She traced the outline of his portrait, again and again, in an attempt to prevent him from disappearing completely. He had died suddenly from a common illness that the doctors had not detected. The autopsy made it clear that the doctors had failed him – and her. A simple blood test and he would have been fine. He would have been in her arms instead of having his final rest in a grave.
She had clammed up after his death. People tried to make her talk about it; they said it would make her feel better, whereas in fact the only thing that would make her feel better was to have him still alive. Still warm. There was no way she could put her grief into words. It was too immense. They had loved each other to bits; they had been completely perfect for one another. How could that loss be described? She was a black hole that sucked in every sorrow of the world to keep her own grief company.
She traced the outline of his portrait. There were not traces of him left. Her friends and family had made her get rid of his belongings. They said it would help. That she would miss him less that way. How could she ever miss him less? He who had made her whole in a wounded world. It was impossible. His portrait was the only thing that was left of him. She talked to his portrait every day, and she still waited for an answer.
Inspired by The Daily Post: Trace
This is a poem about being a redheaded woman that I wrote many years ago:
Don’t mess with me;
I’m a red-headed woman.
I’m stronger than you;
I’m a red-headed woman.
There’s a fire rising within me,
‘cause I’m a red-headed woman.
and I’m fierce;
I’m a read-headed woman.
I’m a no-nonsense woman.
Don’t you meddle with me.
Hold my hand;
don’t let me fall.
Drench me with love.
After all, I’m a red-headed woman.
She never thought of herself as capable. Everyone else insisted that she was, but inside she felt like a small motherless child. And when disasters struck, as disasters do, the adult part of her disappeared. Then she really was motherless again. How does a child navigate life? she asked herself. They scream for attention. She did not scream; she cried. But just got ignored. Nobody likes a person who cries.
She was alone. Forever alone. The loneliness was so profound she thought it made up her entire being. It took over. A small, lonely, motherless child cries to itself. But that does not accomplish anything. It was, however, a pattern she was caught in. It was like being caught in a giant spider’s web, like a fly not being able to tear itself away from it.
It was a sad life. Nobody really knew her. They all just looked on the outside and saw the fake smile. Heard the ”I’m fine, thanks”, and nobody cared to take a peek inside. But she was trapped on the inside and could not come out.
Inspired by The Daily Post: Capable
If she could have one wished fulfilled, it would be the gift of infinite wisdom. At least that is what she first thought. Just imagine being able to be so wise as to be able to figure everything out. She would have the answers to all questions, the solutions to all problems. But imagine her infinite loneliness if she was the wisest person in the world. People would queue to press her for answers, but no one would want to befriend a person who knew just about everything. She would become utterly and totally alone. The loneliness would soon kill her, she thought, and regretted her wish.
But, alas, it was too late. Her wish had already been granted, and she was wise beyond her years. In fact, her wisdom knew no boundaries. At first, people were intrigued. And curious. They came to ask her all sorts of questions. Then they became envious and spiteful. People were still queuing because they still wanted to use her wisdom. But they still disregarded what she said and did things their own way. And failed. And when they failed, they blamed her. She lost all her friends, and even her own family shunned her. She was soon the loneliest person on the planet, just as she had predicted.
Inspired by The Daily Post: Infinite
Of course I was tempted. In my handbag I had the key to a safe, which I knew contained millions of dollars. My boss had entrusted it to me. Because he trusted me. Because he thought I was trustworthy. That, in turn, was the key to why I did not make a run for it and took the money.
My marriage was in shambles anyway; it was just a charade. And not a funny one either. For me it was more like living a nightmare every day. I wanted a divorce anyway and money was the one thing I needed to be able to divorce him, my tormentor. Plus a fair amount of courage as well, of course. He tortured me – not physically, though. But God knows that the mental part is even harder to withstand. He belittled me, and he gaslighted me. Everything was on his terms; he could not even stand it if I thought my own thoughts. He was always right, and I had to obey.
I wanted out while there was still a small part of me left that he had not taken over. If only my boss had told me in advance. I could have planned my escape in advance then. Where to go and what to do with the money. How to cover my tracks and pretend I was dead so my husband did not come after me.
But of course, in the end I did not want to let my boss down either. He entrusted millions of dollars with me. He trusted me, which meant he thought I was someone. I was a person to be trusted, a person with good character and judgment and not some worthless piece of crap.
Inspired by The Daily Post: Tempted
My body and soul protest – together – in a demonstration against the great demon, alcohol. And no, I’m not the alcoholic. I have a family member who is.
I’m a teetotaller myself. Every little cell in my body, every brain cell and every little inch of my immeasurable soul absolut detest alcohol. I hate the stuff. It’s a vicious killer and a destroyer of families.
I made a cardinal error in trying to forget the hellish year back then. In order to survive at the time, I put the lid on the dustbin, hoping all those feelings would stay there. Stay away from me. I made another one in thinking I could go to an open meeting at AA with my family member. What on earth possessed me?
It was – and it still is and will be for a long time – a flash-back from that year I spent at the bottom of a black pit. Now the pit follows me wherever I go, and it is constantly trying to devour me. And I let it. There’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t have the strength to deal with it. I don’t even want to. At the moment I wish I was dead. Or at least that I could turn back the clock.
Tick, tock… tick, tock…
Inspired by The Daily Post: Protest
My life has always been chaotic, I think, and maybe that has formed me into the chaotic person that I am today. Most days it does not bother me much. On the contrary, I think that chaos inspires creativity. It is when you see two things lying together, which are not really supposed to be together that sparks ideas. Sometimes even a few hours of fireworks inside your head. On such an occasion, if I find myself without pens and paper I will go truly mad. The ideas come even faster than you can write the down, but if you don’t even put them down on paper, all of them will get lost. And you will go mad. Or sad. And dangerous to know. It’s like trying to put the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle together. If a lot of pieces are missing it just will not work.
Chaos lives next door to God, the Father of all Creation, but many people Believe that chaos is actually quite close to hell. Not so. Hell for me would be a white house with white furniture, wiped clean of all existence of life. I cannot imagine anything that would be more aggravating to me. I need to be surrounded by books, papers, words, beads, pieces of cloth etc etc. Table tops should be covered in post, Magazines and so forth. If they are not, the house is dead. Creativity is dead. Only boredom lives.
Inspired by The Daily Post: Chaotic