Good evening…

Dear Cathy,

How are you tonight? I haven’t heard from you in a while, and I wanted to check in. I am not worried, don’t get me wrong, I know you are a strong one, and I also know that oftentimes you give too much of yourself and end up empty. But you can’t pour from an empty cup; you know that. I wanted to allow you some space, but curiosity got the best of me in the end. So? How are you? What have you been up to? Are you happy(ier)? Are you depressed? Did you read anything interesting or see a good film? Have you been writing or taking interesting pictures? For a while, I knew almost everything about you, and now, this month, you were quite silent. How come? What changed? Please, get in touch,

micqu

❤️💜💙🤎🤍💛🖤🧡💚

Dear micqu,

How nice of you to get in touch; I did not expect this at all. Thank you. There is no need to be worried about me; I can tell you this right away. But you are right; I am tired. Tired of many things, but also just physically tired. I have been a bit under the weather for a week now. I don’t have much voice, but I keep powering on. And that brings me to your observation that one cannot pour from an empty cup. It feels a bit as if I am on my last sip. But that’s okay. For a long while, I felt quite lonely and alone in my life. I realised that I was not. Apart from that, I did not do much. I work a lot, and I am not happy about that. I had my first ever online meeting, something I was able to put off for a very long time. I am not depressed, but I am not overly happy either. I am just average, I think. I did not read much, no blogs apart from Jeff’s. But I am not doing a good job of showing my support. I saw a couple of movies recently; the last one who kind of caught me off guard and by surprise was “Equilibrium” (2002) with Christian Bale and Taye Diggs. I did not write. And I took only a few pictures.
I recently was reminded that idiots stay idiots and that first impressions often are the correct impressions. Last October, things happened that meant something. I met people who meant something and changed something deep within me. This October, they couldn’t be any farther away. I mean, there are no romantic feelings involved, but some friendships are not meant to exist, I guess. Someone told me: with you in my life; I don’t go under. And that meant something. It meant the world. Few simple words that I will not blow out of proportion, and I will not make them something they are not – they were not meant to be romantic in any kind or way. But those words sum up what friendship should be, at least that’s what I think. But no, not much has changed; I am just censoring my thoughts more… And before I post anything, I try to analyse if it does any good for anyone or not. That said, it could be that I share music in November again. Music is still very important to me.

Keep your chin up, and I promise, I will try to keep in touch more.

Lots of love,

Cathy

People are weird

Or maybe it is just me. Maybe I am the weird one.

The above describes me well enough, I think.

I was off work for an entire week. No… No sick leave. Just a week of holiday. (The next one will be in November). Tomorrow, I’ll be back at work.

My week was lazy and slow, I did not do much. I did not read, I wrote very little. I had very few online conversations, less than usual. But, the ones I had were important and helpful. I listened to lots of music, then again, not that much either. Shared some on IG again too.

Truth be told, I missed the blog. A lot. At the same time, I don’t know what I can share that matters. It seems, sharing about myself shines a bad light on me. Because… I tend to share when things are wrong. I rarely share when everything is hunky dory. And when I do, I share music. I love music more than anything.

That love for music attracts weird people. Music lovers and musicians alike. But… Anyway.

It was brought to my attention that I am a needy person. And I guess there is some truth in that.

So yes, people are weird. Maybe I am the weird one.

(yes, those are self-harm scars. And yes, I wear that jewellery on my wrist all the time. The bracelet with the leaves was given to me as a birthday present in 2018 and hasn’t left my wrist since – apart from the day of the surgery in March)

Faded me.

I am thinking about leaving. I said enough. Too much. I am invisible. Not invincible. I am up up high on the clouds. Down down down in the hole. And I hurt people. I get needy for some and reject others. I reject most. And I don’t talk. I forgot how to sing. But I remember how to cry. I stopped dancing. But I know how to move. Everything in me is tense. And nothing makes sense. Everything matters. Nothing does. But you are there. On every step of the way. I am thinking about leaving myself and fade away in your dreams.

the rocking chair

He sat naked in a rocking chair in an almost dark room. The door was closed. Three windows were open. The wind blew crisp air into the room and made the thin white curtains flow into the empty space. Outside, the moon played hide and seek with the clouds in the sky. Their play made shadows dance on the bare walls.

The chair creaked on the hardwood floors with every forward motion. Some panels were loose from years of use. It was as if they had a memory of every footstep that had ever touched them. The man kept moving. The same movements, over and over again. The repetition was somewhat meditative. Soothing. And he needed that for himself. Calmness. Stillness. He wanted to close his eyes and escape the earth and all its noise for a while, but he couldn’t. He was scared. Scared that the demons lurking in the shadows were finally there to steal his soul. No, sleep or rest of any kind was not an option. No matter how tired he was or how much his eyes hurt from squinting in the dark, he needed to keep them open and stay alert. Awake. Everwake.

The man’s mind was at once empty and overflowing. His body was in flames from the heat surrounding his heart one moment, and it was freezing cold the next from the gushes of air, raising goosebumps on his exposed skin. Everything was the opposite of how it was supposed to be. But he kept rocking back and forth on his wooden rocking chair.

In the dark, the red cushions weren’t visible. But he knew that they were there, supporting his weight. There was a tear on the back and a couple of stains under his bottom; he knew every blemish by heart. Like the scars or tattoos on his skin, every stain and every tear, every hole had a story. And he remembered them all. Memories. Remembering meant either torment or bliss. Tonight every flash of the past equalled agony.

The moon kept travelling across the sky, closely followed by a thin layer of clouds. An owl was awake in the tree under his window; it called for someone in the dark night.

He needed a drink, and he craved a cigarette, but he couldn’t leave his chair. He was trapped in his own darkness, not only the darkness of the room but the darkness of his mind too.

The partying shadows on the walls and on the ceiling kept mocking him and his life in captivity. If he were strong enough, he would have tried to fight every single demon. But he was weak and afraid of the dark. He was lonely. Alone.

Another flash of the past made him remember the woman he had loved. He had only loved once. Genuine and honest and raw. He had been able to feel love, to give, and to receive it too. Those times were long gone. There was nothing loveable about him anymore, and if someone tried to be affectionate toward him, he had the unique gift to ruin it every time. No one was allowed to see past the image he had decided to show of himself. No one was allowed to see his vulnerabilities and his weaknesses. No, showing those only ever resulted in pain.

As the middle-aged man kept rocking back and forth on his chair, the voices in his head grew louder and more insistent with each creak of the wooden frame. From soothing to aggravating in a matter of moments. He hit the side of his head with his flat hand. Left hand. Left temple. “Stupid,” he muttered. The ghosts had not left, but no one answered him. Behind him, the curtains made a swishing sound. He stopped moving. He was convinced they were here to take him away, to make him vanish into thin air. He held his breath. He reasoned that maybe they couldn’t see him if he stayed still.

The owl was calling him from the shelter of her tree. And from the walls, shadows tried to catch him. He was paralysed with fear. There was no escape. The sheer terror of all his sins was staring into his pale red-rimmed eyes and tried to pull him under. If he had been able to do it, he would have closed his eyes. But he couldn’t. His body did not belong to him anymore; it did not obey his silent pleading orders anymore. The man tried to scream for help, for someone to save him and wake him up from this nightmare, but no sound got out of his mouth. There was no sound but the wind and the owl. The man was lost in this weird dream, knowing full well that he was not asleep. He was trapped in a cage of fear.

He gasped. For a moment, everything became clear. For a moment, he understood that it was all in his head and that his mind was playing tricks on him. Nothing was real.

His face turned into a painful grimace, and then he chuckled. His shoulders moved along with the sound. And he started laughing until he was scratching at the door of insanity. He was rocking in his chair again. Back and forth. Over and over again.

The moon was slowly fading, making room for the sun. The shadows on the walls began to become invisible, and the owl stopped calling for her lover. The wind had let up, too, leaving the curtains to rest after an eventful night.

He tried to exhale deeply, but because he was still laughing, he only made a wheezing sound. The ghost of the night was still lingering in the sweat covering his naked body. The man was drenched in fear. But he kept moving. Back and forth. Back and forth. In his mind, a film was replaying the worst moments of his life. He was convinced that he deserved the punishment the darkness brought upon him every night anew. There was nothing left fighting for. No redemption in sight.

The man finally closed his eyes. A grin was spread on his face. Maybe the next time, he would start to fight the madness residing in his head. Yes. Next time. Or maybe… not.

(1048 words, written during the early hours of August 25th 2021)

Sunday Song

Fink – perfect darkness

From the album of the same name (2011). Fink is Fin Greennall. He is a British musician, one of the few that sound better live than on studio LPs.

💜❤️🧡🤍🖤🤎💙💚💛

Streaky day today. It was father’s day here. I worked a short afternoon shift with lots of work and I wrote a bit. No work tomorrow.

💛💚💙🤎🖤🧡❤️💜

Quote

I think writing really helps you heal yourself. I think if you write long enough, you will be a healthy person. That is, if you write what you need to write, as opposed to what will make money, or what will make fame.

Alice Walker

💜❤️💛💚💙🤎🖤🤍🧡

Ain’t this the truth. I saw this quote several times today. I am not done writing, I guess. I never wrote for money or fame, but to untangle the mess in my head. Old emotions and new ones. Stranger’s feelings and my own. Past and present.