Wednesday, January 26, 2011

At your feet


Sometimes I feel like I'm here... at your feet.

I know I'm stronger and I know I value myself more, but I can't always feel like the great one that I am.

Sometimes all I want to do is see you smile... back track where the conversation veered off and caused a big huff of silence that now sits loudly in the room.

I have issues with this because my fighting me says that this is not the way it should be. I should not have to kowtow to you. The fighter is mostly right... but in everything one needs to learn humility... as well as the possibility that one may be wrong.

Sometimes I feel like I am groveling at your feet and the fighter in me says, "Fuck this! I never need this!" Times like that, I remember that I can survive alone out of stubbornness, and it sorter scares me.

Sometimes I feel like we're both naked children, lying on the floor hoping that one picks the other up. Times like that... I need to remember that that is most likely the truth.

This has been true in many relationships and, it seems, will always be true in all relationships. I just have to remember that the fighter can blow things out of proportion and that, at all times, no one is doing any groveling whatsoever. We're both just trying to be heard... even in the silence.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Last night I dreamt of death.

I still had the taste on my tongue upon waking up a few moments ago and so sure was I of it that I wasn't scared and it just was the ever present fact.

I had been running away when I saw him approaching from a field towards the door I stood at of what I knew as my home. I tried to outrun her by taking off into the field, but even my neighbor who watched death approach me, told me I could not outrun him.

"He's right," said death calmly, still approaching me by only walking yet getting so much closer to my running self.

I gave in, allowing the inevitable to sink in. I let death touch me, overtake me and I sank down to the grass knowing that was all and that she was gone. I floated in a sort of half state both staring and walking around the things around my home.

I was dressed in Victorian garb and it all seemed so natural. I got up and walked around gardens and forests and thought, "I am dying; I am dead."

Then, as though allowed a short reprieve to get things in order, I was alive again, knowing that when they finally found that girl in the field, found my body, they would know that I was dead.

I went back to the door to my home and saw my family. I kissed my mother and I looked through my things, deciding what I wanted with me when I died. I pointed things out to my little brother that I wanted him to have or to remember about me. He who was a boy again in my dream and quite affectionate to me. I talked to my sister about the things that I especially liked about ornaments we had made. Oddly, my family in my dream was very creative. I don't mean that they aren't now... they are, they just do nothing with it. In my dream we created things, wrote songs and sang them, encouraged each other in our mediums of art. Basically we were everything we are underneath but nothing that we do in reality.

I remember thinking of my husband. I felt a tinge of sadness, but nothing more for I remembered the last cold sleepless nights where we may have shared a bed, but for little more than rest. I knew he would be ok. I looked through my things at our apartment, again more arts and crafts. I looked at the history I had written about Anne Shirley who, in my dream, had been a closeted lesbian but had died in her lovers' arms. I gave instruction to my sister... or perhaps it was a friend?... that it was as well written as it would be and completely comprehensive. I think it was Amander that I talked to later as to what I had found regarding her life; that she had left her husband and who her lover had been, how they met and how she had broken the heart of a scholar that was also doing research on her work/ writings who became enamoured by her and so had to leave his research unfinished because he didn't want her truth.

All the while I knew that the girl was in the field waiting to be found. The girl was no longer me, just my body, just the thing that would set off the beginning of my death.

I was scared a bit, wondering if perhaps I'd gone down that road too early, had chosen death before I should have. Nothing I could do about it, really, and in hindsight, there really had been no escape. I was excited about where this new adventure would lead but the fear always touched me because I had to go away from everything I had known and loved.

I was frantically going around trying to leave bits for the people I loved. This story here for so and so, that favorite collage there for another, etc., leaving pieces of me so everyone could remember me by and through these specific things know that I loved them and that I was ok. Everyone was thought of dearly in this time.

I wondered what would happen when they found me, saw them starting the events that would lead them to my body (which I knew would happen by the end of that night). I felt like I was peeking around a corner watching them, seeing what the reaction would be when they found me. I knew I couldn't see this and I knew that I wouldn't be able to, try as I might. I knew they would be horribly sad, but I was hoping to show them that I was happy and I had been ready.

I was hungry and I went in search of something I was craving. I don't remember what it was, but I remember having a bit of that before I wanted something else. Once I had the next thing I wanted a third and that's when I knew that it had begun. I was instinctively having a last super, you might say, eating bits of all my favorite things and not getting full. That was when I knew I had to find Stephen...

Then I woke up.

My first thoughts this morning were that death was with me and I had chosen it. My second thoughts were of how peaceful I felt and how I had never felt so sure of the beauty and creativity around me. My third thought was that I needed to tell Tracy my dream and ask her what the hell it meant. Next, I thought of all the things I had done in my dream (the songs, the crafts, the writing, etc.) and I thought that these were things that I needed to bring into the forefront of my life. Perhaps the death of the old me was a reminder that these are the things I'm destined to do in my life RIGHT NOW!

I got a sense that this author needed to leave her things that showed the people I love that I love them. My art is my gift to those I love, that is what will remain here to remind them.

Mainly, when I woke up dead this morning, I felt like an author who would go on to show the world posthumously all my great work... finally.

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