Emotional, desperate blog that one day I will surely delete…but today, I have an urge to post.
Suddenly, my inspiration has gone, I no longer know what to write. I am 42 years old and confused. What’s more, I have two children that I am expected to give direction. I could pretend everything is all right and hide away the fact that the carpet was pulled from under our feet.
Big events are nothing new. I remember my parents very well in 1989 watching their entire political system fall, a regime change on a scale unimaginable. Brexit feels a bit like that only that the change does not bring hope, only fear.
I have always been a realist, never afraid of serious work. I looked after terminally ill, holding their hands before death. I sold doughnuts on Brighton pier whilst everyone else was enjoying a Friday night. I studied hard for my degrees and I have hardly ever missed a day’s work. I raised my kids on home made meals amidst the nation that prefers a quick fix of chips and beans. I thought of myself as efficient, intelligent and cute, now I feel discarded, fooled and used. As aunt Polly in Peaky Blinders said when looking at a grand portrait of herself:”It was all a lie. I was too sure of myself.”
But for now, here is a poem I have written about my place in the world.
The world that I know is disappearing
I am knocked down on my hands and knees
Underneath someone is cutting up my map
My book of places, hopes and seas.
He has a dirty nail, that I can see…
that slivers bits of densely populated lines,
strips all the valleys and the good life,
throws mountains and rivers apart.
My socialist childhood is now only a scrap underneath his knuckle
The scholarship turns out to be an error path.
Every job I ever held is just an invisible dead end.
Even the ratio scale no longer match.
My own limbs are stretched at the Dirty Fingernail’s whim
So much so that my lips are now completely stretched
I am not be able to speak beyond this point.
Where is my consciousness in all this?
Only a faint shuffle is heard as on a plastic table cloth.
My life – a pile of random strips, shreds, paper waste.
If only I could put myself back again
Well known connections, rivers that feed the seas
Mountains that help the rivers running
And a legend that help me read.
I will make a collage!
Of all that I used to be but with shoddy edges,
Does not matter how they fit in
As long as they sprout into a new life.