Belatona
I always used to think that one dot didn't make a difference.
That the end of a sentence wasn't defined by that little thing.
Because the end of a life isn't defined by a dot either.
My grandma died last week.
Her grave doesn't have a dot.
There she lies.
"Wife, mother, grandmother"
There's no dot to finish that.
The end is inevitable.
The dot doesn't define it.
He blamed her for everything.
Blamed her for their failed marriage and for the way his mother treated him.
Blamed her for the fact his boss implied that he wanted to fire him because he did not do a proper job at whatever it was he was supposed to be doing. But he worried too much.
He blamed her for his worry, for the mess in his head.
He blamed her for everything and nothing.
And one day she could not take the blame any longer, and he could blame himself for her early departure.
When I was little I used to love to walk on stilts. Around the school during breaks. Though I have always been tall it seemed not to matter when I was on stilts, because it was their fault I stuck out right there and then.
Without those stilts I was the freakishly tall girl, but when I walked them it was their fault. People looked up at me, but only then.
Because when I stuck out the regular way people still managed to find a way to look down on me.
I was in a frenzy just now after watching Cats.
It's the first musical I ever saw at just 7 years old and it had been a while since I last saw it.
Immediately when the music started I felt the way I felt all those years back and right now I just want to jump through the room whiles sinning about Mungojerry and Rumpleteaser.
The clothes he wore adorned his body. Even if he could not see it, I thought him to be beautiful.
With or without clothes.
But they fitted him, like a frame fits a picture, they made the edges less rough and the inside shimmer like the stars.
When I was a child I loved to collect seashells at the beach. I used to put the big ones against my ear on the drive home and pretend I was still at the seaside.
I'd close my eyes and listen, pretending the waves would come and take me away, away from a life that did not include the sea.
I used to dream of oceans filled with candy.
Candy shells.
Tumbling into love.
Tumbling down the stairs.
Both can hurt.
But both will probably make a hell of an anecdote on bloody tumblr, because that's what everybody seems to be doing these days.
Most people prefer to live in pairs, or more.
I don't have a pair. I'm all alone.
Sometimes I wonder if there's something wrong with me, why isn't there another person that'd like to form a pair with me?
Then I look outside and realize; some of the best things don't come in pairs.
The sun is alone.
So is the earth.
And my brother has me.
So we're kind of like a pair, mostly a pair of morons really.
Together and yet somewhat alone.
He got strung.
Strung along to where the edge of the earth meets the edge of the ocean.
She strung him along.
She had no where to go but the edge, where earth meets water.
Left for good.
Alone in a place with the world around you.
Never forgotten.
Always together.