I am a lock without a key; and people keep banging on my door wanting in and I just push them away. They don't understand. Truth is, neither do I. I'm broken. Inside. Look just fine from three feet away. No one understands. That I am broken. From the inside. I hold the pieces in my hands and I can't put them back together and in my frustration I throw them to the pavement and crush them under my heel, but from three feet away, I look fine. I would like to be fixed. I would like to find a fixer. I would like to believe in this dream. That somewhere, someone has a key; and that key, fits my lock. I would. But the sun has risen and it has set more times than I would like to account, for with the rising and the setting I've traded a dream for the ticket. I've got a whole collection of tickets. All unpunched. Night is coming. I've got a ticket in my hand. I'd like to say I'm jaded, but that would only be a facade hiding my fear. You see, I'm broken and broken don't sleep too well.
16 comments:
Inspired by a poem written by Jenn at the cafe. Thank you Jenn. :-)
I see, was initially puzzled and thought you had started another story.
Would silence be preferable or is the banging comforting, a sign of hope that one day a hand will run along the grains and knots and once familiar walk right in. I watched a documentary once, goodness knows why, about Sinead O'Connor's hit single, I forget the name of it, but the person who was speaking was telling a story about going into a pharmacy to get a prescription and how this song was playing and how it was one particular part of the song that caused the girl behind the counter to sing along, a single line that touched something inside of her. I remember for the line was ‘I went to the doctor and guess what he told me’. In other words, it wasn’t the words, but the admission of pain. Perhaps we are all the same and we kid ourselves that we are not. Why else would we all react to the same things. And what about that is so distasteful, is it pride that wants us to think of ourselves as different, is it acceptable to be similar in some ways but not in others. The finger that points as the others point back. Perhaps the only difference is that some admit to being broken and others would never. Of course then the realness of being whole would be questionable and were it that then all really would be lost, there would be nothing to wish for. No comfort in other people’s pain, though some imagine it. It doesn’t matter who spoke these words, it doesn’t even matter what they mean, they will make the people sing. I am a lock without a key too. I push them away. They don’t understand. I look fine but nobody sees beyond that. I want to believe there is a key but the sun rises each day and each day I trade my dreams. One by one like a vanishing act. I’d like to say life caused this, but I cannot be sure, perhaps nothing would or could have been changed, perhaps I am what I am and always was and was always meant to be. You see, it doesn’t matter that I wrote these words, it doesn’t even matter what they mean, what they mean in any case is not what they say. Your words are keys, compartment keys, Skeleton Keys, and for a spell we see a part of ourselves.
In The Princess Bride, at the end, Princess Buttercup leaps from the window ledge, her robes flowing, secure in the knowledge that Andre the Giant will catch her. That scene is what I see in your image, that and Odette of Swan Lake. :-) To sum up, this is a wonderful piece of writing with an equally wonderful image to go with it, so easy to lose oneself in both.
Nothing compares to you. That was the name of Sinead’s song. Apt. :-D
Autumn Storm always says it with such insight and thoughtfulness.
Magnificent fractal !
I loved a man once like what you are describing.
It is hideously painful to try to love someone who can't take it - who has so much potential and is broken inside.
Whose past has made them so fragile inside yet it has grown a steel skin of scar tissue. Somewhere, he swore he would never let himself love again because it hurts too much to be vulnerable.
So he operates with a certainty that he will let no-one in, let no-one really know him.
Just the smiling, intelligent, well-mannered mask, the pleasant 'isn't he a nice guy' comment from people who never spend a lot of time doing things with him.
And it must be just as hard for him in his own way, unable to trust on any deep level, make connections that have any meaning to him, feeling everyone is a stranger although they think of him as a friend...
Everyone 'misreads' him, although in truth, he misleads them...
My empathy to you, Tree...
Genuinely,
Loving Annie
Annie, the late great cyclist Mario Pantani once said it is not the scars on the outside that matter but the ones on the inside. Of course he was talking about crashing on the bike and how a horrific crash can change the psychological landscape within a cyclist such they never dare, lose their boldness and thus the sharp edge that separates the greats from the also-rans. I think his insight could be applied to many things, not the least of which is love.
You've described a very interesting character, one I think we all have known at some time in our lives, a shard reflecting a truth some of us recognize and to others it is the lock without a key.
As for this post, I'll neither confirm nor deny how much of me is in this chapter and how much is pure fiction as the story unfolds. This chapter fits with the two EE chapters where we know not the character or the time in which this apparent journal entry sits. Besides, it's not your empathy I want. Bring me the bread pudding and I'll lick your fingers clean and put the smile in your eyes to lift your frame in the wake of your weakening knees. :-D
Saffy, if I thought you'd read it, I'd start a new story. ;-)
Sunshine, your comments are like gems glittering in the morning sun, washed upon the shore of my blog in the night, gifts given by a heart as large as the sea, as magnanimous as mother nature with her charms. People come and go like the colors of the day, but your heart twirls my world, an axis firm and resolute in good times and bad, consistent as the stars and seemingly as far away, a marvel to be seen and touched of heart rather than caressed of eye and hand. Still, I'll take what I can get. :-D
Lovely, thoughtful post.
Thank you AW. I was in a reflective mood after reading a fabulous poem.
You have. :-)
the pace of this piece matches the frame of mind you were conveyed so well. Fragile, fractured, like shards of glass.
Blue, I love the shards of glass metaphor. Thanks for the kind words.
That is a definition that would fit so many these days!
I love the fractal!
Thanks Mona. :-)
Oh to have read this and commented right after you posted it. But, the after glow is gone I'm afraid and it would be like trying to discuss passion a week later. After glow is HIGHLY under rated.
Guess what frame of mind I find myself in? Love is a beautiful thing and bless B's hide. Wonderful man he is!
This is so well written it is beyond my ability to describe. The emotion slaps. It is aggressive. Love it.
Going to read further. Like Christmas at 7 years old, you know? Excited about what might be in the next package and what else is waiting under the Tree.
Jen
Jen, the feeling that gave birth to this piece is like a shadow. I see it out of the corner of my eye and I know, no matter how fast I run, I can't outrun it. So, we've made an easy peace, to coexist, to live together. As such, we have our good days and our bad days.
As always, your kind words warm my heart.
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