Thursday Night Feels

“Easy Silence” – Dixie Chicks

(written by Martha Maguire, Natalie Maines, Emily Robison, Dan Wilson)

When the calls and conversations
Accidents and accusations
Messages and misperceptions
Paralyze my mind

Buses, cars, and airplanes leaving
Burning fumes of gasoline
And everyone is running
And I come to find a refuge in the

Easy silence that you make for me
It’s okay when there’s nothing more to say to me
And the peaceful quiet you create for me
And the way you keep the world at bay for me
The way you keep the world at bay

Monkeys on the barricades
Are warning us to back away
They form commissions trying to find
The next one they can crucify

And anger plays on every station
Answers only make more questions
I need something to believe in
Breathe in sanctuary in the

Easy silence that you make for me
It’s okay when there’s nothing more to say to me
And the peaceful quiet you create for me
And the way you keep the world at bay for me
The way you keep the world at bay

Children lose their youth too soon
Watching war made us immune
And I’ve got all the world to lose
But I just want to hold on to the

The easy silence that you make for me
It’s okay when there’s nothing more to say to me
And the peaceful quiet you create for me
And the way you keep the world at bay for me
The easy silence that you make for me
It’s okay when there’s nothing more to say to me
And the peaceful quiet you create for me
And the way you keep the world at bay for me
The way you keep the world at bay for me
The way you keep the world at bay

Collateral Beauty

What I have learned over the years is that whenever there is excitement, joy, love, and happiness – you can be certain that pain, loneliness and bitterness are not far behind. Lurking at the edges of your peripheral vision.  Waiting to give you “perspective” and ensuring that you never forget that everything- happiness included – is only temporary.

Perhaps in some secret, sadistic way, I have grown to enjoy this pain.  Perhaps I ask for it.  Perhaps it is my comfort zone.  Familiar.  Understood.

People tell me that I need to find happiness in myself.  Well, I had that – at least I thought I did.  It feels different when someone comes into your life and claims to love you though.  That brings with it a different type of comfort. A lightness, a joy, where I am launched into the atmosphere to skip among the clouds, at least for a time. Is it really possible to find that kind of love within Oneself? I’m not sure. In some way, the delta emotion seems to be increased by the presence of another person.

It seems to be a popular theme in this day and age, to reject the notion that we need other people.  That we can be wholly happy and in love all by ourselves.  But, what if I were to simply admit that I don’t want to be all by myself anymore? Is that such a terrible thing to confess?  I realise it may not make substantial difference at the end, we all die alone, etc – but what about how I want my life to be in the meantime, while I am living? 

And besides, noone is wholly happy and in love with themselves all of the time. We all have demons we battle with daily, so why does it feel like just mine are always victorious?

Why does this one wish, this one desire, elude me – regardless of the days, months, years spent “working on myself”.  All that appears to have done is render me more detached, more isolated.

He said he loved me. 

That I am the “collateral beauty” in his life.

That I am safe.

Nevertheless, three days later he was gone.

Like they always go.

I do not doubt that he meant it. I do not doubt that he is in pain. 

Maybe it’s better to stay alone. Eventually, I will be content again, like I was before.

And then I will meet another, another, another. I will be swept up, and cast down. And so it goes.

The line between being collateral beauty, and collateral damage, is blurry indeed.


Are You OK?

Random fact about me #13846

I hate being asked if I’m OK.

Even if I am perfectly fine, the mere act of someone asking that simple little question, results in the immediate formation of a lump in my throat and the sudden, barely controllable urge to burst into tears.

Musings from a Dark Room

I do not look forward to the day that I never feel sad, or embarrassed, or disappointed, because that is the day that I also won’t feel happiness, or excitement, or hope.

In other words, I’ll be dead.

That’s not to say that I am scared of death (although I can’t state unequivocally that I am not, either).  We humans always want just that little bit more time, don’t we? To do, or say the things that we thought we should, because fear is the ultimate instigator of procrastination, and humans are tragically fearful creatures.

We think too much.

I am definitely guilty of that.  I let fear stop me from doing a lot of things.  I allowed it to condemn me to an entire day holed up in a sunless hotel room, deliberately avoiding the possibilities and interactions that might await me in this city that is both foreign and yet somewhat familiar.  Fear has kept me sitting here, languishing in the comfort of my own isolation, not because it is enjoyable, but because it is known to me and therefore I am less wary of it.

I am conscious of this, and yet still here I sit, in silence, containing myself within boundary of my own skull, indulging a perpetual cycle of questioning my worth and weighing that against my worthiness.

Sometimes I just don’t have the strength, nor the will to argue with the more destructive voice.

Sometimes, I need to conserve my energy for another day, and a battle that I may have at least some chance of winning.

Volcanic Alien

Some months, for a day or two my body feels completely alien to me. Not just my body, but my thoughts, my emotions. 

A word of advice to all young hopeful, well-meaning lads out there.  

At your own careless risk, do you advise a woman about her body, and what she should/should not do with it, at a time when she scarcely recognises it herself. Such advice, no matter how heartfelt upon offer, is seldom received without ferocious repercussion. 

Volcanoes explode before the ash settles and silences the landscape. 

Let Go, Ego

If you insist on calling me out on things and telling me I must accept these “calling outs” because to do otherwise is to allow my “ego” to harm only myself; then, by the same logic you must accept it when I call YOU out.

You can sulk all you choose, but by your own logic, I am right.

So, who is more childish and egotistical:

  1. the person who sulks in the first place, or
  2. the person who feels being right is somehow an argument won?

Both, equally, of course.


Bus Stop Musings

Shapes and shadows danced in distorted cacophony making it difficult to focus.

Although bright lights of stores trimmed with Christmas decorations and twinkling street lamps would have painted a far more joyful scene beyond the glass, the water streaking down the pane cast a sobering edge from where She sat in darkness.  Deciphering exactly what lay beyond the bus was made more difficult by a grubby smear at her eye level – perhaps from a child who had occupied the seat earlier in the day – distorting her view.   She fancied a child may have knelt up on the seat, rested their face and hands against the window as they peered out, absorbing every detail of the outside world in gleeful anticipation of their arrival at a destination.

It would have been sunny then.  The weather had turned very rapidly this evening.

Eventually, the shifting colours and shards of light began to take shape and materialise as human forms.    Young women in heels, arms laden with shopping bags, handbags, gym bags, laptops, umbrellas and more. Men striding confidently along, raising arms and umbrellas sporadically to avoid colliding with those who, finding themselves without umbrellas at an inopportune moment, were running blindly for any type of awning, regardless of size.

A trembling hand appeared in the forefront of the bustling scene, and She observed an ageing woman seated at the bus stop just outside Her window.  The woman was replacing a cap on a small bottle, but her hands rattled so violently she could barely bring cap and vessel together.  In one hand was an electronic cigarette. The device resembled more an elaborate pen than a modern-day smoking implement.

As She raised her eyes to rest Her gaze on the woman’s face She was surprised to discover, at second look, features much younger than expected.  That’s not to say the woman was young, but rather, the stoop of her shoulders and the haggard poise of her fingers belied the youth of her face.

Or perhaps it was the other way around.

Would She prefer to have a youthful face, or a youthful body? What a strange thing to wonder.

The image of the older woman melted into a blur of shadow and shards of light as the bus pulled forward onto the road.

Perhaps, neither, She pondered. A youthful mind, is surely far more important.