Overcast

This world, the shreds of humanity, is built on premises and assumptions, set codes and ethics; but what happens when one encounters a situation that is not black or white, but that mediocre pale gray that the sky takes when it can’t decide between a rainy or sunny day? Overcast, I think that is what they call it; enveloped by the shadow wisps of clouds, of cumulous of many levels and forms, yet the sunlight will persist and shimmer through to show that they might be a ray of hope that may escape its potent clutches.  This is charcoal, that pre-tense of being caught in a permanent struggle...

Why does my breath become caught in my larynx, a lump of caustic bitterness and resentment, I reflected quixotically, why am I not permitted to feel? The answer was supplicant from my mind, rational and unbiased,  because, I have to be selfless, I have to follow what everyone else wants and desires, left to rot in the façade of goodwill, my own sacrifice. I could never attain happiness, I am the wrong doer; this is my apology.

Is this growing up? Have I passed that turbulent stage of adolescence? Have I levelled up to adulthood?  If I have, I would rather bask in the naivety of old and play with doll houses and bake saccharine biscuits. The pastel prints of pink decorating my fingernails, as they climbed across a plastic recorder, belting out "Hot Cross Buns". There was innocence in those days, not merely of loving the horrid squeal of an infamous instrument, but the carefree attitude that would come up with adventures and plans, making cubbyhouses out of sheets on a day such as this.

I shouldn't be so melodramatic, I know this, others have lived through far worse ordeals and circumstances; this has just exposed me to how my beliefs and ideals crumble apart and are challenged by mistakes that I have made so foolishly. Why do mistakes seem to increase in number with age? Shouldn't the inverse be the true statement? But then, one must consider what truth actually is. Don't we all have our own twisted purposes and thoughts about that simple word, don't we all manipulate it so well, like artisans painting pictures upon brocades of silk?

Clearly, we are all hypocrites of our ideals. At least I acknowledge I am. Will I ever atone? Others will draw me with their pens and sketch me as the wrongdoer of the tale, the self-indulgent seducer that lures all into her ploys with her alluring eyes. Those eyes are now drowning in their own self-pity, how did it all come to this?

It was those shoes. They started it all, causing the dominoes to topple, one after the other, friend, after friend, after friend, until finally my lover took the fall as well; I caress him no more.

Seemingly innocent they look; their white glow only upon close inspection splotched with tiny droplets of grit and soil embedded in the creases of material. How they reflect my character, beaming brilliantly on the masque; with my imperfections and misdeeds hidden beneath.  

If I never danced that dance, if I had been better behaved, it would not have lead to this demise. One would never think such a small act as one dance could be a catalyst for a change in the path of life. I was tempted, the lust-crazed monster ravaged my sense and sensibilities, clouded my judgement, along with the legal drug, alcohol, the tincture of forgetting, of shedding responsibilities and integrity.

My steps were staccato, stalking the prey with my passionate glances, brazenly pushing forward, initiating the contact, snaking my body up and down in coiled tendril-like paths. There was more than one who I pushed into this dance, the more the merrier as the cliché implies.

They all said I had changed; they pointed their accusatory fingers and stamped their points at every angle, they were right, person by person, knocked down one by one by their pronouncements. I spiralled into a blanket of spinning worlds and colours that flashed brightly, intermingled with the kaleidoscope of beads, making sensual forbidden patterns and intoxicating rhythms.    

Yet, there is a part of me that sees that this deviation is a challenge, maybe I had drifted into the path that is too comfortable. Maybe my inner self was encouraging me to rebel, to let loose the desires of my heart, to be that reckless self, expressing all with every step of the dance?

There is one thing that is certain; I am more like myself than I have been. I am happier, call me a selfish pathetic bitch if you will, call me names, I was still be me, I will still be my type of flower that dances in the tumultuous breeze, that relishes the fight and enjoys these overcast days.