The feeling creeps in slowly.
Panic, as I flip through once, twice, three times. I search the normal places, beside the bed, the couch, at the top of the stairs, by the window in the kitchen next to the heater, the window that shows me the sun as he wakes and the moon as she wakes. It’s not there and not even the sparkling stars in the clear skies can make me feel better. I search inside bags and tucked beneath the mattress, I pull out the bed and feel my heart sink, my eyes prickle and for a moment I question my sanity. What if. What if I didn’t own that book, what if I just borrowed it, that would certainly make sense and suddenly it feels like my world is crashing, I just want to read the book, now, I search some more determined to be sure that the book is at least not here. Emptiness envelopes around me, darkness falls upon my heart, I feel a great void where a story should be, not any story and certainly not a recall from the many times I have read it before, a void created through the lack of pages to turn, the lack of worn out paper in my hands. The emptiness has become me.
Karen Hayward 2015. ©
Sit back enjoy a cup a tea,
feet up, watch the tv.
Let my muscles go to waste;
as the media dictates my tastes, and
Some lady screams
from my oversized screen,
that this is life,
this is what it means.
She tells me the date, the time,
that the world is over run by
Poverty and crime.
Don’t read those words,
come watch the show,
It tells you everything,
That you need to know.
Here let me help, take my hand,
As I introduce you to la la land.
It all feels so soft, comfy and so,
As the tv tells me what i need to know.
I think I am lost, or maybe found,
I can’t hear over this drismal sound.
Karen Hayward ©2015.
Rar….Have spent a few hours on here blogging, writing poetry and catching up on the blogs I follow. Every other blog seems to be griping on about 50 Shades of Grey, it’s driving me potty. Firstly IT IS FICTION, yep the story is fiction, and anyone who reads and thinks wow this is a great biography/autobigraphy is stupid. Fiction means a few things, firstly it’s a pretend story, it’s all pretend, made up. But also fiction allows an author and a reader to explore a concept beyond what is usually found in reality, but really people it is fiction, really, no lies it is made up. At first though I did think wow that’s a little insulting to assume that everyone that reads it is too dumb to realise that the story is crap the lead gal is crap and the guy is a complete twat, but hey ho, not my place to judge. However, having now read through some very convincing arguments I think I am now starting to see what they are saying. We really do need to stop authors from writing about certain subjects, I mean really censorship is the way forward, censor everything, we are too dumb to have uncensored literature in our society, we are a society of sheep, seriously I read that in a book, so it must be true. But, everyone seems to be missing the bigger picture, whilst everyone is griping on about 50 Shades of Grey and how it is going ejaculate itself into our poor impressionable gals, books like Divergent are going completely unseen. I mean seriously this is a concern, this book is a young adult book, the story is aimed at the young impressionable minds of our future, the book encourages you to jump on and off trains to show your fearlessness, it is only a matter of time before we see an increase of teenagers and young adults jumping from buildings, or worse still, studying, or becoming truthful or hippyish, seriously this stuff needs censoring too!!!!!
‘I have something to tell you.’ He says
I run my fingers along the tendons along his hand and look back at him.
‘I might be in love with you’ he smiles a little. ‘I’m waiting until I’m sure to tell you, though.’
‘That’s sensible of you.’ I say, smiling too. ‘We should find some paper so we can make a list or a chart or something.’
I feel his laughter against my side, his nose sliding along my jaw, his lips pressing behind my ear.
‘Maybe I’m already sure.’ he says, ‘and I just don’t want to frighten you.’
I laugh a little. ‘Then you should know better.’
‘Fine.’ he says. ‘Then I love you.’
Divergent, Veronica Roth.
It’s only when I read, when I lose myself in a page of words, in another world, a creation of the imagination, that I realise what a complete sucker for love I really am. No story is complete with out love, true love, real inspired love.