Is that too much to ask?
One simple question
Is all that I have.
Manipulations and deniability are not welcome here.
I have left things be
Always brushed it under the carpet
now the carpet has disappeared and now there is nowhere for it to hide.
I’m tired, I need to sleep tonight.
I have plans tomorrow.
I’ll do anything if you fade off.
As a ‘writer’, I find inspiration in everyday life. My mind is constantly writing – looking for things I can borrow from. The earth, the universe, strangers, family, friends, loved ones… I find stories in most things, every day. I find myself narrating in my own mind, more times than I can count – most times without even realising. I mentally write stories about things that never even make it onto the page. Every day. Like an addiction. I write without even being conscious of it, it is within me. It is my nature. I observe and I see. I have a mind cramed full of words. But then I don’t. Social situations are not my nature. They are mostly difficult, with rare exceptions. Talking to talk, is not my nature. Talking about myself openly and without prompting is not my nature. But writing. Writing is like a cool breeze on the hottest day of the year. It is a relief. A hope. A wish. Writing is everything. The weights of the world lift off my shoulders as soon as my fingers run across the keyboard. The scratch of a pen against paper fills my soul with such lightness, it makes my breath stop.
The feeling of that last sentence. Of pulling everything together neatly, of feeling that closure… Of getting to have the last word. Just this once… or until the next time that my fingers meet the keyboard.
And then with 5 little words, the stresses were gone. The words came out of nowhere, from somewhere behind her and were so very much familiar… and British, that she actually felt herself sigh.
“Stick the kettle on, then.”
And then the whistle blew, the results were in and everyone sat there waiting. There could be only one. The weight of the world was on everyone’s shoulders. Until the name was drawn and the weight of the people passed over onto the chosen one.
And then the knife slid through the silk scarf as though it was butter. It would have been beautiful to watch if it wasn’t such an obvious threat.
And then the sky turned red and the people stood in awe. There was peace throughout the land. Finally it was over.
And it was only in nature that she saw them. It was never from peering out the window or walking down the street. She knew that in order to see them, she had to make that effort. The walk was quiet, up the hill and past all the townhouses with their chimney’s smoking and up through the snicket. The woodlands was alive with birdsong, the air filled with magic and secrets.
And it was here, always here, that she saw them.
And she looked around, took in a huge breath of clean air and jumped. The mountain was high and her board left a wave of snow behind her. Her mind was silent, her body moving so effortlessly down the slopes… is this what heaven feels like…?