Saturday, September 26, 2009


When I was a kid I used to imagine that my bed could fly. Childhood wasn't always a happy time for me and my imagination was a place I could escape to. I was a perpetual day dreamer. I was an only child until I was 8 so my imagination was my favourite plaything and closest friend. Maybe that's why I've always liked fantasy novels and movies, because they were created by people like me. People who lived in their heads and created worlds in which there were heros, where good and evil was clear and there was something to be done about every problem.

I'm having one of those days, ok, I'm having one of those couple of days. The kind of days where I'm too much in my head but my head isn't a safe place with recognizable monsters and easy ways to fight them. I'm still having trouble wrapping my head around everything and how far it's gone. The first of October is days away, B hasn't been home since Sunday, I've written him, I've written his father and had no response. The first is around the corner but still his stuff remains here. Strewn about in disarray that taunts me and scratches at my wounds, reminding me of the mess that's left and the pieces that no longer make sense.

During the day I'm ok, when it's light out I can see alright and I'm stronger. But night comes and my apartment is cold and empty and I can't do simple things like lift the recycling and I miss him. But I berate myself for missing someone who's become so cruel and so unrecognizable as the person I knew. At night when it's dark and I'm alone I want crawl back into that childhood bed and get back to that place I created in my head. A place that was safe, where I was a hero and where the monster and the prince weren't one in the same.

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