Today

I broke my blue glass. My stoneware salt pig fell from its altar and rolled over, hitting my overturned glasses like pins in a blowling alley. It hit the floor and died with a scream. The sound was different--not like the mirror cutting into two or a ball hitting the window. It was a controlled cracking, a muffled scream elongated through the slow motion of falling. The sound filled my dollhouse like an echo and disappeared in a snap. I realised, while picking the shards, that it was as if my glass was trying to delay the inevitable. And if it had more time in suspension, more distance between the kitchen sink and the floor, I would have scooped it to salvation. It was a liberating thought.

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I evaded my morning pages and instead opted for napping--my favourite form of detachment. By three in the afternoon, with the laundry hanging to dry and no cleaning left to conquer, I sat down and began the torturous backtracking of yesterday's events. I tried to skip most of them, but every now and then my thoughts branched out to other matters, insights, and frustrations. It's funny how despite the years, I still have too much fuel to burn.

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According to Julia Cameron, anger is a fuel that sheds light on our boundaries. It is a loud wailing friend that deserves our ears and attention. I listened to it and realised this: despite the fact that we have moved on and let go, he still makes me angry. It wasn't because I harbour the same disgusting feelings as before, but because I have, for the longest time, decided to sleep through our issues. My issues, actually. Against him. Against the me who made stupid choices. 

Whenever I dissect my anger with him being the trigger, I always always always end up directing that anger to the me who let it happen. I allowed my feelings to overshadow the red flags. I chose to be blissfully ignorant. And when the shadow cannot hide the monster anymore, it leapt out and I suffered the beating. The fact is this: being stupid is not an easy pill to swallow. My pride saved me from an abusive relationship but it continued to point fingers. And often, I retaliated in response.

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The deluge finally fell at eight in the evening, washing the city in raindrops that fizzled out after hitting the pavement. It wasn't a dance that invited romance nor was it a falling that beckoned sleep and daydreams. There were no winds to command its presence, no staccato prelude as a warning bell. It fell like it should. Hard. Unyielding. Tiny needles piercing the pollution into fogs that veiled the night. Haunting, yet so lovely. After a long tiring day, I lit a cigarette and savoured the view. Things may not get better but it always become beautiful in the end. - 6/15/2016