Musings

12 04 2013

Sitting in my bed on a Friday night eating a box of Thornton’s and smoking cigarettes doesn’t seem very rock n roll, unless you’re one of those people who abhor smoking in bed (don’t care, I sleep alone), the dog is curled up at my feet …and instead of reading heat magazine cover to cover I thought I would attach the keyboard to the iPad and write something, anything.

I’ve had a pretty lousy week, an incident with my car (not my fault), the norovirus (winter vomiting, is that as ironic as daffodils in the snow? I think not!) and my ongoing battle with paying the bills (not possible for me) so tonight I planned on sitting around and feeling sorry for myself.

An ex of mine, who is still a friend, popped around earlier with a ‘care package’ which included wine, chocolates, magazines and flowers – which I thought was a really sweet thing to do and in my weakened state nearly made me want to reach out to him and invite him back into my life. But I’m made of stronger stuff it seems, and I didn’t. Don’t get me wrong that girl I was is still inside of me and a big part of me firmly believes that sharing my bed, and my body would have been a massive stress relief for me right now but my celibacy remains a truth for the time being.

It got me to thinking about relationships and how as my age creeps up I look for so much more.

I’ve always been a bit of a romantic underneath it all, beneath the walls that I built around myself in my brazen years, I hid a lost and lonely girl. The only way to ensure that I didn’t feel vulnerable was to become the cold one, I ran from beds before I was pushed, as if being the first to exit made me the one in control. I balked at deep conversations in the dead of the night, preferring to silence the words with the warmth of a body. That warmth used to keep my own coldness away for a short time, the blackness of my eyes burnt like coal with physical lust but emotionally I stayed distant.

Or maybe I was just emotionally retarded…maybe I still am.

I find it very difficult now, experience has softened my edges, I find now that I want to talk in the dead of the night, but i’ve never met anyone who I feel would listen without judgement and try to understand. The truth is I don’t want a counsellor, I don’t want platitudes or someone to list all that I should be grateful for. I just want to tell someone my story, how I got to be the way I am without them running for the hills with the craziness of it all.

There must be a deep satisfaction to know that someone else in the world knows the complete truth about you, but accepts you anyway, and more than acceptance is willing to listen to your words of despair while the rest of the world sleeps.

I’m rusty I know, my words do not make much sense to me let alone to a passerby.