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Member
Join Date: Aug 2005
Location: essex
Posts: 2
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1st piece!!!! well the start of it
Living far away from someone you love is like having a part of you missing. Now, far away to some maybe the other side of the world, to some its ten miles down the road. But still there’s that hole, that emptiness. Everything we say and do, see and hear reminds us of that person. Without them we see ourselves as nothing, we cannot live. Losing them causes you to feel like letting go, you can have all the strength in the world when they are with you, all of the courage and confidence you need to do everything you want in life, but once that person goes you fall. Your believe your destined to be in the black hole that is despair forever. You feel as if you don’t see the sun and its brightness, the laughter and the solid ground of reality. You’ll be in this state of self-hatred, and low self-esteem for the rest of your life, which drags out second by second, every moment more excruciating than the last. Wanting to go to sleep at night and never wake up, to have all the strength and courage again. To live in a dream world where they are, where you are together forever.
Now imagine having no-one see the real you from the start. Have no one to love you, and no one to love. You’re living a lie. All your feelings, ambitions and dreams are locked in a box in the back of your mind, and they are eating at you. You can have no one to miss, yet there’s still that hole, that emptiness. Everything you say and do, see and hear, every option, a lie. Your nothing, a hollow, slowly freezing figure, which walks the planet as everything thinks you should walk it. You believe living this lie is better, as you supposedly have friends, and family that care about you. Yet without really admitting it you’re living a life of despair, deeper and more life threatening than having lost a love. You see the sun and it doesn’t warm you, you don’t feel the icy winter wind, but still underneath the mask of not caring you long to have some one to keep you warm. The laughter doesn’t faze you; you wish the solid ground below would swallow you whole. Yes every living moment is as excruciating as living with out a love you once had. But in your dreams your love doesn’t have face. You lay awake thinking of what they might look like, but you also have to push the thinking aside, put on the mask staring at artwork you hate, secretly glancing at the one your friends see as wrong. What’s worse? To have loved and lost, or to never be allowed to love at all?
Surely this being the 21st century and all, people would get it. Women love women, they feel the same as Adam and Eve, just after long passionate embraces there were no Romulus and his other brother beginning with ‘R’. To get that you go through lot less passion and a lot more money.
I sat at my window staring at her washing the car across the street. The water flicking over her, the beads of sweat appearing on her brow. Her boyish attire, clinging to her womanly figure as each splash of water was sucked into the material. I sat there most weekends, staring, watching soak the car (and herself). I watch as she reached into the bucket of soapy water and scrubbed the mud off the wheel arches. Bending, so her jeans…ok to much information for right now. She drives me wild in my dreams, I just never get the guts to go over and say something like ‘hey, you look hot, want a drink?’ usually the picture goes something like………………….
“Hey there, was looking over here, watching you work up sweat. You look a little thirsty can I offer you a drink?”
Instead of answering she grabs me, throws me on the bonnet……………….well you can use your imagination for the rest. I know I do! Instead I just watch. Look at her as if she’s about to disappear and never come back. As she leaves a part of me wants to follow, but the lily-livered part of me fixes itself to the window ledge and watches as she goes out of sight. I sit there a while longer then saunter off downstairs, out of my dreamland of dykes, piercings, and battery powered members. My mother would never tolerate me to get a tattoo; she wants me to marry a nice boy (as she puts it), and boys like that wouldn’t want a girl with flesh mutilating disfigurements that stain and scar for life. My father would beat me six ways to Sunday if he knew that I dreamt of girls on motorcycles instead of a Harvard law degree, or a boat race at oxford, cheering on the boys who row all day and shag girls absent-mindedly all night. Well take out the mindless shagging part. I would have to sit through hours of lectures of how I would bring shame on the family, and answer questions like, how on earth would I have babies? As I entered the kitchen my mother turned to me, smiling as she did. (I thought it was a false smile, she wore it to show the people around the street that she was a loving wife and a fantastic mother)
“Oh darling you’re just in time for lunch. Mrs Saunders from over the street is coming. She’s bringing David too!”
The joy spread through my mothers face as she spoke, and a great grey cloud came over my head, as they often did in the heated lunch discussions I had to have with half witted boys who wouldn’t have a clue on how a woman really works, or how to please her in any way. Besides none of them would get to even try.
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If it makes you happy!
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