I lost my mind in the dark

I'm sure the demons are laughing
Their evil little horns off
As I haunt the house at night.
In my bed I toss and turn
As they torment me
Till I'm tanlgled in damp sheets.
Leave Me Alone!
Let me SLEEP!
I want to screem into the dark.
Tickled by my torture they gigle
From the corners of the bedroom.
I'm going mad, aren't I?
I pray.
I pray for peace and calm.
I pray for sleep.
They laugh as if my pleas are punchlines.
These invisible menances screatch with mirth.
I've gone crazy, haven't I?

A Murder of Crows

With a heart aflutter with nerves I don't know how to start the conversation. How do I dare to ask the man I married whether he still loves me. 

What a ridiculous question. Can I honestly expect a truthful response?

Would he say "of course I do", because it's the safe answer?

Would he become instantly irritated, see my question as an attempt to initiate an awkward conversation or start a fight?

Would he start a fight to avoid the debate of how we would know whether we still love each other?

Love each other. Implying that I love him as well. Can I risk him spinning the question back round to me, and asking me if I love him?

I wouldn't have an answer. I don't know if I do. If I ever did. I don't understand love. 

Yet I need to know if he loves me. Laughable almost, isn't it. 

Ok, let's try to decode and define love. Again. 

Love for ones children and parents. That ones easy. Siblings too. They're practically a biological extension of one. You love them like you love your own limbs. And losing them and living without any one them would be as inconceivable as tragically losing and arm or leg. People would tell you things will be ok and that life will go on. But after losing a parent or child, life doesn't quite go on the same as before. It's impossible.


So then you meet Mr or Mrs Right. And you fall "inlove". Great feeling. Hormones are happy. Then as a result of this chemical imbalance and toxic high you find yourself doing some unexpected things. Like getting married and promising to be eternally faithfully and respectful. 

In some cases people manage to maintain the joy and intimacy, to remain wrapped up in the warm glow of honeymoon for decades. 

But mostly not. More often the passion cools, the glow fades and you're left facing the stone cold reality of an unsuitable partner. 

Is that where I'm at?

Did I marry this man while on a hormonal high. Was my grey matter rendered unreliable by my rose coloured view of the future at the time?

Or did I really believe that as a person, he was indeed suitable and shared my dreams for the future? Was I sure that he was the only one I wanted to start a family with and grow old with? What made me think it was possible? What made me so sure I was right? It couldn't have been all false feeling based on happy hormones. 

Looking at his sleeping face I will myself to feel something. I'm frustrated and angry at how lazy my emotions are. No bloody butterflies. Only the creaking as mild irritation strains to escape from my clenched jaw. 

Fucking hell! What does love feel like. If he died tonight, would I grieve? For him? Or for my children who would be devastated by the loss of their father?

Would I miss him?

Dammit I want to feel something. And I want him to feel something too.

I want to feel the stupid glow and nauseating joy of romance  novels and movies. 

I want to shake him awake and tell "Bloody fucking hell let's do things we did back when we liked each other, or is it too late? "


There the flutter is back. Not the excited butterfly type. But the frantic flapping of  foreboding crows.


If I woke him and asked him if he loved me ... I'm terrified of what he's answer would be.

Watch net

Yoh. Pilates oppe Sondag oggend. In die woorde van die geagte Michaelangelo, (die een uit Lambertsbaai) "jou ma se purringbak! "

Ek swiet my smartie af en die spagetti goes oppie stage le^ so relaxed mens sal dink haar siel het haar lyf verlaat. Maar dan skieluk move die geramte. Ja sy is so maar. Nogal vol style en grace strek sy vooruit om haar tonne te touch. En ek dink daais mos maklik. Ek kan daai doen.  En ek try maar die blerrie broodbluk wat op my skoot le^ is heeltemal innie pad. En ek kannie eens aasem kry nie want die twee melk kanne voor my gesig versmoor my. Sies, pathetic. Ek kyk so langs my en sien die auntie sukkel en kreun ook. Voelie uintlik better nie want mens kan sien die tannie trek al pension. Het sieker kinders wat ouer as ek is.  

Yoh wanneer het ek so vet geword?  Ai, baatnie ek try nou om uit te figure pressies watter chiproll my oor die gewigs lein gestood het nie. Ek kannie eers by my vet tonne uitkom nie.

Ek moet weer begin haardloop. Al kom ek laaste. Al skut my vet. Ek gaan die vet rolle afskut. Fok man, twee jaar terug het ek gese^ "I'm bringing sexy back". Sexy het haar way verloor maar watch die space. Watch net.  

I was brave

Tonight I read a poem out loud for the first time. A poem I wrote. Out loud to people I didn't know. And scarier still, to people I do know. In a moment of weakness I confessed my sins in rhyme. I allowed people to see the side of me that shouldn't be.  It's a moment of weaknesses cos I buckled under the pressure of secrets. For once I just wanted to be me. To be seen as the real me. To indulge this idea that I'm an artist.
Is it weakness or bravery to finally ... take a risk and reveal what I think and feel?
I did it. I read out loud. I'm kinda proud that I took that step.  No one cringed. They clapped.
And it's not the recognition of others that I'm celebrating right now, but the fact that I had the guts to give it a try. I was amongst artists and found my place, stood my ground and shared. I dared. I did it.