There is a street called Piccadilly Circus where several roads cross their paths bringing variety of beings to the same spot.
Each day and each night thousands of stories cross that spot hailing from all the corners of the world.
There is a street called Piccadilly Circus where many cultures exchange ‘good mornings’ and many generations share ‘goodbyes’.
Each day and each night hundreds of lovers cross that path and hundreds of thieves run away from that circus of life…
And there is a street which name is only known to you… Perhaps it’s your Personal Avenue or maybe it’s a simple Life Intersection or more complex Soul Circus but as long as it is not a Dead End I believe you are going to be fine and figure it all out… Keep well traveller.
Written in response to Daily prompt that can be found here
“We need an orderly” shouted the theatre nurse- “We really need one as there’s some cleaning up to do”.
The shouting and general buzz weren’t any distraction for the surgeon who was closing the incision orderly. There were no signs of chaos or fear as the unconscious patient’s life was slowly being turned around without any input from him, himself.
“Orderly! Orderly! Where’s one when you need…” the nurse didn’t finish the sentence as the life monitor went crazy noticing all the theatre staff that something wasn’t right with the patient whose life was in their hands.
The surgeon who always used to be known as an orderly man, lifted his head and stopped his task to look at the monitor. Something wasn’t right but he needed to investigate first a bit deeper. He decided to change the side of the operating table to have a better access to all the tools. He didn’t notice a bit of spill on the floor, he wasn’t aware that an orderly was called to clean up, he just felt something wasn’t ok in his orderly plan of the day as he slipped and lost his consciousness…
The patient didn’t survive. The orderly finally arrived and the nurse wasn’t shouting anymore…
And I wasn’t sleeping anymore when I realised that it was only a nightmare caused by my disorderly thoughts causing the never ending anxiety.
Countless hours spent in bed- wide awake.
Countless visits to hospital, doctor surgeries and clinics.
Countless referrals and prescriptions, with my name on them, written.
Countless amount of tablets, pills swallowed.
Countless flare ups, spasms that shocked my body.
Yet I know how long my scar on my back is.
Yet I know how many screws is inside of me.
What I don’t know is how many of my remaining hours I’ll have to file in category ‘countless’ as there appear to be less and less memorable minutes left to enjoy…
They say “the lighter, finer grain of the wood is attractive” but they don’t mention who finds this finer grain more attractive.
Today’s world is almost built on the common assumption of ‘What’s best for majority, it’s best for the rest’.
Sometimes it’s not even the majority but a certain group, of rich, the most vocal, the biggest…
And the world spins around and eventually everyone forgets about that grain…
Or any other grain of wood regardless of its origin, colour, shape, density…
Is there a stop button I can press so I can take a break and look for my own favourite grain…? Or must I like what they say I should like…?
I’m not phased anymore. I don’t get surprised. I have gotten used to life’s funny ways of telling me its secretes.
So, no. I don’t get phased and I don’t get puzzled. Sometimes I’m just in the phase of showing the world the mask that one might call ‘stupid’ or ‘dumb’ or even ‘phased’…
I don’t phase easily, I just learnt my lessons the life threw at me so I don’t get phased…
I just watch, remember, learn and let it go away…
I don’t Dream anymore.
I just let the thoughts form their train
And drive it till the unknown destination
Becomes the very known nightmare
That has woken you up so many times before
Trembling with cold sweat wrapped around you…
I don’t dream anymore
I’m too scared to do so….
This prompt really “pushed me off” initially as I never liked singing and expressing my feelings by the act of it.
I think singing is really statement of confidence when you go from someone who periodically hums and whistles a tune to someone giving a full blast concert in a shower…
I like certain musicians and their skill of singing. I don’t like hearing myself sing. It is just not me.
Perhaps I need to build my confidence up a bit.
I always struggle to ask for help. I always want to do things myself.
“Give me a Brick and I’ll build you a castle”!- little voice inside me booms.
I never ask for help. I always count on myself.
And when I put a brick after a brick and form a wall, I do my best because I never ask for help.
I know I have to do it all myself, I know I can’t rely on others’ hands. Brick after brick. Step after step.
Don’t look behind. Don’t ask for help…
And I rarely get shocked when a wall starts to crack… I rarely scream when everything falls apart…
I don’t know how to lay bricks… But I also don’t know how to ask for help…
I feel like I had been very Pensive and burried under a huge pile of thoughts, one heavier from another one.
Each of these thoughts requires deliberate action to find what is hidden behind it but there is so many of them that it stuns me so greatly that all I can afford is a shallow plate filled with half answers half questions making me ask myself:
“Is it all really worth it”?
I have tried to ignore it, to push those thoughts away
I have tried to starve it off its food to make it go away
I have stopped tending to it and left it to its own demise
I have ignored its calling and all the dreams that came to me
I have left it in many places but yet…
I somehow failed to notice the simple fact that my own inactivity, my own neglect…
And all these thoughts I have had, somehow allowed the depression to flourish…
From a little plant it became a garden that somehow became a forest with each day claiming a bit of me…
I allowed the depression to flourish until it became all that surrounds me closely, prohibiting me from seeing the whole picture that is outside of this huge and wild forest…