Author: addictivemuse

The Turning Wheel

Posted on by addictivemuse

I want his brain so bad. John Mayer might have let a lot of shit erupt from his mouth, but he’s also the creator of so many beautiful things. Words, songs, thoughts – his mind is incredibly attractive.

I haven’t binged on his stuff in a very long time. Now, as I’m going through this period of grieving I find myself back here and I’m incredibly nostalgic, but also content.

I miss her, and yeah I walked through the door today and expected to see her waiting there for me. Sure, upon that realisation I was filled with an intense sorrow and longing, but part of me is glad in knowing that she’s no longer in pain. I don’t know whether there’s a life after this, or a place that we go to meet again. Nor do I know whether living things have souls or not. All I know is that she’s no longer here with me any more. I have a hope that there will be a time where I will be able to see her again. There’s a lot that I know now that’s she’s gone and it sucks, and if I had my chance I’d go back and make sure she received the care that she needed. Whether that was a premature end to her suffering, I don’t know. Things like this happen for a reason I believe. At least I was there when it was her time to go. Surely if it was not now it would have been in 5 years. The thought of losing her at a time in which I could not be there troubles me more than the current fact. I was there for her, I held her, and the bond that we had was still there even at the very end. She may have just been a cat but to me she was much more. Goodnight, my old friend; you will be dearly missed.

“You can find me, if you ever want again
I’ll be around the bend, I’ll be around the bend
I’ll be around, I’ll be around
And if you never stop when you wave goodbye
You just might find if you give it time
You will wave hello again
You just might wave hello again”

I am proud of myself in this though. I am proud in my determination and my resilience. I’m proud of myself for admitting this and admitting my grief, no matter how silly I feel. I am amazed by the maturity that has come in just four years. I remember reflecting very early in 2014, on my grandmothers death. Her death was a catalyst for all that happened, the good and the bad. All that is happening and what will happen. Her death has shaped the way my life has turned out, and will turn out. It’s in the small instances in which one pair of lungs stops breathing, that another breathes it’s very first breath. I find comfort in that. It took me years of ignoring my faults. I spent years in recluse, thinking about what I wanted to be. I created fantasies of grandeur and lived to dream. I avoided my selfishness and the amount of disrespect and disregard that my grandmother was dealt with by my own hand. I was never there for her. I ran away.

I feel like I have come full circle, but this time I have the maturity, the love and the strength to truly say goodbye. I am not 250% better than I was this time 4 years ago, but I have grown and whilst I still may hold the same faults and failures, they like scars have very much filled in, however completely, and faded as I have grown and adjusted to my life.

I thank life, whatever that means, for giving me the chance to have crossed paths with so many souls and to have been loved by them and in turn, been given the chance to love them. There mightn’t be more to life than this, but I wouldn’t take any thing or any of it back.

So now, I wave goodbye to one, and await eagerly to greet another. I will not get her back and I do not want a replacement. Whom or what I may now be greeting I do not know, but if it’s anything like what I’ve now left behind, it will be well worth my while. I will hold no regrets or stop my movement. Truly, that’s just the way that this wheel keeps working now.

BREAKING NEWS: Terrorist Attack, After Terrorist Attack.

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Oh look another terrorist attack.

Brussels explosions: Airport and metro hit with ‘at least 13 killed’ – BBC News

Seriously this is going to start to become common news. I’m no where near as shaken about this as I was by the Parisian terrorist attacks. I remember watching the video and seeing this policeman shot outright. Ruthless.

It makes me want to pursue journalism even more. To be able to cover stories like this and be in an environment that changes with the minute. 

Regardless these terrorists are becoming like ever buzzing flies to me. They fly right near my ear, make me shiver and shoo them, only seconds later to have them land on my hand, mocking me. 

I do not want children in a world like this. I don’t want to be a woman in a world like this. I don’t want to be young in a world like this. I don’t wish to grow old in a world like this. I have to clean up the mess these men and women are making. They bomb towers, they kill magazine editors, they crucify people for their beliefs, they film as they behead their people, click upload to Twitter, they chase citizens out of their country, and now we see that again they bomb and attack the innocent. 

It is all the same.

It happened in Roman conquests, the crusades, in the French Revolution, the American civil war, the KKK, the Armenian genocide, the holocaust, Vietnam, dictatorships in South America, Africa, Yugoslav wars, 9/11, and now we see it again. We never learn. It appears human life comes at the price of the name and the ethnicity labeled on your identity card, the cross in your hand, the star on your shirt and the black flag on your back. It’s all for the same god, the same man, the same ideas, the same name, the same truths and the same lies. It won’t ever stop really. We’re far too stubborn.

Forever Young.

Posted on by addictivemuse

Listening to Forever Young by Alphaville. It’s becoming eerily relevant nowadays. Written in 84 right. The Cold War ended in 91 if I learnt anything in History. 
“Let’s dance in style, let’s dance for while.

Heaven can wait, we’re only watching the skies.

Hoping for the best, but expecting the worst

Are you gonna drop the bomb or not?”
Reminds you of anything similar going on as of right now? The war on terrorism, anyone?
The world keeps going around and around. We’ve never known anything besides war. Think about it. 

My grandparents we’re born in the late 1920’s and early 1930’s. They were born in the aftermath of ‘The Great War’ and were children during WWII. They had kids in the early 60’s. My dad was born 1960 and my mother in 1963. They grew up during an intense period of political unrest. Dad was born in Australia, while his parents were Italian. Most likely hit hard by WWII. My mother was born in Uruguay. A small country in South America with close ties to Cuba. A communist country. Home of The Cuban Missile crisis. Heard of Operation Condor? (www.latinamericanstudies.org/chile/operation-condor.htm)
My mother left Uruguay in ’77 and moved to Australia. A country that had just fought in the Vietnam War. Both my parents grew up in a time where war saturated TV screens and sometimes their homelands. 
The Cold War ended in 1991. Now ten years later, 9/11 hits America. Thus bringing the war on terrorism closer and more political unrest and tension. All I have known is war. No doubt all I will ever know is war, and I am sad to say that no doubt it will be all my children will know too.  We never learn. Now as France is being attacked by terrorists, we now watch the skies in fear of a bomb. 
“Let’s dance in style, let’s dance for while.

Heaven can wait, we’re only watching the skies.

Hoping for the best, but expecting the worst

Are you gonna drop the bomb or not?”
Again.

Nostalgia

Posted on by addictivemuse

Weathered arm outstretched.
He reaches out. His wrinkled hand holds, a desperate grasp, on the joyful age of youth. 

The vanity and the irony of his actions, he has no clue.

He wears his rose coloured glasses always; turning merry moments into quixotic memories of euphoria.

Slowly it slips away. The bitter old man seeks again for a link to yesterday. So Bittersweet.  

A lowly drug addict, he searches, looking for his high, his ecstasy; inevitably to fall, each time deeper into the pit of despair.

He spirals into an incurable depression, a nagging melancholy, the fault of his never moving on. 

He is stubborn, he is ignorant.

He is clueless, he is lost.  

He is nostalgia.

A Tangent On Love

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Love isn’t like it is in the movies; as much as we wish it was. Disney lied when he said the spell could be broken only by true love’s kiss. Love, real love. Meaningful love. Love with grit and love with power, requires hard work; It requires acceptance also that nothing will be perfect. They won’t be perfect and that you won’t be perfect, and that there’s no need for perfection. Love is not something to look at through rose coloured glasses. If you want it to be right you have to accept from the start that it won’t be pretty. Once you have that clarity you can find the love that you so desire.

My Heroine – Poem

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Kiss me softly love, with your metal lips. Run your teeth along my arm and bite me. Your tongue is sharp and it stings me. But, oh! How I love the sweet, sweet taste of you as you enter my veins. You make this old, broken soul rise again. My cold, dead heart feels alive again. With every pump, another wave of you surges within me. You know; I would be dead without you dear. My heroine, my heroine. My love, my love. My one and my only. Oh my heroin.

#HumanityWashedAshore

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The world has been rocked today with the emergence of this photograph of a drowned Syrian boy who had washed up on the shores of Turkey. The boy was fleeing his home. He and his brother were attempting to reach Canada where his aunt lives. The boat however capsized while carrying the boys to the Greek Island of Kos. The image has caused a stir across the world, sparking cartoons, hashtags, heartfelt obituaries and political controversy over the acceptance of so called ‘boat people’. I warn those reading this that you may find this image graphic. I have chosen not to blur or censor the image in anyway.

Syrian Boy Drowned

(i.ndtvimg.com/i/2015-09/syrian-boy-drowns-650-afp_650x400_51441283742.jpg)

I have chosen to keep the image as it was. I feel it needs to be shown in all it’s controversy. I care not for lying and coating the situation in a resin that makes the issue easy to stomach. It shouldn’t be easy to stomach. You shouldn’t flick through this as one does the local news. Otherwise we are not fully addressing the issue at hand. The issue is this: an infant boy who was fleeing his home is now dead. It does not matter where he comes from. It doesn’t matter about his age or his gender. All that matters is that a human being was denied the basic human right that you and I both take for granted every second. We sit here sipping on hot coffee’s, browsing the internet and complaining about trivial matters like a slowly buffering screen, while innocent souls are being made the casualties of war, political unrest, poverty and discrimination. We are a generation, a society, a culture of hashtags. #HumanityWashedAshore – whilst it means well, it means nothing. What have we done so far to help those in the same soggy shoes as the boy? Did we cause this? Why does this situation feel so oddly similar?

Let me take you back to the 1940’s. As you should be aware by now, Adolf Hitler and the Nazi party were not only creating and battling in a world war but also killing Jews in what we call the Holocaust at the speed a factory produces in demand goods. The allies had the ability to bomb both the train lines that carried the supplies to the German army but also the train lines that carried innocent human souls to literal death camps. Now, what did we do? We bombed both! right? Nope! We did not. We carried on with the war, knowing full well the Nazi’s were sending Jews into gas chambers, death marches, labour camps and even lining them up, one by one and shooting them dead. The bodies of an estimated figure of 6 million Jews fell to the hands of the Nazis. We were well aware of the atrocities going on across camps in the third reich and yet we never touched a single railway line. That’s indifference. That indifference is still in full force, this time not towards victims of the Holocaust but little infants just like the boy who washed up on the shore. The same boy whom you wrote a heartfelt tweet about this morning. There are millions more of him holding on to their own boat praying that the next wave that hits won’t kill them.

By all means, write that tweet. Do whatever you feel compelled to do once reading his story. However, do not sit back and wait for the favourites, the comments, the retweets and reblogs and sit there proudly as your hashtag ‘HumanityWashedAshore’ collects them and does all the work. Your actions are just as hollow and meaningless as it is to consider bombing that train line to Treblinka. How many deaths must there be before we as a society finally decide to reach out our hand and save the boy drowning in the sea?

No Tumblr, That’s Not OCD

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No. OCD is ritualistic behaviours and habits that are created in order to soothe one’s certain persisting anxieties and or fear. For example: a person who has a cleanliness based OCD who is afraid of something being contaminated with germs; they will come up with ways in order to avoid that from happening as much as possible. For example they will not touch dirty laundry, railings or doorknobs with their hands. They might meticulously and constantly wash their hands to the point where the skin becomes raw and in a very poor and unprotected state. These behaviours are compulsive and can lead to a very large portion of the person’s life being swallowed up by those habits. Take another example of a manifestation of OCD nicknamed ‘the checker’: these people will check and recheck and make sure everything is okay and will not go about whatever they were doing until they have done so. It stems from an irrational and debilitating fear that something bad might happen if this isn’t done or they don’t do this. For example: when I was a kid, probably as young as 5, I had to say goodnight to my parents. Every night. If I did not, I was not be able to sleep whatsoever because if I didn’t I was convinced that something disastrous would happen and I would deeply regret it. It sounds incredibly idiotic now and definitely embarrassed me (and continues to do so), when I’d reflect on those years when I got a little older. At the time the fear was very real. OCD is not just some ‘clean person thing’ it is a very serious mental illness that has the ability to destroy people’s lives and even possibly end them in worst case scenarios. Sometimes it can manifest in small ways and is relatively easy to control like mine was and is. Other times it does get to the point where a person’s life is completely devastated by it. It’s not something to take lightly or misidentify.
So for all the confused 15 year old girls on Tumblr: no that’s not OCD that’s just a really mild case of OCPD. 

Depression, Fiction, story, writing, Writing Prompt

Only Sixteen

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Only Sixteen.”

I was only 16. By that time of my life I’d already learnt one of the biggest lessons of my lifetime: trust no one but yourself. 

I was alone. I’d walk the streets of the heavily graffitied city and maybe even leave a mark of my own. I was alone and I was angry. Really angry.

To my arrogance I had blamed my loneliness on my parents; with whom I had become increasingly hostile with as of late. Argument after argument. I got tired of it all so I left. Thinking I could do it all on my own. 

Ha! Pure arrogance right there. I couldn’t survive a week on the streets without turning to questionable means of survival.

You name it I can guarantee you I have done it. It was a desperate couple of months. You’d have done the same.

About a month after, on the eve of my 16th birthday I met a boy. A man it seemed. But how can one call him a man given the cowardice that was his very soul? I thought he was kind. I thought he meant all he said. Ignorance. It was all ignorance. 

I gave him comfort, food and shelter all that he needed in exchange for one thing: he’d soothe my loneliness. 

I won’t lie, he did. However momentarily. Then it all came crashing down upon me when I stumbled to the morning and reached my hand over to feel his brown hair. Nothing. There was nothing there. The bastard left. I searched around the home I had made for myself to find that a large amount of the belongings I had scoured from around town had been taken. He not only stole my trust and in turn my faith in all, but the things that I had worked so hard for.

I was sixteen. Only sixteen.

The Tale of a Serotonin Junkie – A Short Story

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Ever since I was a child I’d always loved the feeling of the warm sun hitting my skin. As a teenager I’d sink my feet right into the sand as I’d wait for my skin to tan. Years later I’d always return to that same beach. A sort of pilgrimage if you will. It was a nice reminder of the beautiful earth that lay sprawled amongst the chaos of humanity’s own creation. It seems we are constantly running away from ourselves. We go to work, lead boring lives just to escape it one day. Life was made to be lived and all we seem to do is slave over it. Die before we’ve even gotten the chance to live. I guess you could say I’m still just the same free spirit that I was in my youth. Some people never change. Some realise and mature, accept their role in the world and work 9 to 5, 5 days a week. Some die young; crash and burn before they get the chance to turn 30. Others never loose that spark but remain part of the community. Then there’s me: I’ve always just been a serotonin junkie.