Slacking off, slipping back and spiralling downwards has been the order of the day in recent times; years even if I’m honest. Why is that I wonder? What is it about this phase of my life that sees me with a sort of inherent inertia? Every time I take three steps forward, I then take three back. It has been like that for what seems like an eternity. Consequently, I end up no further along the road of life or so it seems, rooted to the spot neither moving forward or in fact backwards. In fact, just not moving at all. At a standstill as it were. I wrote recently about feeling stuck, and how I had realised that it was all in my head. I was standing stubbornly in my own way and obscuring my own view of what could be. Why on earth would I do that to myself?
This here house I have lived in for the last seven and a half, soon to be eight years has seemed like a prison of sorts. A concrete box all dark, no light. I have felt at times as though I am incarcerated within its walls. When we moved in here at the end of 2013, it was because we had fallen foul of the recession that had raised its ugly head in the preceding years. Not the first recession we had faced, and most likely not the last. I/we only ever planned on staying here for a year or so, and then hoped to get our own place again. We have rented this here concrete crate for the duration of our stay. One year went by, then another, and another and soon there were seven years gone, and here we are at nearly eight.
It sounds so ungrateful, I know, and I am grateful (honestly, I am) to have a roof over my head, of course I am but we feel what we feel, and sometimes we just need to express our feelings because when we suppress them somewhere within the depths of our psyche, they crush us and watch us crumble beneath the weight bearing down on us. The thing is, I have lived in several houses over the course of my life, and each one has had a profound effect on me in one way or another, inasmuch as I have absorbed the energy of the bricks and mortar, and whatever else has been lurking within the stonework, and more so within these mock Georgian walls of this present building. I believe that houses, just like people have an energy they give off; that they have a vibrational frequency just like everything else in the Universe. This house, with its magnolia paint, cracking tiles, faulty plumbing and ghostly entity (oh yes, there is something otherworldly in the mix but that’s another story), has a stagnancy of sorts. A sort of staleness that you can feel. Something trapped, and I am not just talking about me here.
Our Landlord and Landlady would not agree to us changing the colour of the walls, so we have lived with Magnolia for this past several years. When I move, and I will move, I will create a colourful palette of anything except Magnolia. I think having lived with Magnolia for so long, I have absorbed a sort of Magnolianess (I made that word up) in my demeanour. A sort of creamy invisibility if that makes sense. So, Magnolia will be a thing of the past when I eventually but surely escape from this here place.
So, not much happening just now but change is in the air. Until next time…