Writing blogs is sometimes really easy, I just splurge all my thinking into words and lay them all out on the page. I then pause read through and then edit them into something that makes sense. I try to find the thing that matters right then. There are other times I spend days and days trying to make sense of something before I chisel it into words, they are hard blogs to write and I'm sure they're the ones that are hard to read. I've been blogging for four years solid and I've still no idea what makes a good or bad blog. I try to go with honest, that seems to work.
Writing this week I thought I was heading in one direction just letting it all out. I was looking one way but my words were going another. I was trying to be clever and ponder some insight or some such nonsense when underneath there was this feeling that's been lurking in me. It's been tightening around my insides.
It's a remembered feeling hung on grey skies, cold nights and the growing darkness as we creep to the shortest day. It's echoes of sharp words new every day laid on top of a thousand days of sharp words.
It's November and every day we're drawing close to the anniversary of the day last November when we unravelled.
Today, I bumped into a friend of a friend who'd come to the police station with me on that cold November day. Today, it took my breath from me to see him again, my heart raced and I left quickly.
It's coming to the time I make a Christmas Cake and decorated it with a cynical anti Christmas motto. Last year I baked it the day we fell apart and I never got to decorate it. I love Christmas cake I never want to taste one again.
I'm seeing the friend who broke the news to me last year soon. I don't want to see him.
The usual features of my Autumn landscape all seem infected with a nervous illogical tension pulling me back to those days last November. I'm straining to get beyond to the spring with memories of hope and change.
Trauma begets trauma and I wonder if my child feels like this every day with feelings and emotions linked to the mundane pillars of every day life. Unknowing she lives under these skies.
Trauma does beget Trauma and it seems I live under these dark skies this November.
I started this post in one place and ended in tears, now there's a metaphor.
Writing this week I thought I was heading in one direction just letting it all out. I was looking one way but my words were going another. I was trying to be clever and ponder some insight or some such nonsense when underneath there was this feeling that's been lurking in me. It's been tightening around my insides.
It's a remembered feeling hung on grey skies, cold nights and the growing darkness as we creep to the shortest day. It's echoes of sharp words new every day laid on top of a thousand days of sharp words.
It's November and every day we're drawing close to the anniversary of the day last November when we unravelled.
Today, I bumped into a friend of a friend who'd come to the police station with me on that cold November day. Today, it took my breath from me to see him again, my heart raced and I left quickly.
It's coming to the time I make a Christmas Cake and decorated it with a cynical anti Christmas motto. Last year I baked it the day we fell apart and I never got to decorate it. I love Christmas cake I never want to taste one again.
I'm seeing the friend who broke the news to me last year soon. I don't want to see him.
The usual features of my Autumn landscape all seem infected with a nervous illogical tension pulling me back to those days last November. I'm straining to get beyond to the spring with memories of hope and change.
Trauma begets trauma and I wonder if my child feels like this every day with feelings and emotions linked to the mundane pillars of every day life. Unknowing she lives under these skies.
Trauma does beget Trauma and it seems I live under these dark skies this November.
I started this post in one place and ended in tears, now there's a metaphor.
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