Wednesday, 16 July 2014

the past is reading my clutter

I suppose I should be thrilled by any view counts on the statistic side of my blog. I'm always enthusiastic when I trace views and see that I have a few coming in from America, the Ukraine, Sweden. Then you hear something that makes your stomach churn and you think not for the first time, I really only became alive a few years ago. Like the rattling of those old rusty keys the shadow of memories jingle in the distance.

    I love Brett. I love him like family, like an old toy I can't part with, because he's my favourite. I can admit openly that I don't like to share him but I know I have to. I love the way Brett tells me everything. Naughty giggles about private things, awkward issues within friendship groups, even difficult semi-feelings about people that are hard to decipher. I like the way I don't have to hide things from him because when I'm upset or angry, furious even over something, I can phone him and cry and get mad, rant at him to read my blog if he wants to know what's going on in my head, but then we work it out. We snuggle and nod our appreciation of each other. Because that's what best friends do.

Half of this blog will be published in an autobiography one day, until then it's a form of therapy for myself. Yes it gets some of my creative writing noticed but it's mainly my way of getting out these cluttering thoughts. To hear from my dearest that my cluttered thoughts are being haunted by those rattling keys is a little ....strange. I would have thought the ghosts of my past would have found better things to do, I wish they would.
 I don't write this blog for other people, that may sound silly since it's public and available worldwide but I write this blog for my own amusement and well being.
and sometimes my closest heart strings like Pidgin and my Mr Jones can get an insight into my feelings that I don't give freely.

Sometimes My Mr Jones reads through my blogs secretly during a break at work, a late morning or on the way to work and he discovers my adoration for him in my written words, the sexual desperation, the misery from these four walls and the sanctuary I find in his flat. I like the way I can write out my feelings and he can come across them at his leisure and be surprised and thrilled by most of them. I say I love you and we kiss and cuddle enough to make cupid feel like throwing himself overboard but I hold back so much in comparison to what I get in return. I let him cook for me, wait on me, sweep me off on dates and weekends, buy me extravagant presents and I enjoy the luxury. I enjoy being told I'm wonderful and it's nice to be spoilt. Being on his arm is fun too, letting him show me off in a new outfit, playing with my hair in public to show everyone I'm his territory is a never ending flutter of butterflies. I enjoy the way he looks at me and wants me and I like feeling so utterly loved. Sometimes I feel like I mean everything to him, and I believe I'm special in those moments. Some of my blog posts are my simple way of returning that feeling, letting him know without blushing that I feel the same.
Are you reading this now my Mr Jones? If you are -where's my home baked Victoria sponge??!! haha ..And I don't hear the kettle boiling. ;-)
Come and tell me again how much you love me in your life
so this memory I've been reminded of today drifts off, like a kite.
Not my best rhyme but I'm a novelist damn it!

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