They say that life is hard, but how hard is it to live inside this home, no one apart from the very people who live here will truly know.
There is never a day that goes by without voices being raised, people getting hurt and dreams being shredded into little pieces. First by hands, then put into a shredder and then stabbed with an ice pick. Yes, my dreams have gone through that. They lie in minuscule pieces on the floor and I look upon them with grief.
They say that families are supposed to take care of you, and I suppose they do. But that care always comes at a cost and that is when a certain individual flips, a monster makes an entrance, we get flamed and scorched good. Crispy, if you will.
It is at times like these that I want to run away from home, but I can’t because I’d be leaving behind people I can’t really take with me. And that makes me want to cry and cry and cry. Crying never solves anything, but at least the agony that my heart feels right now, would dissolve into the salty water and the weight of these problems will ease, at least a little. But I sometimes think, does it really? I don’t think so, but at least I can pretend that it will.
Nothing is ever good enough, and we are never good enough. No matter what is said and done, things never get resolved and we just continue in this cycle of life and hate.
Let’s say that my life is 90% Misery and 10% where I’m trying to maintain my sanity when I live under this roof, and I preoccupy myself by hiding behind text books and my faithful laptop. When I’m not within the confines of these walls, I’m 90% deliriously happy and 10% carefree! I might sound like a bitch for saying this, but without my closest friends, I don’t think I could survive this long in this crazy so called ‘Home’. Because this isn’t a home, it’s my own personal prison, and the mother is the Prison Warden. With constant threats, never knowing what tomorrow might bring, the only solace I know is that the people who I have found my peace with will still be around when dawn breaks. For that I’m thankful.
October 30, 2010 | Categories: Life | Tags: angst, family, home, house | 5 Comments
Part I of Kinship of Spirit
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The door bell rang. Miths made her way through her apartment’s living area, towards the door, and looked through the peep hole. She saw a familiar head of hair, looking downwards. The curls were slightly visible, she knew who that was. Christy.
She unbolted the door, opened it and held it slighty ajar with her hand on the inside knob. Christy raised her head, at the suddenness of the door opening. She stood there, in her jeans, button down shirt, heels and the over-sized handbag she lugged around with her. She looked as if she’d gotten there in a hurry. She had forgotten to apply her coat of lip gloss, something she always does, though she’d forgotten it now. Miths slowly looked at her watch. It was past 1 o’clock. “Wasn’t she supposed to be at work?”, she thought.
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November 26, 2009 | Categories: Kinship of Spirit, Short Stories | Tags: angst, Coffee, friends, hurt, Kinship of Spirit, love, relationships, short story, writing | 11 Comments
I was lucky enough to meet a really great friend, who in the last couple of months has been there constantly for me and been an absolute darling. I hope I can be as great a friend to you as you are to me.
Thanks Dili, for everything, along with helping me with this when I needed advice.
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She lay alone, on her sofa, in anxiety. Her mind was absorbed with a million things, a million possibilities, a million thoughts. Ravaging all the happiness of her solace, the devil was playing tricks on her and finally she succumbed to her evil thoughts. She had tried so hard in the time that had elapsed, to become what they perceived her to be. Normal, thoughtful and and smile away, like she always had been, before the world turn black again. But with recent events, that had become too hard, too cumbersome. She had given in to the evil that was spreading in her, the darkness that made her desolate. Depression had caught on, and she let go, completely. With all these transformations, what she missed was her smile and the way her eyes twinkled. The last month had been tough, tougher than her childhood. Her childhood had taught her many things, one was the art of deception, and how not to let her feelings show to the world. But then she faltered, to a man she believed she loved.
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August 27, 2009 | Categories: Short Stories | Tags: abuse, angst, heartbreak, Life, loss, love, lust, passion, rape, relationships, sexual | 12 Comments
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The Black Rose of Anarchy 