Sunday, 3 January 2016

Recovery

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I've never been someone who is good at keeping friends. I tend to attract the wrong kinds of people, and the friends that I hold sacred are the ones who have been there for years. The ones who remember the big moments, and kept the little secrets even when mouths tried to betray them.

Everyone will tell you that I like to collect strays. I like to try fixing things that are otherwise broken, and this is what brings bad blood to my door. Eventually these strays would wander, and take themselves to new shelter.

Something shifted, and I soon started to throw aside old baggage. After a year that was otherwise best forgotten, I managed to find trinkets and treasures, something gold to reflect in the dark. Somehow, I managed to find people.

I've never been a fan of the summer season. The year 2015 was no exception to the rule. The summer mocked me with lemon light and stiff heat, and I found myself alone. I had no family close, and old friends were far away.

I Choose Mercy

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In the midnight hours of a Saturday night, I was battling sleep. My eyes were embracing betrayal, defiant in their refusal to let me rest. I wasn't hot or sticky, and I wasn't uncomfortable. I was just awake.

After a few days off work, my insomnia had crept back in and I found myself scrolling absentmindedly through my social media feeds. I was looking for inspiration or lullabies, for something to feed me.

I made some notes on my phone for a smarter than usual essay to write, and then I tapped advice to faraway friends over Snapchat. I kicked my feet from under the covers. 
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For some reason, I ended up taking the Myers-Briggs personality test. I always enjoy those kinds of digital self discovery which lead to some kind of revelation, whether fabricated or otherwise.

The test itself is your standard formulaic online questionnaire. One question had me well and truly stumped, though. Which did I value more: justice, or mercy?

Friday, 1 January 2016

The Outside


I hadn't been home in 9 months. It was Christmas afternoon, and I was finally making my way back to the house I had lived in, but never belonged in. 

The drive had been difficult, with wind pushing the car across carriageways and empty bridges. I switch radio stations every few minutes until sounds are familiar. I know this drive like the back of my hand, and slip into autopilot. It was only when I reached the outskirts that I realised how long it has been since I had been here, and only because one house has changed colour since my last return. This time it is a shade of maroon. 

The road curves in the same way it always has.