I mentally curl up in a comfortable armchair: a soft, yellow and white thing, with green scatter cushions (colours to calm me) and a white blanket, perhaps, draped over one arm – ready to stave off any chill.  This is escapism in its best form for me, picturing myself elsewhere.  It keeps the creative juices flowing and allows me to mull and contemplate, strangely enough, on real things…

Now that I have myself ensconced in this yellow-green-white embrace of my own imagining, I begin to fidget.  I am a restless soul by nature, even in my dreams: chewing on my lip, tapping my fingers on the armrests and bouncing my crossed legs, I take in the room around me impatiently.  Gosh (the back of my throat thrills as this new thought trickles in), I need a drink!  Gin and Tonic?  A bottle of something red, perhaps?  I would swivel the glass contents around and watch the liquid expertly, pretending (whilst I am at it) to be refined, elegant.  Fabulously needed.  Content.

Ah, but that would only be a temporary diversion, the real me recognized, somewhat severely.  I am a realist for the most part.  The cold, sobering arm of reality needs only strike once – once is enough to leave a permanent mark inside.  Much like a fissure line that has softened to become part of a landscape (I muse): potentially aesthetic but also serving as a cautionary reminder to tread respectfully nonetheless – or maybe to move on entirely.

Perhaps this is what my current journey is about:  I have been altered permanently these past few years – deaths and betrayals leaving me inwardly hunkered down for some time.  I have been slapped silly with a sobering arm and I am now more cynical and a little less inclined to believe anything at face value.   Strangely enough, I feel I have also graduated somewhat (let us give Reality her due thanks – surely she grows us up?). I now own the body I find myself in, I know what can and cannot be demanded of me and I can more correctly perceive what is beneath my feet (earth, not clouds, Jean).

However, there is still a part of me that, if I could pull it off (I muse some more) would make me into some barefoot, hippie-child (minus the dope, magic mushrooms and crap), who would go around smiling and dispensing the embracing of  Real-Life and Real-Love in enticing portions.  I would try and live life more keenly (feet on the floor)…

But I cannot (pull it off, that is): I am still too childish (i.e. lacking the wisdom) and a city slicker with no tan or muscle tone or feeling of comfort in long, flowing skirts or life beyond the norm (i.e. control freak).  Plus my friends would never buy it.  Plus I still need to get my trust back to learn how to correctly love anyways (I have learned there are incorrect ways flaunting as love – wolves in sheep’s clothing, let us say…).

So, instead, I will recline on unhippie-like, imaginary couches and sip imaginary G & T’s instead…

Who would like to join me?


2 thoughts on “Soberisms

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