Monthly Archives: June 2011
I usually keep talking to kill the silence, in just the same way as I keep doing, to kill the thoughts. Almost everyone who I wanted to tell about our seperation has now been told. Some know about M’s adultery. Nobody knows what to say.
So I keep talking to kill the silence, doing to kill the thoughts.
Jesus, people say, I don’t know what to say. The scale and severity of the cheating really does knock people cold. I find it comforting. That the lies and deceit can kick people so hard, people who have not been directly stabbed by them, makes me feel stronger than I am.
I haven’t screamed, shouted, smashed or struck out. I’ve stayed calm. A friend who’s a counsellor tells me my reaction, my lack of anger, is unusual. I suppose I’ve always liked to be different.
I overheard a woman in the theatre yesterday. She asked, in an opulent, privileged pleased-with-ones-self voice;
Would you give me the number of the police station please?
The staff acquiesed.
I think my bag has been stolen, she continued. I left it in the taxi and the driver was black.
She was tall, slim and elegantly dressed, yet her face was marked with the sourness of a thousand frowns. The body of a swan with the head of a vulture, I thought. Nothing as bitter as the bile in her throat.
Tomorrow M will come back here. She is selfish and a liar, but not as bad as the woman in the theatre. Her new place isn’t ready for two weeks and she’s nowhere else to stay.
A lot of people I know think I shouldn’t let her back. And I wonder: Should my kindness not be confused for weakness? Or my weakness not for kindness?
I need a little anger. I need to feel a little less sad about who’s leaving my life.
I’ve worried about him using you, of you ending up all alone. And then it struck me: In what way have you changed? Perhaps he will leave his wife and kids, and perhaps one day you’ll cheat on him too. I think I’d probably like that, and I’m sure that you would cope.
fire. It burns it all clean.
I could see in M’s face tonight the old woman she’ll one day be. I looked at her features and form. I watched her fingers as she opened her purse, slim and coiled, spiralling out like spider legs, the deftness of her movements that once seemed so elegant and poised now dark and menacing.
Has she aged in the past month? Am I seeing lines that aren’t really there? Or has a veil been lifted and the truth been revealed?
It might be hard for me to see someone so delicate and pretty so capable of doing me so much harm.
We saw the psychological show stopper Derren Brown. The tickets were bought when times were not so bad, and in the great tradition of dysfuncional behaviour we attended the performance together.
The show was the usual, though no less astounding, mesmerising fair from Mr Brown. A mix of misdirection, suggestion and psychology. Much of the seemingly magical relies on the audience’s belief in it’s own free will, a position proved pitiful by the great man’s reveals on how thoughts can be controlled.
How much of what we think, do we actually think, and how much is already thought for us?
Perhaps I’m simply spiteful. Perhaps she’s just as beautiful as she ever was, but I no longer want to see. Tonight she seemed frail, but less a butterfly, more a moth.
Has she always been ugly on the inside, or am I seeing what my mind deems right for me to see?
A few more weeks and she’ll be largely out of my life.
I doubt everything, and as you’re the cause I hope you won’t mind my distrust of you. But of course, you won’t, because what could my opinion of you matter to you now?
“The paradox of reality is that no image is as compelling as the one which exists only in the mind’s eye.”