Isolation Rambles

As the darkness shrouds her and the passive sounds of the boiler begin to creak and fade, her mind starts to race. The beat of her heart quickens. Words swirl in the fragments of her mind like dust particles finding their home on a barren bookcase. It is now she feels it; the calling. Again, her pulse quickens. 

Her universe centres.

These are not just words that form on her tongue and cascade through the air, these are life forms which whistle in the very essence of her blood, her core, her fabric of being. 

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Her heart melts; it's core aching to help, to support, to fix. He'd fallen asleep; his cheeks red from the blows of the upholstery. His face crumpled, he withers into the kitchen and stumbles into unfolding the overcooked pink flesh. 

Anger. Irresponsible.

But as the fire settled in her belly, the embers burned, he was as a child. His vulnerability her Achilles' heel. She stands there, staring into a space fighting to save him. The desire to protect, love, cherish this innocence threatens to overwhelm her. She turns. She chooses herself. 

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Despair. 

The child looks at her from afar. Why is she crying? Why are the tears catching in her throat? Why does the salt stain her cheeks? The gulf appears. 

"Why are you here?"

Aggressive words. Sting. Bite. The child watches as she reacts. As she finds a bellow in her voice. As she defends her right. As she weakens herself. Because she saw the child in him too. 

Taking her hand, the child steals her away. Dries her tears and whispers love into her soul. The hushed tones of the world steal over her mind as the lullaby sings her to sleep. The child smiles and leans in; this is where she is safe even though her heart is cleft in two. Using the universe, she begins to stitch the woman back fusing the broken with the broken hearted. Listening to the stars chatter outside, she sighs. Ribbons of life work through her hands as she plaits the woman's core. She sighs. In the morning, the sun will rise and specks of dust will swirl in the catching light. Magic will reopen the doors into the world and the woman will be at peace. Until.... until the child holds her hand one more time. 

Fireworks, Resolutions and a Chinese

“For last year's words belong to last year's language and next year's words await another voice.” — T.S. Eliot

New Years Eve in this household has never been particularly exciting. Someone's usually still reeling from an argument over the festive period, there's usually a panic about making the most of the evening because, you know, only "boring" people stay in - how dare they - and there's always an issue over who's babysitting.This year was no exception.

There is one thing we have always tried to do though and that is write some resolutions. In the past we've written them down and locked them away in order to tick them off the following year. Unfortunately, we ended up forgetting where we put them (we never found them) so we have started just writing them in our diaries or just storing them in one of the boxes in our mind. I thought it would be a lovely idea to try and include the little ones this year. That didn't quite go to plan. Luke just said he wanted have a bubble bath (his current obsession) and Ben didn't exactly look enthused at the prospect of thinking about what he can do better. Oh well. At least the older siblings are all keen to get involved..... Yeah. It's just me.