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The filth won.
Drove me from the city that makes me think of summer sun (despite the summer of rain I actually spent there).
Drove me from the work, briefly held, of making bears and throwing parties (I'd wished, not days before, that I didn't have to work... but was sad regardless to leave a job I enjoyed).
Drove me from my friends, those I left behind to fight the mould, the instability of workmen in and out, those I left behind whom I have known for years, whose presence drew me to that place to begin with (I see them rarely, even when living mere blocks away, but still, they were there).
Drove me from the kittens and cats, momentarily known, living in the sanctuary I'd helped in only once (and yet I loved them, from first sight).
Mother's lover drove me safely back to the black hole I swore I'd never return to.
My home town.
The home town that was never really home.
And, yet, I feel safe here. In the house I grew up in, with my family again (scattered though they seem to be).
The mould which menaced me in the kitchen of the place I escaped is left far behind, a fading memory.
The filth which gathered, moments after I had cleaned, (how he did it I'll never quite understand), is no longer something I must deal with.
And although firework noises echo through the single-glazed windows (I close the blind as someone runs past, these streets have become dangerous at night) it suits me better than not knowing which part of the house will be taken apart next, not knowing when the landlady will call to ask me a favour, or to vent confusion in my ear.
I came home for sanctuary for a night, prepared to return to the fray, not really knowing the weight that bowed my shoulders until I found my night of escape became home again.
Is it wrong that I ran away?
Was it running?
Or was it, instead, realising that I do not have to put up with less than what is good for me?
Knowing I have an alternative to breathing in spores and stressing about workmen?
I was lucky, I saw my escape and I took it.
I beat the filth.
I made these as a pair, reflecting feelings that often follow one another, frustration at a situation eventually gives way to acceptance, which lasts for a while, until I become frustrated again. Comes from many things, but is always about situations out of my control... injuries that take time to heal, situations that another person has to deal with, etc. Although the question arise as to whether any situation is under my control - not really - and the the question as to whether any situation is completely out of my control - in a sense... no, there is always soemthing I can do... which is normally: Breathe.
And this one, after unceremoniously treading on a snail:
And this one, after unceremoniously treading on a snail:
( Deathbringer )
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