Old wounds

Listening to Six degrees of separation by the Script on replay. Between the feelings of worthlessness because of work and the feelings of loneliness because of a conversation with a friend-stranger am dancing on the edge of depression.

Only with human beings can you find yourself crying over spilled milk when the carton wasn't even yours to begin with and he was never mine. Falling for someone who would never fall for you is one of life's ten plagues of misery. We will all pay our dues with tears and pieces of our soul.

There's a slight tightness in my chest. It is faint. Example of a heart ache but very dull. Feels like a ripple of pain through my body. That's what old wounds touched feel like.

Fake smiles and pleasantries am not sure I mean. "That name sounds lovely"...i don't think so. And, not in a bad way. I really don't think that name is all that lovely. It's a common name, heard it before. The only reason I said that was to be polite. I'm not bitter, not even close. Won't even want him now. Has something to do with wanting a train set from your parents when you are thirty. It's time has passed. I just feel unhappy; wronged by life or at least...left behind.

Switched to Hater by Miranda Brooke although I din't get the player because I didn't get anything at all. But he's in love and am alone and it's still not fair. I don't know her but I do know that I already don't like her.

She's probably an amazing woman. Light skinned. Skinny with a flat belly and measurable hips. And, she's probably a little angel wanting nothing but happiness for every tormented soul in the world.

No more nice things.

I'm making myself sick.

Talking about these feelings would probably make me seem human but I can't help but wonder if am too exposed. God knows that writing about it isn't the same as talking about it and that's why this is easier for me.

Such moments highlight everything going wrong or stagnating in my life. Makes everything seem so much worse. Feeling like a failure. I ain't, I know...just saying I feel like one. Hopeless even.

Some conversations should be had after a blunt...if i smoked or at least three shots of tequila rose. Such situations could damped the spirits of someone who just won the lottery. All you wanted to do was win and when they handed you the cheque you Kemboi'ed the person handing it to you (I smiled when i said Kemboi'ed) anyway then he/she texts, calls or if you are unlucky you run into them in the streets then shit hits the fan.

Anyway. it is a feeling like any other and it will pass like Nairobi winter this sunny day.

Ramblings, don't bother reading :-)

Sitting in the office in front of a computer. I'm not bored, at all in fact I feel good. I just don't want to do anything constructive. I just feel sort of out of it today. My stomach is aching. Feels like cramps in the horizon. I hate period pains. I wish I never had them at all. They hurt. They really hurt. I'm so unhappy when they come. Dreading the moment.

Today I feel sure of myself. I don't feel like I don't belong, you know? I feel comfortable in my skin. A little lost but I have felt a little lost ever since my entry into the world. 

A friend of mine this morning said something that shocked me. She said that I intimidated her when she first met me. She intimidated me when I first met her! I was so shocked. She's social and seems to get along with everyone. I'm an introvert with an overly polite condition. To tell you the truth it is only because I'm a very nervous person. Very.

I know that I think that am not social and I think I know that my actions confuse everyone else. Me as well to tell you the truth. This is why I feel misunderstood. When am upset and everyone else is happy I blow off my sadness so that I can accommodate those around me. Then those around me will not know that something upset me.

Sometimes I leave the office tired but when I get home am all over the place like fly. Why do I do that?

Writing even when you have nothing to write about is supposed to help you develop writing skills. I have nothing to write about. What about this, you might say? My mind will never stop thinking. I'm just thinking on paper. That last line sounds clever. Smiling slightly. Mentally patting myself on my back.

PAINTED CRACKS IN THE WALL

Photo from thatitaliangirl.blogspot.com

It is tying a scarf on your head to conceal your now undone hair. It is pairing a bright new t-shirt with old faded jeans. It is not raising your hands to hide your unshaven armpits. It is putting a table cloth over a worn out table or dressing your chairs with well decorated cloths to veil worn out cushions. It is wearing an ill-fitting bra over a beautiful blouse, tired inner wear over figure hugging jeans or torn boxers over a three piece suit. It is make up over a black eye, a broken heart behind a smile. Insinuated diet at 1 pm. Painted cracks in the wall.

Like government buildings that are painted afresh instead of repairs and replacements our lives are made of well disguised truths. Things you keep to yourself. Not everyone has to know. Dirty linen, they say and the embarrassing type.

It is no wonder we are all self conscious. Constantly on the defense. He smiled, approached, asked and now you are dating but he smiled because he liked what he saw. Your painted nails even though there is a slight chip at the corner of your left pinky, your sexy outfit even though there is a button missing around the belly button behind the huge belt and undone stitches patched together with luminous green thread that you would have to look intently to see. It was the only thread in the house. So you sit anxiously through your coffee date knowing that your perfect is anything but.

Have you ever complimented someone on their outfit and they thanked you in disbelief, as if they are asking "really, this outfit does it for you?" The wearer of the shoe knows where it pinches. They probably limp from their gate to the house at the end of the day due to the pain. But, they will never tell you. Walking across the street as if modeling Dolce and Gabanna designers.

The worst part is that we all know when it is time to let go of a pair of boxers, shoes, trousers, jeans, hairstyle even relationships and jobs that aren't doing it for us anymore; whose shell life has expired but where is the money? And, sometimes because we don't really see ourselves we think that it can go...one...more...mile.

Until that fateful day when...no one actually dies. Well, except you. A horrible social death. When you fall and the man you fancy hands you your shoe and he gets a glimpse of the hole, or you forget and take off your sweater revealing the gap the absent button has left or in your absentmindedness you raise your hand to wave allowing your wolverine armpits to air in the wind.

When that fateful day comes you will shave after the embarrassment...never before. You will look for a button and mend the hole or you will put all your worn out clothes and shoes in a paper bag in wait for the guy who takes them off your hands and gives you buckets in their place. But, by then it will be too late; the paint would have chipped and the crack exposed.

I pray that when you finally see the cracks on my wall you pardon me. Because, it is not possible for any one of us to go through life with out indecent exposure. So I ask that you pardon me, fight the temptation to think less of me, laugh in private, don't tell the rest of the world just Vatican City( the smallest state in the world) and lets never speak of the incident. EVER.