn’t infinite, the my time is halfway gone, that I cannot control this process.  I understand mortality, I just don’t like it happening to me.  I don’t want to lose anymore people I love, I don’t want to miss their days, the little things that happen.  I don’t like change, but accept that this is what life is about, but it’s a constant struggle for me to accept.

Just realised that I only wrote for 11 minutes, trying to fit it in before leaving for work, and miscalculated the time, so here goes my other nine minutes.

Age, getting old, sagging skin, “scrawny chicken neck” as my Mum used to call it, I’m noticing all these things now, and I’m loathing them.  If I let myself think about it is is smothering, like a physical weight that presses down on me.  What weight is attributed to age?  How much does each passing day, week, month, year, add to that load?  I’m getting good at sweeping it all under the carpet, only trouble is my carpet is now starting to display a suspiciously large lump of accumulated denial poking through it’s ragged threads.  Denial works mostly, “don’t think about, don’t think about it, don’t THINK about it”  and I can survive the crushing.

Sometimes I’d like to take myself by the heels and shake all these thoughts right out.  Grab the scruff of my own neck and look in my face and growl, to let my thoughts know I am the dominant animal, “you can’t control me”.  Silly, as who controls me, if not myself?  Control is something that is hard for me to let go of, and yet I know that I need to do this sometimes, that in fact I must unless I want to self-combust.  Learning lessons through life trials, seems to be what my life has been about, and now I am gradually accepting that, and letting myself be, accepting I can feel denial, but that it doesn’t rule my life.  I can be 2 in 1, acceptance and denial.  Works for me.  Just watch out for that large mountain under the rug!

20 minutes of mind-streaming to fingers – Interesting way the brain works, girl!