I stood in the rain and let it pelt my skin. I was dressed for the summer, a flowy dress, no layer too many because the heat had been oppressive all day. And now I stood in the rain and watched lightning dancing across the sky. I used to love the rain when it kissed every inch of me. Tonight was different. Tonight it felt like needle pricks, so sharp it almost hurt. My hair was hanging in thick strands, dripping. I was sure my makeup was smudged too turning my carefully crafted mask into a grotesque parody of who I used to be. I felt betrayed. By the moon and the clouds. And the rain that had always held a romantic undertone for me. I closed my eyes and let my head fall in my neck. Where there should have been stars was nothing. My eyelids fluttered under the weight of the heavy rainfall on my face. I stretched out my arms to welcome this spectacle of mother nature that had always been mystical. I knew rain and how it came to be, and yet, as so often, between theory and practice was a big difference. And I liked to believe in magic. Tonight I didn’t feel that magic.
I shivered, lowering my arms and my head. Something had changed. Every drop felt like it was washing away a piece of something I hadn’t meant to lose. Had I grown up, was my inner child out of reach? I stepped inside the warm house and sighed. Inside everything was quiet. The wet cloth against my skin felt cold and uncomfortable and I was dripping all over the floor. I couldn’t say if it was rain falling from my face or tears. Did it even matter? I had lost something important tonight and I felt it in my bones. Outside the rain kept drumming on every surface it could reach. It was part meditative and part unsettling.
Tag: fiction
Angel Letters 1/7
Angel Letters: An Opening of Wounds
This is the first in a series of letters that explore longing, love, and connection beyond the boundaries of the physical world. Tristan, the writer, pens heartfelt letters to a mysterious presence he calls Angel, baring his soul in each word. Each letter receives a poetic response from the ghostly figure, offering solace and an ethereal connection. Join us as we embark on this introspective journey.
Dear Angel,
I write to you because the silence is unbearable. Every moment without you feels like a weight pressing against my chest, leaving me breathless. The world around me feels muted, stripped of colour and sound. I don’t know if you are out there, listening, or if these words will dissolve before they ever reach you, but I cannot hold them in any longer.
You left a void that gnaws at my sanity, a hollow place where your presence once thrived. I wonder if you feel this ache too, or if you have moved on, as I fear I never will. There are nights when the absence becomes too loud, and I find myself searching for traces of you in shadows and empty spaces. Perhaps it is foolish to cling to something I cannot see, but in doing so, I find a reason to keep breathing.
Even now, each word I write feels like a fragile offering, a desperate attempt to reach across the distance that separates us. I do not know if I am writing to you or to the echo of my own longing, but either way, I hope that somehow, you feel the weight of these words.
Yours always,
Tristan
*****
Love,
Tristan, I hear your words as if carried on a quiet wind, drifting through the void that lies between us. Your longing reaches me, not as a cry for answers, but as a reminder of the bond we share, a bond that transcends distance and silence. Even if I am nothing more than an echo, in your longing, I find life and meaning. Write, Tristan, not because you seek me, but because in the act of reaching out, you keep us both alive.
Eternally yours
Remembering December – throwback post
In August, I had the idea to walk down memory lane with the blog. After many years of sharing thoughts and poetry and everything in between, I wanted to compile a sort of best of, but that’s not as easy as I thought it would be. I am a harsh critic when it comes to my own creations. There can be tough choices about what to post and share, but I will share those posts that resonate with me when I reread them. Here is November’s post Enjoy!
We start with 2013, because the blog saw the light of this world in December 2012. The first post ever on this blog was written on December 21st 2012. It is long gone. I admit that I am a bit sad about that because it taints the birthday of the blog in a subtle way. The oldest post are lyrics I wrote for a band I was a part of.
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
There is not a lot of diversity in my December writing. There seems to be music and poetry too, but also posts about myself.
Today is the blog’s anniversary – as I already said above. The usual short stats post will follow later today.
Don’t be shy about commenting or liking or sharing posts. And don’t hold back on browsing the blog. There is something for everyone. There are even a couple of recipes for food – they are a bit hidden though.
Thank you for being on this journey with me.
The traveller
He kept his eyes fixed on the road. The white lines snaked under the car, cracked and uneven like old scars. He’d been following them for hours, maybe days—it was hard to tell anymore. The fog blurred everything, smothering the landscape in a thick veil of grey, as if the world itself had been erased.
Continue reading “The traveller”Dear diary 2
From the diary of a fictitious woman
Dear diary,
Today, I went down a rabbit hole on Instagram. It was a rabbit hole of people talking about their ADHD. And I was propelled back to the time when someone first mentioned that I could suffer from it as well.
It was mid 2020 when I met Melvin online. There was an instant connection through mutual interests. He was a lot like me in many things, but he was also diagnosed with ADHD. While we chatted back and forth he planted the seed that I could have it too. Fast forward to October 2020. We met for the first and last time. The connection we had online was there in real life too. It was very nice. It wasn’t love. It was something different. It was understanding, respect, curiosity, and lust too. We spent a great weekend together. I was quite weird, in hindsight. But I couldn’t change it. After that weekend, we only spoke a couple of times briefly and then he blocked me. Maybe I was too much for him. I don’t know.
When I connect with someone, I become needy. He was the last person I connected with like that. After Melvin, there was no one. No one new. Fred was and will always be there. But he is Fred. And nothing else.
So yeah, I got tested. I got diagnosed and then everything went downhill. My self-confidence plummeted and nothing was ever the same again.
I had dinner tonight. Real dinner. Cooked and all. And I even cleaned all the dishes and pans afterwards. I didn’t leave anything out to soak until next week. On the other hand, I had to run my laundry a second time because I left a batch in the machine. For two days. It happens. It shouldn’t. I wasn’t raised that way. But it does.
My lunch for tomorrow is prepared. I am done for the day. I am sitting in my bed under my blanket while I am writing this. I will probably watch a film again. Or find a show to watch that has more than two seasons. I cannot read tonight because of a torrid headache. Maybe I deserve that one. Who knows?
I don’t know. I don’t know much. Weird that I thought about Mel when I watched those IG vids. I wonder how he is doing. Then again, it doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t. Maybe just a little bit.
###
Part 2 of probably 27. People mentioned in this part are inspired by real people.
I am waiting for the sun to go down to go on a walk. It’s a super blue moon tonight. (Full moon) One of 4 in a row apparently. Thank you for keeping up with me 💜
rainbows in the storm
Seated on the ottoman, she clutched her phone tightly in one hand and a bottle of hard liquor in the other, seeking solace in the dimly lit room. Answers eluded her as she searched among the dancing shadows on the walls. A swig of vodka brought a burning sensation, briefly distracting her from the countless thoughts racing through her mind. Tiny salty droplets dampened her cheeks, a release for the overflow of emotions within. The insistent buzzing of her phone went unnoticed, as nothing felt significant in this state of mind except for the faint glimmer of hope that the storm cloud above her head would one day clear, bringing peace in the calm after the chaos. She was waiting for the calm after the storm after the calm after the storm after the calm before the storm. While her mind was trapped in a hurricane, she yearned for rainbows, glitter, shooting stars, and granted wishes, even if fleeting. There was always a little bit of light even if she was unable to see it with closed eyes. Words repeated in her mind until they did not make sense anymore. The outside, the inside, all was one. And she was in the middle of it. Always.
###
fiction – 207 minutes – reading time: 1 minute
onsra or eternal murmurs
The intertwining of our beings was but a fleeting and delicate fusion, a temporary coalescence that shimmered like stardust in the night sky. In the nocturnal emergence of our connection, there was a beauty born of darkness, a profound closeness veiled by the obsidian cloak of night. Yet, as the dawn broke, I found myself cradling the weight of sadness alone, the remnants of our bond lingering like bittersweet echoes, leaving residues of you on my skin.
This tender ache, this aftermath, seems to murmur of eternity, a whispered promise of always and forever, etched into the very fabric of our shared existence, even as we tread separate paths. So I carry the fragments of our entwined spirits with me, knowing that though our togetherness was transient, its essence is woven into my soul, an enduring witness to the depth of our connection.
###
fiction – 145 words – reading time: 1 minute
cloudy Sunday morning
Our love was like a sandcastle in the clouds. It felt as though we were defying gravity every time we met, soaring to unprecedented heights. The touch of your hand was like a soft breeze, against my skin. The sound of your soft voice wove a beautiful melody within my heart. Every moment with you was surreal, a dance of emotions that painted the world in vibrant hues. Before you, my world was grey and black, and sometimes blue. It was as if time stood still when we were together, and the rest of the world faded into insignificance. As if each fleeting second was a rare treasure that was only made for us. In your arms, time stood still, and the rush of everyday life faded into obscurity. It was a place where I found solace, where the echoes of my heart found resonance in the cathedral of your love.
Continue reading “cloudy Sunday morning”Partly sunny
Oh, angelic melodies, carried by the wind, resonate through the depths of my soul, lifting me beyond the boundaries of the tangible world. As I journey over oceans and under mountains, I feel the weight of broken wings and the absence of feathers, a reminder of the fragile nature of existence. Falling, not flying, I am immersed in the tumultuous sea of emotions, torn between conflicting realities.
Continue reading “Partly sunny”Light rain
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Imagine a world where every spoken word leaves behind a trace of shadow ink, as if each syllable were a smudged stain on the canvas of existence. Every interaction, a delicate dance leaving behind an invisible tattoo hiding scarred skin. In this world, who are we when no one knows that we are staring back at them through the mirror in their eyes? I taste the sound of passionate orders at the tip of my tongue, as they rain down on me, bathing me in the ethereal embrace of forneverness. Sweet and salt intertwine, blending tears and sweat, all and nothing. Sorrows wilting like flowers in my pockets.
mostly cloudy
I am a writer who doesn’t write, a poet without words in their mind. I am silent and stoic after every bad dream. The walls around my thoughts are taller than Everest but they never rest. I am too black and blue to show my colours, I simply stay away from others. There is music in my veins and in my blood, I sing and dance until I have to stop. Oh, I used to be young and carefree. No, that’s not true, I always lived in a cage. And from time to time, I am consumed with this inner rage. I hate myself and every moment that I breathe. But I love life and am not ready to leave.
Continue reading “mostly cloudy”new year – old me
Can you believe it? We made it through another year and it is January again. The older I get, the quicker time passes. (and the more impatient I become). This morning, I almost had a fit because of OneDrive and stuff not working the way I wanted it. You see, I don’t use any cloud services and after a Windows update, everything automatically backupped on One Drive. I can’t remember giving my consent to this and I hate it. I am one of those who saves the important stuff on the Desktop for quicker access. So, I went to investigate it all and stop this madness. It almost made smoke come out of my ears and flames out of my eyes. I am not that savvy when it comes to technical stuff. I get by, but I never take the easy way. (Simply because I cannot find it). Anyway… I seem to have found the issue and fixed it.
Sometimes, I wonder “how did I get here?” and then I remember it is because of words. Many many words have left my fingertips over the years. Many different words. And stories too.
Yesterday, I had a message telling me that stories about this author are better or more interesting than fiction. I don’t know. I mean, I consider myself to be rather boring. I don’t do much in my daily life. I like music and films and reading. But after the pandemic, I stopped going to the movies and I haven’t been at a big concert either. I work a job, do a little bit of parenting here and there and I try being a wife for my husband. That’s all there is, really. And yet, there is more. There is also a rich inner life. Dreams and fantasies for the future, a past that is tightly woven in with my mental health. There is poetry in me, and the want to share that part of me with people who appreciate it. You see, there are still very many people who make fun of this writing thing. The stories, the poetry – why? It’s time consuming and in a foreign language. Well, the language is the language of the music that shaped me. The songs that inspired me during my formative years. Yes, yes, I know. My formative years are way in the past. I will be 41 in almost 5 weeks. Am I even allowed to express myself this way? With poetry? With fiction of all kinds? And the line between fiction and reality is not always visible for the readers, what does that make of me? A liar? Someone pretending to be someone they are not? The truth is between it all. There is more to the words you read and there is less too. The way you read them is often a reflection of your own experiences, wants and dreams. And isn’t that the magic of words, of reading, of songs, of listening to stories and music?
I used to be afraid. I used to think that I need to be something/someone special. But now I know, that I don’t need to be anything. I am me. And I am special. In my own right. In my own write. There is a voice on this blog. My voice. Can you hear it? Is it clear or is my lisp too pronounced? Yeah, I am not perfect, not by a long shot. I have a lisp, I snore, I am obese and some days I don’t take a shower and don’t brush my hair. I refuse to do any ironing and I am clowning around too much. Sometimes I am aloof and distant and sometimes I am flirty and demanding. I can’t write without typos or bad grammar and I long for things I am unable to give. My house is never silent. My mind is never silent. And when I get sick, I am the worst patient, complaining all the time.
I worry that writing this blog is pathetic, at the same time, it is something I enjoy doing immensely. And while I gave up many social media sites and channels, this little blog here, this journal of sorts is still active and it has been for many years now.
This turns into a real stream of consciousness – but it is what it is. And I am who I am. Never pretending, always real. There are many people who say this but do that, I am not like that. What you see is what you get. I even stopped putting filters on my selfies – because, let’s be honest, I am an adult. A woman who lived and experienced this or that. I am allowed to have wrinkles, dry skin and bags under my eyes. My grey hair is earned.
But my oh my, time flies. I can’t believe that it’s already January again.
Will you stay at my side while I keep writing words? Will you walk the line with me? The line between fiction and reality?
I am here. Where are you?
Voices (revisited)
It’s cold and I wrap my cardigan closer around my shivering form. Still, I don’t want to turn around and walk back home. It’s not time yet. Not now, maybe never. I enjoy the peaceful, quiet and loneliness that surrounds me. There is no sound but the wind and the waves. The wind blows widely, cutting against my skin. The sand feels cold underneath my bare feet.
Nobody is at the beach. It’s a lonely place. Abandoned. The sky look almost black, only thick clouds make it appear grey here and there. I know that in a few minutes, it will open up and soak me in cold rain. I stop and turn to look out across the sea. The waves are nothing more than white lines that crash eventually. Some are higher, some are almost flat. But they all come to me. As if they need to tell me what they saw out there. The ocean looks threateningly big and once again, I feel small. Around me, everything is big and meaningful. I am nothing but a grain of sand. Not important at all. I’m nothing. No one. The realization hits me hard; it always does and the resulting tears sting my eyes. I pretend that it’s the cold air nipping at my skin, but I know that I am lying to myself. And I also know the reason. He is back again. His voice in my head. And one day, he will kill myself. My demon. It’s someone who promises love and only offers sorrow in the end.
There are days when everything seems pointless. Nothing makes sense. Every fight seems to be lost and I feel obsolete. It’s what he tells me when I am trying not to listen. There is no reason for me to breathe.
The lines between the ocean and the sky turn into a blur and I wonder how it would feel to drown. Would it hurt? Would I fight it? Not that I have any intention of walking towards the freezing swallowing ocean, but I wonder about those things.
There are days when I long to feel that serenity I imagine one feels when death almost wins. Finding inner peace and being able to keep that feeling inside and letting go of everything else; it’s utopia. Nothing else matters anymore.
There are days when it would be so much easier to simply give up and fade away from earth. Who would care anyway? It’s what my demon encourages me to do.
I shake my head as I am trying to make those thoughts stop. Getting rid of that awful voice that is trying to pull me under is hard; it’s a battle I will lose some day soon. I don’t want this. I don’t want to surrender. I don’t want to submit to my demons. But it is stronger than me. He is stronger. It’s a deep dark hole I fall in from time to time, orchestrated by his words. Manipulating me like a puppet on a string. If I had a knife I could cut the strings. Sometimes, the hole is so deep that there is almost no way to get out of the dark and lonely place. Sometimes it’s a battle I win without much fight, and the right scent, the right notes can make me see the light again. It makes me emerge from the dark. But not always. Not always.
I struggle. An internal war is raging inside of me when all I need is inner peace. It looks so easy. For me, it isn’t.
The rain starts falling in big drops. In a matter of minutes, I am soaked to the bone and frozen. It’s freezing and the beach is still abandoned. I know that I should move to go home. I know that I should put on my socks and shoes, or I will catch a cold. But I can’t. I cannot move. I am paralysed. Something is holding me back. My hands fall to my sides, and I feel my shoulders slump. My head bends down, and I fall to my knees. My soaked cardigan is heavy on my skin. Pulling me down with an invisible, yet strong hold on my shoulders. I bury my face in my hands. Accepting my defeat. It comes out of nowhere. Or maybe it comes from somewhere. I cannot think. Shivering in the cold, with my long wet hair pasted to my face; I feel like give up.
I give up.
For the first time in a long time, I am willing to give in to the voice in my head. I am too tired to argue and to fight. I am too lonely to breathe and to exist.
“Take me with you!” I beg the cold emptiness surrounding me. It is the last surge of energy before my inner self combusts. My heart burns from the exertion. Ashes are all that will be left within me.
I cower on the beach. Alone. Painfully aware of all my flaws. Painfully aware of the inside me hole that is devouring me. Too tired to fight. And why should I fight anyway? He doesn’t let me fight.
What is there left here for me?
This place holds no shelter for me. I want to fade away and vanish. Too jaded to go on. Too hollow. It’s like I am in a trance.
I hear a noise and startle. I look up. I wake up and see where I am. Realize what I am doing. I’m trembling from the cold. A smile creeps up on my face. She is here to save me.
It’s always like that.
Two personalities inside of me. Fighting to get the reigns over me. One of them is overly optimistic, always positive and supportive. Always honest and chatty. The other is a suicidal pessimist. One day, he is going to win. One day, she will not be there in time to wake me up and win that secret war at the last minute. I know it. It scares me. But I am powerless. It’s not in my control.
The sky clears up. No more rain. The wind eases up. I am dripping wet. Sand is sticking to my clothes. I don’t know how long I knelt in the storm.
I move. Going home. Whatever that is. Wherever it is. But I am not paralysed anymore.
I enter my home. It’s empty. Almost no furniture. No voices. No colours. No you. No me. Nothing. I can’t stand the silence but I endure it. I should put some music on to drown out everything that haunts me. But I can’t. Not now. I can’t deal with the overstimulation of different sounds right now. The hardwood floor is wet from my clothes, and I undress. Struggling to get the wet clothes off my raw skin.
I decide to take a shower to wash away the emotions of the morning and the cold that fills my veins. But his voice is persisting today. He wants to see me perish and he can’t be washed away. He keeps entering my thoughts
I sigh into the foggy steamed bathroom mirror. It’s going to be a long week. It’s going to be a daily fight. I wish I could hibernate. Let the voices in my head fight it out and whoever wins can take over my body and soul. Whoever wins gets to do whatever they want with me.
What if the winner was me?
***
The original of this piece was written a long time ago (in 2014). I stumbled across it today and edited it a bit… It’s a heavy piece, not happy at all. And that leads me to say: I am in a good emotional place. All is okay over here.
reasons
a sheer veil covers the things we don’t understand with a mysterious glimmer
dreaming minds are hiding under the same stars, forgetting their inner wars
the pavement guides our paths away from what has been, turning it into what will be
if our minds touched for just one second, they would explode like fireworks in the sky
and so many things were lost in our heart’s fires
leaving us blinded by the sparks
but what if we cannot hear our angel’s voices
what if we can’t remember what we know or ignore it too often?
there is a pull that drives us into each other’s dreams
it is as if the universe knew the reasons for everything.
Sunday Scribblings #142 – Escape
There were no more steps to take, no more roads to walk. The light was fading and the ocean was drowning in itself. During those cold winter nights she used to ask to be held, but things had changed. Nothing was the same anymore and she didn’t want to admit that she knew why. The world around her fell apart and she was tied to a boulder rolling down a mountain. She didn’t scream or yell. There was no escape. She didn’t know why she was here now. Everyday had been the same. An illusion of normalcy. But there was an underlying sadness, a melancholy undertone in everything she did. Until one day she woke up with desperation leaking out of her eyes.
The wild river was claiming her, and she didn’t stand a chance to fight for air. Everything that once felt good felt wrong now. Her skin felt too tight. Everything was tingling in the wrong way. Everything turned out to be nothing, in the end. And while she was walking and trying to remember where she was going and why she was feeling like going mad, the rain drenched her to the bone, as if it was highlighting her messy state of mind for everyone to see.
There was no escape from her mind and from her thoughts. There was no escape from the downward spiral and the change that was waiting around the corner. But she was trapped in the nature of all things that kept her hostage. She didn’t understand that there was a future for her. That things could be different. But something drove her to move. It was like something inside of her ordered her to put one foot in front of the other. She walked faster. And faster. Until she was running. Her lungs were burning and her legs felt heavy. She was not used to physical activities. But something kept her moving. The rain pelted her face, plastering her hair against her cheek. She was cold and shivering. Inside and outside too. She tried shaking everything off that held her back. She tried running away from herself. Running, just running. And it didn’t matter where she was going. She had to keep moving. She had to keep herself busy to escape the desperation that was clinging to her eyelashes. The sun set and the moon rose. The sun rose and the moon set. Day after day, and she kept moving. She kept running, until, in the end, her skin fit her mind again.
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Sunday Scribblings are prompts Aaron shares every Wednesday on his blog: https://confusingmiddle.com/2023/10/18/sunday-scribblings-142/ I haven’t used a prompt in a long while, I admit. If you read yesterday’s post, you will understand. Check out Aaron’s blog and consider writing for those prompts, it is great fun and inspiring too.
reflections of an unquiet mind 