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nadijial-blog 3 years
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#art #revealyourshelf @bookdepository (at London, United Kingdom) https://www.instagram.com/p/CG5QDU-hODF/?igshid=1ifp7gksjft2i
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nadijial-blog 3 years
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nadijial-blog 3 years
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Lost all control #art (at London, United Kingdom) https://www.instagram.com/p/CG5CHX0hjjJ/?igshid=qo2o20w1u70k
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nadijial-blog 3 years
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I thought I loved someone with brown eyes but my love is clearer than the ocean blue 馃憖 馃寠 (at London, United Kingdom) https://www.instagram.com/p/CG38cJjh7ry/?igshid=19zdjgbg3h56
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nadijial-blog 3 years
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Poem:
Everyone has a dark side. Sometimes the gems in my life take me to a dark place in my mind. By the encouragement of others, I break my perception of myself. I鈥檓 motivated in the darkness to shatter my perception.
The wall breaks down a lot. I鈥檝e had trouble trying to open up to people in relationships, finding it鈥檚 like hitting a wall. When I tell them to quit, and they quit, they go out and find low maintenance work, or spread rumours about how they now suffer. I have to work the remains out on my own, which becomes hard to hack.
Life is a process whereby passion is dimmed by who鈥檚 employed you. And now everyone has left, I鈥檓 self employed. So I add murky coal to my inner passion and each chip is like gambling.
One. Thought, my work was dirty or greedy because of where the money comes from. Two. Rumours called me masochistic, because I鈥檓 self employed. Three. Assumed searching for shining thoughts seemed cool once but now they鈥檙e all dark like coal. Now go. I鈥檓 angry but only because I believe I鈥檓 fuelled by a realistic negativity, not a toxic negativity.
I want others to see the light at the end of the tunnel when they鈥檙e also in a bad place. Despite my continual efforts to find whats in the rough, my expectations extend to others in relationships and this can become toxic.
I feel stuck, and get glimpses of happiness that reminds me to leave the darkness. Light always reminds me to leave hard work.
And who is good God? Light? Yet I feel guilty, because I thought I had a gem and at the end all I have is ashes for ashes.
Then I remember how diamonds are made. From ash, to blood. And then from ash, I remember what death creates. From blood, to ash. And then... I remember that death exists. And. Then. There鈥檚 no light.聽Just ash.
I made up my mind to scatter those ashes in a mine because that鈥檚 where I found my mind. And in the end, sometimes I don鈥檛 even mind my business of mining.
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nadijial-blog 3 years
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Since she was 5 years old she dreamt of a boy called Andrew and she was Rose. What you want to know, is, was he real? Well, Andrew wasn鈥檛 at first present. But she grew creative, like the Lady of Shallot. She found ways to bring him to life even though the idea of love was dying inside. All she knew of love was the non affection she received from her narcissistic mother. Her father eventually stopped existing. When she was 17 she ran away from her tragedies to find a home. She always blue feather earrings but she lost a lot during her lifetime and something went missing, her blue feather earring. What she really wanted in a home was a family, what she found was Andrew. A burning image of her childhood dream. He provided comfort when she was at her lowest and called her his princessa. She doesn鈥檛 know until this day why he鈥檚 never returned to that place, or if it was a difficult place to be in that hopeless home. She so badly wanted to be this damsal in distress, that when he left she traded her passion for love and creativity for a victim mentality. She gained weight, got acne and turned him into a dream again, or a fantasy. But there was still something in her voice that sounded American, no British, no no one knows. No one knows where she came from. The thing about Andrew is his voice sounded like hers. So when he called her a princessa, his voice sounded genuine, like her own. Years later, she forgot about him. But the memory persisted, like an amnesia. A man called Kings told her to write everything she wanted in a man in a bible because that was how he found his dream wife. She followed his instructions and put the list in a sketchbook. She saw him again today, in a funeral shop. Part of her died today. She recognised in him, part of herself. But he was untouchable. Can you approach someone you cared for from afar in a funeral store? But she remembered the kindness and the comfort in being allowed to be vulnerable, having gone through sad times. In the moment she let him go, and drew. She never drew this. A bright blue landscape of star crossed lovers and a silver lining. But what happened to the dream boy? Who died for him that day? And what was she now bringing to life in her drawings?
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nadijial-blog 3 years
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Sometimes I write my dreams down in my notes app. They seem bizarre but I believe my subconscious is guiding me.
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nadijial-blog 3 years
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Check out my TikTok https://www.instagram.com/p/CGw-qFQBghE/?igshid=16nxjec01ok7z
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