Traces

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

Porträtt

Annonser

A Redheaded Woman

This is a poem about being a redheaded woman that I wrote many years ago:

Red

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.

I’m fearless
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.

Rödhårig kvinna

Infinite wisdom granted

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

ensam

Tempted

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

nyckel

The sound of silence

Ah, there is no other such delightful sound as the sound of silence, maybe spiced with the sound of the wind caressing the tree tops and the song of a blackbird singing to the rising sun, for that is the sound of God himself speaking to us. But we are ever too busy to descend to listening. Such is man’s arrogance. It has no limits. Modern man does not even believe in death; he thinks his arrogance will save him from dying. Why else would people drive as they do? I really do not think it is because they are in a hurry to the graveyard, but it is clear that they want to prove a point, which, presumably, then is that they have ever-lasting life. Without listening to God? Not a chance! Maybe, just maybe, if they stopped on a beautiful spot near a lake and sat down for a while, until they could hear the sound of silence. Maybe then. But the thing is, they never do.

Inspired by The Daily Post: Silence

sjo

What does your mother know?

”You always have such a radical view of things!” Her mother flung the words at her.

”So what if I do?” Mary never knew if her opinions were really her own, or if she had adopted them just because she knew her mother would hate them. It was the same even when she was buying clothes. She wanted to find a style of her own, but the fact was that she never knew whether se was still being influenced by her mother’s taste, it she really like them herself, or if the loved them because she knew her mother would detest them.

Those were the hazards of growing up with a narcissistic mother. There were more dangers, though, than the mere matter of taste and opinions.

”You’re just saying that because it’s the opposite of what I think.”

Mary was glad her mother had at least some insight, but she really suffered from a severe lack of self-knowledge. She could, for instance, not understand why Mary had developed the habit of opining the exact opposite of what she thought was right. But then of course you had to have grown up with a narcissistic parent to understand.

Inspired by The Daily Post: Radical

jeans

 

The last summer

She shivered. The last of the summer had gone, and there was only darkness ahead. She shivered, not because it was particularly cold yet, but because she was anticipating the endlessly long stretch of cold and darkness that lay ahead of her. And pain. The fact that this happened every year did not make it any easier on her. Her living space had shrunk seriously.

When she was younger she had thought, had hoped, that she would be able to increase her living space as she got older, but this was not the case. She knew most of the whys, but still. She could not accept it. It was not fair; she was not a bad person, and yet it felt as if she were in prison, punished for some crime she did not even know existed. Or was she just being punished for being her? She did not know any longer. It did not really matter.

Inspired by The Daily Post: Shiver

Höst