Monday, 26 October 2009

• The time away from this blog has been my time to heal. My summer wasn't quite as expected, and it still makes my heart ache to even contemplate what went down during those mere months of heat, and may I say, not much of a relaxation period.

  Summer is my winter. As winter is to some, dark, desolate. Winter is the time I thrive, I am truly a winter child, and the cold is my haven. As it is, summer we're given the time off. This time was my time to self destruct. Like a timer, ticking. Oh the cogs and wheels going around in what I have replaced my broken adolescent heart with.

  Clockwork.

  Beginning of summer, I lost my second mother. I love her, and I still miss her, and writing this still makes me tear up. However, I think the best peace of mind is to believe she is truly at rest, and no longer in pain. As they say, she is in a better place. The funeral was a Catholic service, and I didn't understand anything. I'm not indicating to the service, that was perfectly understandable. It didn't have to be anymore blatant. There was a casket, and she was dead.

  The End.

  No. What I didn't understand is why I couldn't cry, when everyone around me was weeping. I sat with my sisters, passing them tissues. My older half sister, who's never taken a shine to me, something I have long accepted, scowled at me for my lack of display of emotion. Oh, she doesn't know the bravery I had in that church not to cry. However, I couldn't let myself get to me, I had to be strong. Unlike others, if I cry, I am gone. My mental state disappeared into a void of unknowingness and the bottle of pills tempting me forward. Alas, I did not cry at my own second mothers funeral.

  Before she died, I sent her a letter. She recieved it, that I know. However, unlike my sister, I didn't scrawl down my trivial days, I didn't pretend that I was merely chatting to her, as we would have done in the mornings. Oh, the mornings, 6 AM jetlag and her walking down the stairs in a bathrobe, making us tea, talking. I could tell her anything.

  She was the only person I could tell anything to.
  Never was there a kinder soul, and God took her away.

  Not to digress, and to continue forward (as I have been doing). I wrote her a letter of sincerity, thanking her for always being there for me, even if I wasn't always the most wonderful of people. For listening to me. For being what she was, a mother, more of a mother than my own mother could of ever been nor will ever be.

  I knew she was going to die, and she did. A day after my letter was recieved. And I miss her every single day, small things reminding me of her. The hurt becomes less durable, sure, but it doesn't fade.

  This was not the end of summer, just the beginning of the two months of which will change me from the person I was, to the person I am now.

  Imagine having your heart beaten and broken, several times.

  By death, family members and the one person in the world you thought you could trust.

  I returned to home after the funeral in the UK. Home is where the heart is, as they say. That home was with her in the UK, but she is no longer there. So, my heart was a wonderer, a traveller if you will.

  Returning home, I brought a few problems on myself. Everyone left, I was here alone. Alcohol, making 'tails, just for the colors. Then it turned into the reason for taste. Its how I manage to hurt someone I loved, more as a brother than anything.
  I practically cheated, not in the way you think, I am not a whore.

  With words. Simple words.
  Until I realised what I was doing and stopped, oh the hypocricy when I point out someone elses mistake. I should really identify my own, because they can be greater than anything that someone else has committed. For theirs is highschool trivia, mine is, stupidity at its finest hour.

  One night, I was in the park, with my sister and her friend. This was the second time we had done this, the ritual to purchase food and then have an all nighter in the park. It was summer, there no rules and no limits. However, the park in question was next to the pub. I didn't like that pub. You see, my dad and his friends drink there, and alcohol, that thing I had been so careless about, it changes people, and not usually for the better.
  
  My dad becomes a borderline abusive asshole.
  Normally, he's just an asshole.
  
  Not that I can tell anyone this but you trusty blog.
  
  They both went inside, I figured, they'd just come back out. They didn't, so I walked inside. Passing the men wth the tiger shrine, danger was indifferent by then though. To others, they were men with the potential to harm others. To me, they were superstitious wankers sitting around a shrine in the form of a striped animal. Basically, no different than the social scene. Losers.

  Stepping inside the pub, oh how it had changed since the 90's. The decorations reflecting that of a coffee shop, it was almost amusing, if it weren't for those who spent their lives in it. The irony of the place contrasting with its drinkers. I smiled. What could I do? My dad was half toasted by then, and his friends weren't any better. My sister and her friend were working behind the bar, and the bartender looked like he was more out of it than anybody there, though he's the most decent.

  Funnily enough, I cannot continue with this post...

  It seems some stories are best kept hidden, in my clockwork heart preferably...

   

   

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