conversations with M

space: unquantifiable except that it's the exact breadth, width and height of the person from whom you want space.
why do all women need someone to share their lives with. It's as if they need a witness to their life, without whom they can't be sure they've lived or done or seen or conquered. Woman: the schizophrenic see-er who is observed and observes simultaneously, passive and active. she needs someone there to validate her existence, to acknowledge and proclaim it to the world at large. why don't we all rather hire photographers to take pictures of us eating chocolate, walking along the promenade, watching a film...
society's reflections are spilt on us, mingled with terms of endearment, 'babe', 'sweetiepie', 'honey'. I want no more of this generic gibberish, no more of society's expectations. Take it all, i am not a generic woman.
Maya Angelou spring forth.

musings from the lost box

musing on writing and unearthed truths therein, i came to the rabbit hole and tumbled down, sinking slowly on a bubble of questions. to what extent do profound thoughts rattle around at the back of your head, unnoticed among the marbles, and then pop out of their own accord when you least expect it,as though some puppet master has pulled a string or turned a key to open a secret door behind which lurk these half-formed notions which tumble out semi-formed and disguised by pretty words and metaphors? Always my thoughts shimmer as a mirage on the horizon, while i scrabble at the gravel, striving to reach them, grab them, shake them into speaking their entire meaning to me, but only ever ending up with hands of soil and stone, empty words for which the toil was worthless and from which the meaning has turned tail and fled - a fox fleeing the hounds of inquiry, and leaving nothing but fast-fading footprints in owlet's down mingled with dust in the corridors of the mind.

glass-blower

small hand, big hand, held tightly whilst a little nose is flattened by glass watching glass being reborn; bubbling balloons of fragility blossom out of nothing to become objects of fancy, flying horses, spiders' webs drizzled with ruby dew, fish-shaped glass, distorting reflections somewhat like diction intended to dazzle which creates a non-existent self from shards of society's mirror. We are who they are. Still teetering on the cusp.