it's... the sheet twisting confusion, the not knowing which direction to go, if what i thought,to be the wise way, the most noble way, brings nothing except bewilderment, and a sense of futility...it's this i think is most painful in life.
pain makes me cry
crying disapates the rock that has decended on my chest
affection changes the world i live in
old wounds remember themselves like clock work set in the scheme of the calender year, there is a season that bridges the bitter end of winter and the full of spring that is known to me as gypsy season, the annual commemration of an event which took place 14 years ago: my parents invited a family of gypsies that came from yugoslavia(croatia claiming assylum in hameln w. germany, to live with us, one evening my parents were out, and i was in the living room with my brother,and the father , and four of his sons came into the living room and surrounded the couch i was sitting on. They assaulted me(i was not raped, but beaten) my brother inturpreted the early phase as rough house and left the room laughing. i left my body. They stopped when they heard my parents comming up the stairs. i told my mother and she gave me the key to my room and told me that i was not allowed to have boyfriend. they stayed on. the incidant was forgotten.
and this is probebly all too personal to be really appropriate, these sorts of confessions are usualy accompanied by a certain amount of annonymity. but to hell with all that because tabu has its place, but this is not it. i welcome the year i live through a spring, that is just that, and nothing more. each year i figure out a small peice of the puzzle, someday i'll understand just what it is i need to heal this. i am hope-full. i pray for consciousness,to the month,to the week ,to the hour,to the minute. i pray for consciousness.