The ice is building on my windows… yes, on the INSIDE of my windows. Doesn’t matter that it’s warm inside. It’s colder outside. But I’m looking at it. Staring into the beauty of ice. Looking out the window to the moon and the twinkling stars, thousands upon thousands of them. If only I could count them. Some order in chaos. They are spread out, no rhyme or reason, at least knowing their number would bring some level of peace.
Anything to calm the upwelling of emotion. Emotion. Another thing with no rhyme or reason. Just chaos. My thoughts need order because I’m in turmoil right now. I am in turmoil because I was put in an uncomfortable position, made to think about uncomfortable things outside of my self-made box which keeps me safe and comfortable.
And now my mind, in a flurry, seeks order as I retreat inside myself. I retreat because outside is cold and there’s ice growing on the windows and the stars have no number and I’m made to think about things that make me uncomfortable while inside is me gently rocking back and forth (I don’t bang my head on the window anymore because apparently that’s frowned on and is considered “abnormal”). I’m rocking back and forth, cradling myself, and there are numbers and words dripping from my lips and I’m pretty sure I need to clean something because everything is so dirty out there but I’m inside, remember? And the rocking is swaying and comfort and calming and the numbers and words are meditation and relaxing. And the cleaning can wait – the cleaning can wait – the cleaning can wait.
I don’t want to think about uncomfortable things. They make me cry. I cry because I can picture imagery so very easily in my mind and I see it and smell it and taste it and hear it and it’s sometimes more real than the ice on the window. And when you make me visualize uncomfortable things, it makes me cry sometimes because then maybe that means I’m not good enough. There’s obviously some faulty wiring in my head because my fingers are itching and my feet are twitching to move to take me into the other room and clean. I’ve got boxes of q-tips and they’re perfect to get every little spot. If I get real close, I can see the dirt and filth and it makes it easier to clean – to clean – easier to clean the filth.
I’m crying. Yes of course I’m crying. What did you expect? I mean really expect? It’s an emotional thing, being out under the twinkling uncountable haphazard stars and being made to think about things that make me uncomfortable. But that’s not right either, is it? It’s not all about me – about me – about me. You factor in too, of course you do. You’re wonderful and perfect for me and more important to me than anyone else ever and your needs matter too. They really do. To me.
So I let myself get uncomfortable thinking about things that make me cry and which make me want to vomit and I’m not going to tell you that’s what it does because faulty wiring is unattractive and not very sexy. And I want you to believe I’m attractive and sexy. I want you to want me (not the person who rocks back and forth and glares at the stars and cleans minutiae because it just feels right) but the woman who knows how to cook Indian food and who loves sex and only brushes her hair because you told her once to do a little reading on why that’s important and she did read for hours and hours about it and now she does…. and the woman who loves you with everything she is because she doesn’t know how to love any other way.
That same woman who can barely see the screen through her tears and keeps making errors from rocking and typing too fast and whose heart doesn’t stay with her anymore because it feels like its home is not here with her.
The ice is growing on the window and the stars can’t be counted and I really need to clean. And there are tears everywhere. But. I love you. I love you – I love you – I love you.
tara caribou | ©2019
... from a silent space
Professional Wildlife, Landscape and Seascape Photography
Love to write!
Life Is Beautiful
Apologies for my apologies
All of Me
Providing a voice for the voiceless. Poets, artists, writers...sound off! Grinding through the dumpster fire that can be life...possibly get published
Writing and Whatnot