A Not So Turkish Life

Jigsaw paper scraps

In a past life, my handbag-always too large, always crammed full- would end up lined with scraps of makeshift paper. Article notes, a point-grabbing sentence to insert into assignments, a quote snatched from a poster on a random wall from my day. Rizzla papers and receipts, chocolate wrappers, even cigarettes themselves would hold the contents of my overflowing mind, allow me to sit down and reassemble the jigsaw a day made up as i puffed on the cigarettes and scribbled it coherently down.

Today, life is no less incoherent on a day to day scheme. My mind’s no less of a jumblesale needing new labels time on time, but life contains fewer of the cigarettes and much less of that freedom to turn the mixture into a dough that holds shape.

so many jigsaw pieces surround me at this moment. There’s so much i must sort through, practical and otherwise, and I’m stifled by this feeling that something’s going to blow up. And I know what that thing is, and I know how volatile the fuse is, understand oh so clearly why the other half is pulling me away. But what’s important is the less sane part, the incoherence in the mess. That is the rubble which needs sorting, under which the floor is clean.

I was at stalemate this time last year, deja-vu, if you like; with clarity perhaps. Hormones had settled down after pregnancy, priorities so clarified in my son. I sat and shuffled the words round, released the jumble of thoughts. And wrote down the words that needed to be sent then, licked the stamp, set them free. And after, really since then, i felt lighter, more freedom, with less fakeness around. And now’s the second part of that freedom, seeking to be sought and let loose this time round. Time to break through the barrier, define the tone for our home. My family, our rules now. No blackmail, or guilt-trip or tears. For M’s sake, for our sake, and yes, ultimately for me, it’s time to unrustle the Cadburys, make dua and set it all free, because I’m sick of bouncing backwards; literally in every essence of the words.

But no cigarettes this time, words on nappies, raisin bags and email drafts. Baby one needs this, baby two spurs this. write, characters flow, write.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can always heal me.

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This entry was published on 04/20/2012 at 06:24 and is filed under Externalise, Life and Faith. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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