Mitchell's Mustard Blog

June 13, 2015

I can’t promise you tomorrow

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 9:28 pm

The surrounding earth meant nothing, not right now. He could hold the dirt in his hand and watch the grains slip away with the wind, it still meant nothing to him. In this moment it wasn’t real, the ground he sat on that worked it’s way into the fabric of his trousers, the tree he leant against that gently swayed in the wind, the forest that cocooned him with danger and protection, none of it was real. He refused to believe that he was awake, he didn’t want to be awake. Not any more. The colours that danced around him played tricks on his eyes, submerging only to rise again, like a playful game of peekaboo that he never enjoyed. The side wind pushed at his tears to confuse their direction, his cheeks felt sore, his eyes tired, his body weary. Knowing that he would have to start getting used to this feeling. It was cruel. Once he gets to the stage of looking for a silver lining in his story he’ll think there was a sense of relief getting his results, the weeks of not knowing had caused him nothing but worry, now there was no need to worry about himself, he needed to worry about all those that surrounded him, depended on him.
The words came as a shock, even though he had prepared himself for the worst, there was still that little bit of hope that clung on like a leaf in autumn. Like a hammer to the heart, he still held self preservation until he reached his car, until he had made it to his current spot, it was their spot. Today it was lonely.
He wasn’t scared of dying, he was scared of telling her that he was dying. Knowing that she’ll be strong until the very end, he’d leave her knowing that he had let her down. He feared watching her face crumple, mirroring her heart. The thought that he would hurt her like this and have no way of fixing it. The old wise words ‘time is a healer’ had no room in his existence, not any more. He loved her, funny thing is he loved her more now than he ever had done, he didn’t think that was possible. All the little things she did that frustrated him now meant nothing, all the petty arguments that they passed to and fro meant nothing. He loved her with everything, more than any man had tried, or ever could.
Wiping the tears from his cheeks, pulling his achy body from the floor, he needed to face his fear, he knew that they’ll have so much to do but with such little time, a true understanding that forever is just a word, a myth, a lie. But love, love is the glue for this broken story, and love will keep them marching on until the end.

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January 30, 2015

Strokes of a Paintbrush. .

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 2:30 pm

Her hand gently traced the muscles of his back as they lay there entwined, her face buried into his shoulder, she gently laced his neck with her lips, working her way around the lower line of his beard, she had grown quite fond of the feeling of his beard on her skin, like strokes of a paintbrush. They both lay silently, knowing that any one word could end this embrace, clouded by the thought that they both shouldn’t be where they are, but that made it more appealing, they had started something they couldn’t end. The attraction bore deep in them both.
His eyes outlining the intricate details of the tattoos that coloured her skin, stroking the line work on her arm, making sure he didn’t colour outside the lines. Her naked torso pulled him in closer, nuzzling in for warmth and attention, she started to work her fingers through the hair on the back of his head, gently tugging, the one thing she knew would get her the attention she craved. Her nails slowly leaving lines on the skin of his side, a remnant of where she had been, and where she would return. Pulling her foot up against the bottom of his, a way of pulling him in closer, close enough to compliment the way she felt. Craning her neck, she reached up and gently nibbled his lower lip. He pulled her small frame onto his. As she perched on top of him, he lined her spine with his fingers to make her back arch and her skin prickle. Reaching up and tugged on the back of her hair, pulling her back down to his level, she dug her nails into his tattooed chest, pushing back to feel engrossed in that moment of pain as she let out a little moan. . . .

. . . . The alarm broke the silence in the room, the moment was extinguished as he opened his eyes, only to once again stare at the emptiness of the pillow beside him, a reminder that he was still alone.

June 23, 2014

Lost Fragrance

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 12:47 pm

Her fragrance danced around the house like a whispered breeze, enough to distract but never enough to catch, to hold for a moment, to pull towards him and hope that she would follow close behind. The fragrance that’s missed but never lost. Voices of past conversations echo from wall to wall, but always in the adjacent room, a tease of his loneliness as he sat in silence. After all that had happened, it was the silence that strangled him, held him against his will. The sound of her singing in the shower, high pitched disagreements, her enticing moan as she straddled him, or her laugh that cradled. All lost without a decision to make, taken. The cruelty of her belongings still layered through his existence, he knew she would never return but he wasn’t quite ready to move anything in fear of forgetting. Every morning he was distracted until he absorbed the memories, seeing her medication in the bathroom, over and over he felt chewed up and spat out. Bitter, he blamed everyone, everything, he blamed the medication because that was the hope they had clung onto, a false hope that never paid off. Every night he was reminded of her frail body fall to the sickness that controlled her, consumed her. He had watched the disease wrap her up into an uncomfortable environment, pushing away and drifting off with exhaustion. Her pained facial expressions screamed in the silence of his mind. He felt lost, empty, and angry. He needed time, but that had slipped away from him just like her fragrance. They told him that each day will get easier, until then he’d breakdown, hiding his tears behind closed doors because the children couldn’t see him like this.

June 3, 2014

Skint and Sober

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 6:22 pm

He sat, pondering on the things in front of him. The way things flowed past without his involvement. He could step forward and be part of the movement, the intimidating movement. It was the intimidating part that kept him in his seat, his weighted body, carrying the thoughts of yesterday and fears of tomorrow. His pint was sour. Before it had reached him, it was poured by beauty, a golden glow that enticed the many. In his hand, it was a weapon for his thoughts, a reason to sway in and out of a path he once stumbled. The days he was unstoppable, uncontrollable, invincible. It’s when the crowds stop cheering, your audience stops following, your band stops playing. It all changed, it all stopped, it was only his addictions that carried on. It had taken him years to conquer heroin, the substance that drained him of his money, his fame, his friends, but worst of all, his marriage. The rock that held him together walked out and left him with the only other rock he knew, the narcotic kind. He hadn’t seen his wife and children in nearly three years, he didn’t even know how to contact them. He feared she would one day see his name in the obituaries, and then keep turning the pages without a blink. His pride wished she knew that he was clean now. In the Hollywood life style in which he had been sold, she would come back to him, hold him and tell him all was ok. But he knew the Hollywood lifestyle was a farce, a rabbit hole he had tumbled down, with every bump, he had lost a little of him and gained a little of them. The ones that love and surround you until you’re skint and sober, dropped like a hat in a coastal wind.
The beauty that poured his last pint asked if he’d like another. Not realising he had finished the last, he had been rolling the empty glass between his palms, his wedding ring making a rhythmic chime. This is probably what caught her attention.
The new golden glow of the glass stared into his eyes, the cold on his hands, he thought of her.
He needed to pull his life together, find his family, recreate his existence. He told himself this everyday, but as always, the beauty behind the bar kept working, the stool he sat on stayed warm, and the golden glass kept staring into his soul. Once an addict, always an addict she had said. As always, she was right, wherever she was.

November 21, 2012

The Curious Ant

Filed under: Just a Thought — Tags: , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 5:46 pm

There was nothing wrong with being a little curious thought the lonely ant whilst walking with his hundred plus army companions, it’s a strange feeling to be surrounded by so many like you but feel so alone at the same time.

Why do we always walk in a line?

What would happen if I peeled off from the rest and went my own way?

Everyday this lonely little ant had the same thoughts, and always the same adventure plans in mind. He was a curious little ant that wasn’t like his brothers.

Why am I always following the one in front?

Why can’t they all follow me?

One day this little ant was going to break free, make his own plans and do what he wanted to do. He had plans of mini adventures, everyday he walked past a mound and never got the chance to stand on top of it or see it from the other side.

But . . . what would happen if I got into trouble?

Who would be there for me if I needed something?

Suddenly the doubts crept in like they always did, it was great to be a curious ant with ideas but scary to think what might actually happen if he did go his own way. As he made his way back to the nest he thought to himself . . . .

Maybe I’ll do it tomorrow?

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