Categories
Thoughts Words.

Be Yourself.

Every single one of us has a box we are trapped in. Confining discomfort we tolerate, numb and avoid straying from. We all wonder what lifting the lid might look like. What expression of ourselves could be set free?

Yet in reality what we see is ugly. It is messy. It is not a neat path. It’s thorny, it’s full of unpleasant truths. It forces us to give up our comfortable habits, and to relinquish our pain. It compels us to challenge our fears, so that they no longer control our actions. It pushes us to ignore our critics, and dive full frontal, all cannons blazing into uncertainty.

Into opportunities, dreams and possibilities. We are hushed, tossed away, rejected, and jeered at. But it doesn’t matter. Because we can laugh and fly and realise that life is a carnival of weird, bizarre chaos. It can’t be orderly, it can’t be perfectly balanced in all aspects. We will mess up, we will get hurt and we will upset people who chose to stay confined.

But at least we will be living. At least we will let the gifts we have so kindly been blessed with be free. Because to die having lived a half-life would be the greatest tragedy of all.

To have hustled, to have busied ourselves, to have scurried through life in the pursuit of pleasing others. Chasing our own unreachable expectations. To have forgotten what it feels like to be alive. What it feels like to be vibrant. To have fun. To laugh. Blocking everyone else from experiencing our quirky, beautiful, remarkable souls. Our passions. Our voices.

Stray from your cage. Dare greatly. Dance to the funkiest music like no one is watching. Wear clothes that light you up. Love openly, speak honestly and keep the ones who really love you closest to you.

.

Image by Rupi Kaur*** Taken from her book ‘Home Body’.

Categories
Flash Fiction. Thoughts Words.

Own your story.

Her back aches. The books got too heavy. She couldn’t read them. The language was ambiguous and chapters continued in disdainful jargon. She felt like pages were missing in places and piled in others.

She tried learning to decipher the words. But she lost the battle. She tried getting it translated. But no one else could interpret it. She had to go back. And start at page one. And watch the pages turn into chapters. And let the weight leave her. As pages flew from her grip and floated away. Emboldened. And she was free. Everything her mind told her not to do she did. Everything the pain told her she needed she let go of. And piece by piece the puzzle joined together. From corner piece to middle she formed great mosaics of colour.

She had to go back to go forward. Around to go straight. Look down to see up. She had to love the blemished paper before she could turn it over. She had to experience the paper cuts. And only when she knew the story did she realises which characters were most important. In ways she could never have imagined.

And so she understood. She had to publish her book or she would never know what it could have been. Who it could have reached. For she saw light in the most painful chapters. In the most hurtful words she found space. In the most shameful moments lay lessons. In the failures she discovered victories. And in the moments she thought she had crumbled she found strength.

Categories
Poetry. Thoughts Words.

The beauty of your pages.

Peeling through chapters and tearing out pages.

Only to tape them back together and scope out answers.

Tugging at words, sewing them together, editing.

Filing the edges, polishing the cover.

Alone? The exception? Individual?

We are all of the same paper.

Bound together in chapters of varying lengths.

Different fonts, languages, styles.

Paragraphs we would rather not read.

And ones we act out every moment of every day.

To convince our readers that the book is worthwhile.

Stained, blemished, disregarded.

Laying dishevelled in a second hand shop.

Now only read by the ones who could recite a chapter with closed eyes.

Seeing past the grammatical errors,

Beyond the aesthetics, through the hyperbole.

And so a book never dies.

Its’ stories may fade into the background of busied minds and disappear.

But the feeling that book gave to its readers can never be destroyed.

For it lives on.

In the tingling of a chest.

In the dreams of a child’s imagination.

In the changes people are inspired to make.

In the pages of other books.

Where light spreads and flows and never ceases to be.

Categories
Uncategorized

Hope

She is trapped in a box. There are chains tied around her ankles. Weighing down the chains she bares is a heavy stone, heavier than she.

The box is filled with water, engulfing her body, soon submerging her head beneath it. She splutters and chokes fighting for air. She pulls the chains as she panics and screams helplessly.

She keeps going until she is truly exhausted and out of air. In her final exasperated breaths she realises that she can lift her head above the water. And that there is a key perched beside her.

 Outside of the box there is space. There is peace. There is hope. It’s familiar. She recognises it. Has she been here before? Has she heard of this place? It feels like home.

It is bright and warm. It welcomes her like a treasured friend, like the scent of a loved one, like the sound of the ocean, like the stillness in a tree.

Sometimes when the floor gets slippery she falls back in the box. And again she cannot breathe. The water penetrates her lungs and she chokes for air.

But not for long. For she knows there is a key beside her and that she has the strength to lift her head above the surface. And that this place is always there, waiting for her return.