Have you ever seen wood rot before your eyes?

Ages and years fall apart before their time?

Grand rises of opulence and light

Dim slowly in the presence of sun and life?


It’s funny isn’t it?

The way life fades even with the hands of nurture

How dust collects even as the world moves round and round

How shadows fall and eyes stare wide and blank

Even as the heart takes more and more.


I’ve seen it today.

Well, I’ve seen it always.


Watched as the lights dimmed.

Listened as the voices grew hoarse.

Grimaced as the dark circles grew.

Those abominable bags that won’t go away.


Sick of mind, and soul and body.

So they say.

Young yet.

So they say.

Everything ahead of you.

So they say.


Yet like the world before

And the world after

They will stand and see

See with clarity and worry

As the death slips in between the life

Whisper silent prayers

As the unseen disease burns behind dull eyes.


T’ is dilapidation.

Death of life amidst life.



Kadeen Nichelle Oksana Waldron

Sunday, March 10, 2013 6.38 p.m.

Escape Hatch No. 1

Disclaimer: If you know you’re easily bored by long stuff, shut your eyes and go read somewhere else :-P.

Brandic- This is distraction no. 1

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Looking back on my younger years has been quite the educational journey for me. I would probably make a very good psychiatrist or therapist, if I put my mind to it, considering what I’ve learned so far. According to my father, I was always a talkative child. If there was an awkward question that a five or six year old could think of, I was definitely the first to ask it. My mother’s side of the family, being full of teachers, ensured that if there was a word I could pronounce, I knew how to spell it and use it. At school, my grades were always those delightful As, A+s and 90s that I no longer strive for. With my chatterbug infection, an infectious smile and “precocious” vocabulary, I was apparently a pretty cute kid. It was somewhere along this time that things started to go dark.

I remember always reading. A lot. By the time I reached primary school (elementary for you Americans), if there was a book around, I read it. Religious, romantic, fairytale, scientific dissertation, didn’t matter to me. I understood them. I would be so engrossed in the words and the pictures they painted, that the only thing that pulled me out of them was bodily removing the source. There was just something so intoxicating about the knowledge, the cultures, the science, even sociology once gripped my attention. I can actually say that by now, I’ve certainly read over a thousand+ books (of course I’ve counted all these little skimpy things people call books nowadays). With books as my choice of shield, the only past I dealt with, was the one the characters experienced. This shield worked really well for a number of years. It was perfect. No real friends to disappoint. No parents to hide “wicked” secrets from. No uncle to remember. No guilt, no shame. Just me and the world of books. Then one day, it broke.

I wish I could remember the name of the book. I just know that it was by Stephen King. I love his work. Unfortunately, it seemed I picked the wrong one that time. How was I to know that the library in the story, unlike the ones I knew, was a place of fear? How was I to know that the main character would flashback into a place similar like mine, meeting a memory he had long ago repressed? It was in that moment, as I confronted the demons of that child, that I lost something. I literally threw the book halfway across the room. I hadn’t even read the lines, the implications were enough. The one place that had been a different world, was now contaminated. It was that year, in third form (9th grade), that a little part of the introvert I had become, was seared painfully. It felt like the last bit of innocence I had left was shattered. https://deenakdrowaln.wordpress.com/2012/03/06/shattered-innocence/ (<—a general idea of my overall feeling, not that moment)

Books, novels in particular, let me be someone else. I literally shifted, adapted into the character of the day. I felt the pain, the excitement, the joy. I lived it. My mannerisms would change, my accent would sometimes change. In my mind, I thought like the character. That was how influential my books were. Being an avid reader of anything and everything, it never occurred to me that I should censor or monitor what I picked up. These books were my escape hatch, they served as the perfect distraction. They were my distraction from the past, and the pressures of the present. They trumped everything, school, homework, studying, developing friendships.

Now that I’m older ( well, almost 18 😛 ), I can see that my reaction was not overly dramatic. At the time, I felt like an idiot for being so sensitive. Now I fully understand the world my books created. I get there importance.

Kadeen Nichelle Oksana Waldron

June 20, 2012.


The Picture

Since I’ve been feeling emotionally unstable these last few weeks (maybe I’m bipolar), I’ll just take this moment to bore you with a post.

The Dress and The Remembered Photo

I remember a picture. I don’t know why this crossed my mind today. I’m sitting on my father’s bed. I’m not looking at the camera happily. I can’t remember the time of day, maybe it was late afternoon, early evening, I’d have to see the picture to be certain. In the picture, you can see my scrawny little three or five year old legs, sticking out from the confines of my panties and pampers. The dress I’m wearing is an old favourite, striped with approximately three coulours. Faded rose pink, dirty yellow, and discoloured white. The thing is I can’t be sure if I’m even remembering the right picture, because what hits me is not the photo, but the feeling coming out of it. I look so lost, ragged and desolate.

The dress I remember from the picture, is a bit significant to me. That was the dress I was wearing when I told my uncle no. Remembering that moment leaves my head a bit muddled. It confuses me, because if I could have said no then, why didn’t I do so the other two times? I can’t even sort through the emotions from that olden time because I’ve spent so much time telling myself how I should feel, how I do feel, and how I am, that the actual feeling is lost. Or maybe in truth, I’m just too afraid to confront what I felt.

My mind has become such a cacophony of emotions. They literally make me feel light-headed and disoriented. I stand still for a moment, an emotion crosses my mind, and I feel confused. Emotionally writing never works for me, unless its poetry. There’s something about the rhythm of a poem that keeps me grounded. It makes me feel, but not feel overwhelmingly.


Well, that was a fun experiment. Tackling a bit of memory. I’ve got to go search for the picture. In the meantime, I’m going to go back to the distracting things I love to do. I can be so unfocused sometimes. Even my writing is travelling in weird disjointed tracks. So on a lighter note, I’m going to let my geek side out tonight. My cousins and I will be blasting enemies in Call of Duty:MW3 and shooting hoops from the comfort of the reclining sofa. Have a great day if you’re dropping in!!