Categories
Poetry. Thoughts

So…live.

There are two sides to every tale.

For every positive there is a negative.

For every good there is a bad.

For every perfection there is an imperfection.

For every compliment there is an insult.

For every opportunity there is a challenge.

For every opinion there is an argument.

For every dream there is a sacrifice.

For every life there is a death.

So live.

Categories
Thoughts Words.

Where’s my voice gone?

                                                

Writing can be scary. That is probably a bit hypocritical of me to say since I try to promote it so much for personal relaxation and freedom of expression. But honestly…

I’ve been having a major block lately. A major turn-off to my daily journaling and a strong heaving wave of dread sweeps over me if I even begin to ponder all of the different things I should or could write about. It is endless yet empty. And so the noose of procrastination bears heavy, looming in the background.

I have put an awful lot of pressure on myself to write pieces that tug at emotions or resonate with the reader. But I really haven’t written just for the sake of it without analysing, without judging, without expectations in a very long time.

I have been doing more and more, yet feeling less and less connected to my words. I feel strange and detached, as if I am not writing my words at all. They feel forced and hinged and stuck.

I am wondering if anyone else feels like this. The more I write. The bigger the audience. The greater the feedback.

The more the enormity of pressure mounts and crushes my voice. My words are blurred in between opinions, and shared, and spread and exposed. And I feel I no longer own them. They are no longer mine. And I cannot take them back.

Fear is paralysing. And words don’t flow when we are stagnant. They need light. They need bravery. They need acceptance. Someday my words will be forgotten. And I will disappear. And I will no longer have a voice.

So while I am here I will speak.

PS: I was reading a piece by lexicographer, Susie Dent, last night and she explained that journal derives from the Latin for ‘shine’… which I think is a sign if I’ve ever seen one.

Quote by Fiona Brennan “What people think or do not think of you is quite frankly none of your business.”

Categories
Thoughts

The Bully in her mind.

He taunts her and taints her voice. She hates him. But she loves how he fills the gaps that lay bare when he is not there. She loves that he numbs her. That his spluttering retorts confirm her worries. That in some way she is validated by his outbursts. Each quickening of his pulse, each word he spits at her choking himself, chaining himself to his own pain. Is it not better to be seen for something than not be seen at all? He tells her she’s worthless and she must work harder and she must do nothing at all. Do nothing at all. There’s no point. Nothing matters. But doesn’t saying nothing matters imply that believing in hopelessness matters? Is trying to be detached not just clinging to feeling unattached? Weird. She can’t let in happiness because he’s there and he’s being rather loud. And he’s telling her she can’t be happy for she doesn’t deserve it. And she can’t be positive for there is no point. And she mustn’t eat and she must follow his every command and only do as he says or bad things will happen. Very bad things. Her nightmares will come alive and pounce at her. And she will have caused them for simply not having followed his orders. For not having done what he said. For not being chained to him.

And some days the sky shines out of her and he shuts up and other people are let in. With their smiling compliments and their reassurance. But he always comes back. Like an unwanted visitor who overstays their welcome. Like that creepy customer who doesn’t understand social queues. And because she is feeling weakened by his strength she curls up and she follows him again. She regrets every feeling positive. Feeling ashamed for every feeling hopeful. For believing for a split second that she could be enough. She tries shouting at him, retorting, crying, and running away. But he’s so loud now. He knows how to play this game better than she does. He knows he’s louder. He knows her deepest, darkest secrets. Her flaws. He knows how he can push his spiteful words like poisonous daggers into her wounds. And so he does. But this time she lets him. And when he tells her what to do she just hears the words and stops concentrating. She just lets him sit and scream at her. And lets the pain come. She lets it sweep her off her feet and make her question everything she has ever thought to be true. But she has started silencing him. Bit by bit his screams sound less terrifying. More like a lost child wining somewhere in the distance. And sometimes his words are so cruel, that the daggers in her sides make her want to give up, to retract. Or fight. But she doesn’t. Because she knows that he is getting louder before he gives up. For if you let someone roar they eventually must stop. If you stop believing in words they lose their meaning.

No, she has not lost herself. She has seen herself. Fully. More. There is more in ways she couldn’t have imagined. Space. Fields. Sky. Sea. Breath. Behind his words. Behind her words. Always there.

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.

Categories
Poetry.

The Ominous Clock

I cannot be measured, I cannot be disposed,

I keep all things orderly and composed.

My hands move as each event unravels,

I dictate where life travels.

Worshiped by all of human kind,

I control your wandering mind.

Presence is a concept for the fortunate few,

Without me what would you do?

Worthless and hated you would shrivel away,

And that my dear friend is why I must stay.

Without you I would dance in the suns radiant beams,

Without you I would fulfil my wildest dreams.

Time would crumble and fears would shatter,

All would be, and what is would matter.

Smiles would crease upon worn faces,

Warmth would be felt in tender embraces.

Life would just happen without hesitation,

No need for fear, anger or frustration.

Wrinkled hands, tired eyes.

A chuckle escapes me as I realise.

Time never existed, only in my mind,

Life just happens and is left behind.

Worry is futile and regret is pain,

And worshiping time has made me insane.