After months of prevaricating and weeks of procrastination, it’s finally up! Click on the picture and head over to Facebook and show me some Cookie love, you guys. ❤
-Your ever lovin’ Cookie Monster 😀
Why did He make me from clay?
What did He do to me?
What sort of vessel am I shaped into
To contain these fallacies?
Blinded, blinded, I don’t know my face
The mirror shows me a stranger
But ask me yours, where your smile lies and
I will know all the answers
Who are you, who gave you this
Power, over me, over my sense
Of reality, how did you change
My touch to thought, to impermanence
The sky is raw and the earth bleeding
How did you construct this bent
world, did God destroy me, or did you
-Did you both?
And what was my offence?
I loved you too much by any measure
I knew there was a gaping void
I promised myself, I’d fill the indifference
I’d push hard enough from my side-
and I did, see-
I’m already crazy
A drunk girl laughing at the edge of a cliff
Inching closer to the precipice, and
The howling promises of the wind- If
Only, if only, I could step away
If I could tell myself I mattered, you’ll miss
The scattered moments in your life
where I appear, where I exist
Inside my head, it’s a nice illusion
A sweet lie to say, if only
If only I could step away
Oh, that fall beckons too much, today
Some days, nothing makes sense. Nothing you do makes sense. The rain stops your sky and the walls won’t let you breathe and you want, you want someone to love, someone who will sit with you when you’re trying to make sense of what’s even fucking happening. In a corner of your mind you know you’re raving, but the other corners drown that tiny one out, and the day passes in a bewildered blur.
Maybe you want more. Maybe you want one sign, one small fucking sign that this altar you sit by isn’t where you’re going to starve and die, but grow, bloom, flourish. Maybe you resent everything in the world today because none of it is fucking yours and you have no one to call your own except you- and you don’t love yourself anyway, so fat lot of help that is. And the self pity and bitterness steadily simmers and gains momentum, and you find yourself staring off the side of the building, wondering if today’s the day.
But today is horrible. Today was horrible, which means it can’t be the day. Life cannot fall like this. Today can’t be the day, so let’s sit at the edge and breathe.
Let’s wait for tomorrow.
To Catch A Thief
To catch a thief, you need a shoe
And maybe some blueberries
Skim milk, cereal-oh wait, that’s for
Breakfast- no, get cherries
A pair of socks will do you well
A bed head is a must
An itchy toe is just the thing
A sense of self robust
Spirit, willing, determination
To go get yourself shot
At least, get 1-2 fractured knees
Work with what you’ve got
To catch a thief, you’ll need the shoe
Berries are for a distraction
The pair of socks to help you creep
Up closer, ninja action
The bed head so your silhouette will
Strike fear in the hearts of men
The itchy toe will keep you awake
Where courage fails; then
Surprise the bastard in the dark
Pelt him with fruit unseen
Let him feel the point of your shoe
Poking his neck, lean! Lean!
Put your weight into it, if
You only stretch up chest high
And keep the will to get shot handy
Thieves tend to be ready to fly
Between the milk, and the stabbing heel
You’ll have a thief ready to be caught
Good thing you saved the milk for breakfast
– look at that, didn’t even get shot.
My bedroom’s the one closest to the door. So at 4 am today, when the light outside flickered on and off for a minute, being the raging insomniac I am, I bolted awake. I listened very, very closely. There seemed to be some sort of scuffling near the gate. My dogs are on the other side. After a few moments of crippling sleep paralysis, I somehow moved with leaden limbs and dread pouring through me.
There was a thief in the house.
I got out of bed, looked for a weapon, and picked up a heel off the rack. Then I picked up the blueberry jar in front of my door and tiptoed out very, very softly- Bruce lee would have been proud. In the span of two minutes visions of my dead family were dancing in front of me. It’s a wonder I didn’t flat out run or wobble in the dark- I’m one of those people who can trip on thin air. And I knew it- the front door was open.
I crept closer to the door from the darker side, just in case the burglar was standing on the outside. Still holding the heel- in retrospect, not a bad sleepy choice – and the damned blueberries. There was a steady clack-clack-clack coming from the yard- was he trying to get into the shed? Why did he leave the door open and go into the shed? Had he run out with something?
I did a quick survey of the hall. All the bedrooms seemed peaceful enough, all the doors shut. Swapped the berry jar for a torch on the counter and sneaked out into the yard, going barefoot and slowly because ninja and all that, but I didn’t want to surprise the man and get stabbed. I went around the house- he was there, a dark shape, washing something on the outside tap??? I froze, confused as hell. Suddenly he swung around and started walking towards the house, in my general direction. Now or never!- I let out an almighty shriek like an avenging banshee and jumped out onto him.
Hopped out, more like. Dad screamed right back at me.
He’d got an emergency call at work and was leaving. All the sneaky fuss had been to make sure he didn’t wake us up- mom had already gone back to their room. He was waiting in the yard for the cab to pick him up, when he noticed the dog’s dish was lying in the grass and went to rinse it. Which is when I came charging out from the side of the house in my pajamas, holding a high heel aloft. And all the screaming woke the dogs up, who, bless them, had slept through every scrape and rustle we’d made till the surprise-surprise!
I mean, my response isn’t completely kooky. This exact thing has happened before when I was little. One of the nights when dad was away, mom got up next to me suddenly and walked straight out to the living room and chased a burglar out. She’d counted an extra head, and instead of screaming, in a fit of adrenaline fueled courage, gone after the thief before he went into our rooms. She actually did chase the man out. And he was so shocked by this charging specter out of nowhere that he ran for it. He took all the VCR and the speaker system with him though. Mom chased him into the street, and then he just ran for it. It’s weird how almost ten years later, I did exactly the same thing.
And if you think I’m making any of this up, think again. It’s now 5 am and I’m writing this down because I can’t sleep, and what the actual fuck, I nearly my stabbed my father with a shoe.
Destiny is such a strange thing
Some of us take the same paths
Twenty more are walking
All in a hurry to pass
The rest, and surge ahead
Treading on footsteps still fresh
Where the dust has not even settled yet
Repeating victories of our own imagining
But some of us stop, and
Carve roads of our own
Eschewing the rest, to
Where none existed
Hewn out of rock and stone
Scraggling through impassable terrains
Struggling to stand, then walk alone
Which is destiny?
Is the man who walks the beaten path
a man who cannot see?
If I burrow through a mountain for
My whole life
Is that foresight? Or tunnel vision?
What if the stream dries, halfway home
Before it reaches its destination?
Was that my part, or is carrying the pennant ahead, it?
How much is foretold? How much writ?
How much of myself do I follow,
what part do I create
What fraction is preordained, what value self made?
Have I chiselled myself for greater things
Or has Fate?
Because there are footprints behind me
And nothingness where I push through to
Destiny, you are a strange thing
And I don’t know, whether
Ambition or folly are winning,
But how much of this is me
And how much you?
I ask to give credit, I ask to lay blame. For every decision I chose to take, I can count two that I had to take- and even with my choices, where did the choices come from?
Who am I, to plan and scheme and chart my future? I don’t even know what I’ll have for dinner tomorrow night. Every time you switch the TV on, you hear of so-and-so number of people who were killed by an attack or killed in a retaliation. Did they decide to become a statistic? Did someone make them a statistic? Who made them a number? Am I a number, are you?
And what have I done, that I was allowed to live, and agonise over stupid things like what shoes I should wear today, when in some corner of this human hive, someone looked at the sky with flickering life for the last time? Am I worth more than them? I know I’m not. Luck, merest chance keeps us alive. Something unidentifiable keeps us alive. Master of my fate, captain of my soul- really?
I think not.
Whether or not you choose to believe in a higher power, believe in this. You are inches away of from being a statistic. You are a passenger, you are evanescent, you are inconsequential, you are mortal. You are small.
But you are not weak.
We choose what we leave behind. Even if we do not choose our options, we have some control over our choices. We are all here, and we are all leaving, sooner or later.
Choose what you will leave behind. That much, I think, is left to us to see. That much is not just destiny.
Love, love, and light,