I used to have red curtains. Well they weren’t red per say, more maroon, but more red than brown. To most people they would just be red, and that’s what I considered them to be, even if red wasn’t exactly their true color. They weren’t the color of blood, or crimson. They didn’t represent a secret that I had hidden from myself, like that I had lost a serious love, was raped, or perhaps dead. They didn’t even do a good job of keeping out light, but that was because they were more lace than anything, not really lacy, but still lace.
They didn’t represent my anger at being a woman, the love of my all powerful vagina, or the pain I had suffered at the hands of my drunken lover. They cast a red glow on my living room, which did not represent that I looked at life through rose tinted glass, or that blood had been spilled, was being spilled, or was going to be spilled. They didn’t show anyone that I was anxious, I can do that just fine without symbolic curtains. They did show my OCD, they matched the couches.
Now I have only one lonely curtain in my apartment, and though I am lonely, my curtain doesn’t represent that. It hangs alone in a room, which is used in much the same way as the room where this curtain first lived. That was 8 years ago, before I had a kid, before I cared if people thought I was crazy, just before. Now the curtain hangs, haphazardly from the window frame, not covering the window at all, it’s more like a cape draped over the shoulder of the window. It doesn’t mean I’m trying to hide something without anyone knowing, that I’m secretly count Dracula, or that I might be a magician. I am pretty sure that it does not mean that I’m cold, like to carry a jacket, or that I’m am sloppy about protecting myself from anything in any form.
I think I bought the curtain, but I honestly don’t remember. It may have been my old roommate who was the purchaser of this curtain. She is the one who hung the thing in its first home. I do know I didn’t hang it in its current home, which doesn’t mean that I let others run my life for me. If anything it means I don’t really give a crap about curtains.
The sheer black fabric with its black velvet circles of varying sizes don’t show that I’m willing to expose only pieces of who I am and even then only to certain people at special times under the right moon phases. The curtain just exists in the same space that I inhabit. I don’t know where it came from, why it remains, or what will become of it.
It doesn’t show that I love things that are black, and dark, and depressing. It doesn’t mean that I am a vampire hunter, a zombie slayer, or werewolf destroyer, my curtain doesn’t say that.
It doesn’t mean I am depressed. Despite the fact that it came into my life just before things got complex and difficult, it doesn’t mean it caused anything good or bad to happen. It is not a plot point, or a theme in the story I am living. It doesn’t mirror my life.
It doesn’t mirror my life….
Maybe I should get rid of the curtain.
Embrace the Crazy!