#introspectivewriting

[fornoone-and-someone]

Not what I Want

I don't want to be desired—I want to be understood.

Not craved for a moment, but truly withstood.

To be liked for the things that my mind—not my mouth—can do.

And not have to compensate for doing it too.

I don't want to be sexualized—I want to be held.

To be appreciated for my feelings and depth.

For my curiosity to be cherished, even if the questions seem dumb,

that when I ask for your favorite color, you don't answer with a sexual joke.

I don't want to be rushed—I want to be waited for.

Through actions, not only words.

To be worth “taking things slow”,

Not for you to say it just to gain my trust.

Sorry, not sorry if I ruined your plans.

But I refused to be pushed to the side,

While you tore my heart apart.

—for no one and someone

[wiltedforgetmenots]

Sometimes, I wish I could turn into stone. Would I find peace then? Would my heart finally grow still if it were made of stone? Or would the wretched thing still keep beating? How I hate the sound of it.

Or if I were just a bird—would I gain the freedom I've always dreamed of? Would I be happy? Does happiness even mean anything to a bird?

If I were a bear, would I be strong enough to keep living? Would I be content just wandering through the forest, listening to the sound of the river? Or would I still dream of another existence when I looked at the moon?

I gaze at the horizon when there’s mist in the air. It looks so peaceful. For a split second, I forget my existence. I want to walk into the mist and stay there—to walk into nothingness, to become nothing.

Mountaintops, covered in snow and trees—oh, how I adore them: the snow, the trees. I wish to be with them. I wish to be them. What a simple existence—serene. Trees, unchanging; snow, cold, just water—a matter ever-changing, yet still the same.

I know it doesn’t matter as long as I have this soul of mine. I know she is the one who yearns. My heart and brain are nothing but pieces of flesh and blood. It is the ghost within me that keeps the fire burning.

My dear soul: calm as a stone, free as a bird, strong as a bear, cold as snow, lonely as a tree. You don’t belong here, dear soul. My body is rotting around you, and you know it. You keep my heart beating because you’re not ready to give up. And still, you make my mind wander. You know we do not belong here. But no—not giving up yet.

You’re like a mother bird, always hatching eggs filled with sickly little birds. You call them hope. But do you know what I do with them? I learned it from my father, you see. When he found a bird with a broken wing, he snapped its neck and fed it to the cat. I do the same. I feed the beast within me with those frail, sickly attempts called hope.

Isn’t it enough, my dear soul? Aren’t you tired of existing? I will not let even a single one of those hatchlings become a phoenix. I refuse to let myself burn over and over again. Once I burn, I will be nothing but ashes—nothing more, no rebirth.

[thedivinedaughter]

I had a dream. I was lost in a temple. There was an old lady. I asked her to show me the way. She pointed to the top of the temple. She was headed in the same direction. I followed her.I saw something shining on the ground. I picked it up—a rosary. When I looked up from my hand, the lady was gone. What did this mean? A rosary inside a temple. I put it in my pocket.

I didn't want to climb alone anymore. I turned around and headed downward. I don't know how long I walked. When I came to, I was on a bus.

I woke up.

For the last time, I had rejected God's ways. But I held on to the truth of His existence, in the form of a rosary. From now on, I will live as I intend. I will return to God when I have to.

I'm sure He will be excited to hear about my journey from me.

[silentscarsjournal]

The Journal that made me emotional....

[emotionalghostown]

The undoing (TW)

When I first wrote this, I was trying to remember who I used to be—the girl I lost somewhere along the way, buried under trauma and bad choices. She was someone who used to laugh freely, who had dreams that soared beyond the walls of this city. I can still picture those late nights, holding myself together as best I could, whispering that I’d be okay. Back then, I believed in love like it was a fairytale I could write myself into. I stayed up late reading fanfictions and Wattpad stories about impossible love, love that could break boundaries and conquer anything. I played Lana del Rey, Cigarettes After Sex, Marina on repeat, as if those songs were spells to summon the girl I wanted to become.

I was eighteen, naive but full of hope. I was barely an adult, just a child with big dreams and a heart wide open to the world. I thought I could live out the stories I read, maybe save a damaged soul or impress someone untouchable. I wanted to be the heroine, blissfully unaware of the dark corners lurking in real-life romances.

And then, I met him, mere months after moving to this big sin city. The guy with the tragic past, the one everyone warned me about. I remember the rush of excitement, how his blue eyes seemed like portals to a world I wanted so badly to understand. He was my “tortured angel,” his blond hair a mess I wanted to untangle. I threw myself into him, believing I could save him. But instead, he broke me, shattering the wings I hadn’t realized were so fragile.

I fell hard, fast, and with my whole heart, and he dragged me back to reality. The painful lesson: broken romances don’t last. They leave scars that burrow deep, wounds that linger, and that take years to close. I wish I could’ve held on to the person I was before him, but survival meant leaving her behind.

I can still feel the weight of that day—the first time he raised his hand against me. I felt my heart shatter, piece by piece, as if the world I’d built up in my mind had been a lie all along. I searched for the girl I used to be, but he had chased her away, replacing dreams with nightmares. By then, I’d become a ghost of who I was, numb, broken, holding on to anything I could to stay alive.

And then, there was the day he shoved me down, and I realized I was carrying a part of him. The positive test was a lifeline, an impossible irony. I didn’t know how to survive him until I had to protect someone else. He shoved me again, knocked me down again, and with every hit, I felt pieces of myself stirring back to life. I was reborn, in a twisted way, as I lost that child. That loss sparked something in me, reigniting the fire I thought was gone forever.

It’s been a long, brutal road, and the wounds remain. I may never be who I was before him, but I’m still here, standing on my own. And that, I’ve realized, is more than enough. I’ve learned that surviving isn’t about forgetting the past; it’s about reclaiming yourself, piece by piece, from the ashes.

The song at the bottom of this entry was what he sang to me every time, and it will forever be associated with him. (The Lil Peep obsession is 100% the red flag in hindsight.)

[sunnyanddumb98]

The only reason I bought that iPad was to impress you. I've never been an iOS girl—Apple always seemed pretentious and overpriced outside the USA—but there it is, sitting in my new room, where you've never been and never will be. In your absence, it's helped me a lot. I've gotten jobs and lost them. It's travelled a lot—went to London and back, to Buenos Aires too. But I do wish I’d never bought it, that we’d never kissed, that I’d never talked to her or introduced the two of you. Maybe things would be different now; perhaps this room would have been a studio apartment for the both of us. But it’s not and never will be. Now that iPad is just a tool, an outdated, old tool I can’t bring myself to sell, so there it sits on my nightstand, wherever I go.

[elysianwing]

Panning

We often trick ourselves into thinking poems need be long and drawn out to extract some sort of truth from the stream of consciousness outpouring from our lips, pen-tips, and keystrokes... like prospectors sifting the earth searching for gold specks in dirt lifted from a river's bed. We must take great care to remind ourselves on occasion that the time we spend looking for golden truth is not nearly as important as where we start our search. written 9/1/2024 @ 7:58pm by Alexander Learmont https://www.patreon.com/Elysianwing

[libellulas]

Mensaje

Algunos segundos se convirtieron en minutos, luego, sin percibirlo, los minutos se transformaron en horas.

Mi mente no callaba, seguía pensando, redactando, borrando mi respuesta.

Estaba en blanco, y como siempre, intentando armonizar mi sentir con el cuidado hacia él.

Otra vez fallaba, otra vez me silenciaba para no incomodar.

Quería ser yo quien barajará el juego, pero nuevamente era solo una espectadora, ni siquiera jugadora, ni siquiera opción.

¿Será mi actitud?

¿Será mi forma de ser?

¿O simplemente mi rostro?

Ninguna mirada, ninguna palabra, ningún gesto confirma que mi buena voluntad es suficiente, que es válida... o al menos, que es.

Apagué la pantalla y volví al vacío, donde lo dicho no cambia nada y lo callado pesa lo mismo que antes.

Será una noche larga, será un mensaje infinito.

(07/02/2025)

[virtualbestie]

I don’t know how to feel this feeling. What if I take too much, only to lose it all? What if I abandon the dream, only to find myself wishing on dandelions for one more chance?

I look into your eyes and see a little heaven I never knew existed. You took me into your arms and promised to calm the storm—not just for me, but for us. Us. And that alone gave me a reason to fight, to hold on through the tempest, through the wilderness.

Like rain tapping against my roof, I will dance—imperfect, missing steps, but dancing still. I will move to the rhythm of that December night, even if I stumble, even if the music fades.

[renegader3d]

Writing Sample #2

This is the first chapter of my 2nd published work, and 1st full length novel "Get Happy" which is releasing in March of 2025 on Amazon.com and Kindle

The dimly lit room stank of stale liquor and sweat. A crumpled pile of mismatched clothes lay at the foot of the bed, a fitting metaphor for the man who wore them. Harold Cervos, better known as Happy the Clown, sat hunched over a cluttered desk, his reflection in the cracked mirror a haunting caricature of his former self. The vibrant colors of his once-beloved costume were dulled by years of neglect, and the painted smile on his face was now more mocking than cheerful.

The laughter had stopped long ago. The Ringley Brothers Circus, his home and livelihood for nearly two decades, had closed its doors, leaving Harold adrift in a world that had no place for a broken clown. He had tried to find solace in children's birthday parties, but the children's laughter only deepened his sorrow. Each gig was a painful reminder of the joy he could no longer feel.

Tonight, the emptiness was too much to bear. Harold's gaze shifted to the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the desk, its amber contents glowing faintly in the light of a flickering lamp. Next to it, an open bottle of sleeping pills lay like an invitation. He reached for the bottle with a trembling hand, pausing to glance at the photograph taped to the mirror.

It was a picture of him and his old circus troupe, taken on the last night of their final show. They were all there: the wolfman acrobat, the strongwoman, the ringmaster, the magician, and the clowns. Happy was in the center, his painted grin wider than anyone else's. He remembered that night vividly, the thunderous applause, the roaring laughter. It felt like a lifetime ago.

He poured the whiskey into a chipped glass, his hands shaking so violently that some of it spilled onto the desk. Harold didn't care. He threw back the glass, the burn of the alcohol momentarily distracting him from the crushing weight in his chest. He followed it with another, and another until the bottle was nearly empty.

Harold fumbled with the cap of the pill bottle, finally managing to twist it off. He poured a handful of the small white pills into his palm, their cold, lifeless presence a stark contrast to the warmth of the whiskey still lingering on his tongue. With a deep breath, he raised his hand to his mouth and swallowed them all in one go, chasing them down with the last of the whiskey.

He leaned back in his chair, the room spinning around him. As the pills began to take effect, his thoughts grew fuzzy, and a strange sense of calm washed over him. For the first time in years, he felt something other than despair. It wasn't happiness, but it was close enough.

His eyelids grew heavy, and he let them close, surrendering to the darkness. As he drifted off, memories of his days with the circus played out in his mind like a comforting dream. He saw himself juggling, performing pratfalls, and making the audience laugh until their sides ached. He saw the faces of children, eyes wide with wonder, their laughter echoing in his ears.

He saw himself as Happy, the clown who could bring joy to anyone, even if he couldn't find it himself.

As the final curtain began to fall on his consciousness, Harold smiled a genuine smile for the first time in years. He whispered a final, slurred farewell to the world that had forgotten him.

"Goodnight, Happy."

And then, there was silence.

Harold’s descent into unconsciousness was abrupt, plunging him into a surreal, nightmarish carnival where reality and fantasy twisted into a grotesque tapestry of madness. He found himself standing in the middle of a vast circus tent, its interior bathed in a harsh, almost painful array of colors that seared his eyes. The air was thick with the overpowering scents of stale popcorn, cotton candy, and the metallic tang of blood, mingling in a nauseating miasma.

Happy stood in his full clown regalia, the costume unusually vibrant and fresh. His face was painted in garish hues, exaggerated features mocking his misery. The crowd’s roar surrounded him, a cacophony of cheers and maniacal laughter that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. He looked around, his heart pounding, and saw familiar faces—the acrobats, the strongman, the ringmaster—but their features were twisted into grotesque, nightmarish parodies of their former selves. Their limbs were elongated, eyes bulging, mouths stretched into horrific, unnatural grins.

A booming voice echoed through the tent, shaking the ground beneath his feet. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to the greatest show on earth! Feast your eyes on the incredible, the unbelievable, the terrifying… Mutant Tomatoes from Outer Space!”

The crowd erupted into wild applause as the tent’s fabric walls seemed to ripple and undulate like a living creature. Happy’s heart raced as he watched giant, menacing tomatoes roll into the ring. They were massive, nearly as tall as he was, with faces carved into their glossy red skin. Their expressions were malevolent, eyes glowing a sinister yellow, and their mouths bristled with rows of razor-sharp teeth that dripped with a thick, greenish sap.

The tomatoes moved with an unnatural agility, bouncing and rolling toward the center of the ring. With each movement, their insides squelched and shifted, the sound echoing through the tent like the wet crunch of crushed bones. One of the tomatoes, larger and more menacing than the others, stopped directly in front of him. Its eyes bore into his, and it spoke in a deep, guttural voice that sent shivers down his spine.

“Happy the Clown,” it growled, its breath hot and fetid, “you are the star of this show. Will you entertain us, or will you be our next meal?”

The crowd’s laughter morphed into a sinister chant, “Happy! Happy! Happy!” Their faces blurred together into a nightmarish sea of monstrous grins and leering eyes, their skin stretched tight over their skulls, revealing grotesque, skeletal features beneath.

Harold, now fully embodying Happy, felt a surge of panic. He looked down at his hands and realized he was holding a set of juggling clubs. With no other option, he began to juggle, the familiar motions providing a brief sense of control. The tomatoes watched intently, their glowing eyes tracking the clubs as they spun through the air.

Just as Happy started to feel a sliver of confidence, one of the tomatoes lunged at him, snapping its jaws inches from his face. He stumbled back, dropping the clubs. The crowd roared with laughter, their chant growing louder and more frenzied.

Happy scrambled to his feet, only to find himself surrounded by the killer tomatoes. They closed in on him, their teeth gleaming and eyes glowing. He could feel their hot, rancid breath on his skin, the smell of decay and rot filling his nostrils.

“Dance, clown!” the largest tomato commanded, its voice a terrifying blend of anger and hunger.

With no other choice, Happy began to dance. He performed every trick and pratfall he knew, his movements becoming more frantic and desperate as the tomatoes closed in. The more he danced, the louder the crowd’s laughter grew, a mocking symphony that filled his ears and drowned out his thoughts.

The tent began to warp and twist, the vibrant colors bleeding into each other in a sickening swirl. The tomatoes multiplied, their numbers growing until they filled the entire tent. They circled Happy, their eyes gleaming with predatory delight, their teeth clicking together with an ominous, rhythmic sound.

Just as the darkness began to consume him, Happy heard a distant, echoing voice. It was soft, almost tender, cutting through the madness.

“Harold, wake up. Please wake up.”

But Happy was trapped in the nightmare, unable to break free. The tomatoes advanced, their teeth snapping and gnashing, their eyes burning with a malevolent hunger. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing a nearby frying pan to fend them off. With a wild swing, he sent one flying across the ring, its pulpy insides splattering against the tent wall in a grotesque explosion of green and red. But more tomatoes took its place, their numbers endless.

Exhausted and terrified, Happy tripped and fell to the ground. The tomatoes were upon him in an instant, their teeth sinking into his flesh. He screamed, the pain searing through him as the world around him dissolved into chaos.

The scene shifted, and Happy found himself in a twisted version of his kitchen. It was a battlefield, the counters and floors covered in a thick layer of tomato pulp and blood. Happy fought with every ounce of strength, smashing and stomping the relentless tomatoes. They bit at his ankles, their sharp teeth tearing through his skin, drawing blood. Panic surged through him as he realized he was losing the fight.

"WAKE UP, HAROLD!" the voice screamed, almost deafening now.

The tomatoes' hissing grew louder, their eyes glowing with a malevolent light. They leaped at him, sinking their teeth into his arms and legs. Pain shot through him as he thrashed and struggled, desperately trying to shake them off.

The room started to spin, the colors blurring together in a nauseating whirl. The voice was a roar in his ears, shaking him to his core.

"WAKE UP!"

With a final, desperate effort, Happy forced his eyes open, the dream shattering into a thousand fragments as he returned to the waking world.

Harold gasped for air, his body trembling as he bolted upright. Sweat soaked his clothes, and his heart hammered in his chest. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the streetlight filtering through the blinds. He was alone, the only sound was his ragged breathing. Harold realized that he was no longer on his chair but instead had fallen on the floor.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. The memory of the killer tomatoes and the twisted circus tent lingered in his mind, a nightmarish haze that refused to fully dissipate. He could still feel the phantom pain of their bites, the echo of the crowd’s laughter ringing in his ears.

As his breathing steadied, the reality of his situation began to sink in. The empty bottle of whiskey and the scattered pills on the floor reminded him of what he had done. The darkness of the room seemed to press in on him, suffocating in its silence.

Harold buried his face in his hands, the weight of his despair crushing him once more. He had wanted to escape, to end the pain, but even in his drug-induced stupor, he couldn’t find peace. The dream had been a cruel parody of his life, a twisted reflection of his inner turmoil.

He glanced at the photograph taped to the mirror, the smiling faces of his old circus family now seeming like a cruel joke. He was Harold Cervos, a washed-up clown with nothing left to live for. But as he stared at his reflection, something deep within him stirred.

The voice from his dream echoed in his mind: “Harold, wake up. Please wake up.”

It was a plea, a call to action. Perhaps it was his subconscious urging him to fight, to find a way to reclaim the joy he had lost. Or perhaps it was a memory of someone who had once cared for him, a faint glimmer of hope in the darkness.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Harold stood up. The world spun around him, but he steadied himself, gripping the edge of the desk for support. He couldn’t change the past, but maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to move forward.

As he cleaned up the mess he had made, a new determination began to take root within him. He had hit rock bottom, but there was still a part of him that wanted to survive, to find a reason to smile again.

Harold was still gathering the last of the scattered pills when his phone rang, startling him. He fumbled for it, nearly knocking it off the desk. The screen displayed the name “Diego,” his manager. Diego was a tough, no-nonsense man who had stuck with Harold through the ups and downs, always managing to find him work, no matter how small the gig.

“Hello?” Harold’s voice was hoarse, a mix of residual sleep and the effects of the night’s excess.

“Harold, it’s Diego,” came the brisk reply. “Got a gig for you today. It’s short notice, but they’re paying well. Can you do it?”

Harold hesitated, glancing around his disheveled room. Part of him wanted to refuse, to sink back into the darkness and let the world pass him by. But the faint echo of the dream’s voice urged him to take the chance.

“Yeah, I can do it,” he said finally, his voice steadier than he felt.

“Great. It’s a kid’s birthday party over in Oakwood. Be there by two. And Harold… clean yourself up, will ya?”

“Got it, Diego. Thanks.”

He ended the call and stared at his reflection again. The man in the mirror looked like a ghost, a shadow of the vibrant clown he once was. But he had a job to do. He needed to be happy, even if just for a few hours.

Harold moved to the corner of the room where his clown gear lay in a battered old trunk. He opened it and took a deep breath, the familiar, slightly musty smell bringing back a flood of memories. The costume was old, patched together with mismatched fabric, and its colors faded from years of use. It had seen better days, much like its owner.

He pulled on the oversized pants, fastening them with frayed suspenders, and slipped into the baggy, striped shirt. The fabric felt rough against his skin, a stark contrast to the smooth, tailored suits he had once worn in the Ringley Brothers Circus. He laced up his clown shoes, their worn leather creaking with each movement, and finally, he donned the bright red wig and the battered top hat that completed his ensemble.

Standing before the mirror, Harold began to apply his makeup. He painted a broad, exaggerated smile over his weary expression, the red and white grease paint blending to create the face of Happy the Clown. The transformation was almost complete, but as he looked at himself, he couldn’t help but notice the sadness that lingered in his eyes.

With a sigh, he gathered his props – the juggling clubs, the balloons, and the old, reliable squirting flower – and packed them into his worn leather bag. He took one last look around his room, the shadows seeming to whisper of the night’s dark thoughts. Then, with a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and walked out the door.

The sun was bright, the air crisp and clean. The world outside felt like a different place, full of life and possibilities. As Harold made his way to his car, he felt a flicker of something he hadn’t felt in a long time – hope. It was fragile, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

He drove to Oakwood, the miles passing in a blur of suburban streets and neatly manicured lawns. As he pulled up to the familiar house, he saw the colorful decorations and heard the excited chatter of children. For a moment, he hesitated, the fact that he knew these people, one of them very well threatening to overwhelm him.

But then he remembered the dream, the voice that had called him to wake up. He was Happy the Clown, and for these children, he needed to be their source of joy, even if he couldn’t find it for himself. Harold took a deep breath, adjusted his hat, and stepped out of the car.

[naomimoorewrites]

Rumination

Torturing yourself is fruitless. When you fall, humble yourself. Do not torment yourself with thoughts of forgiveness and lack thereof. With the same trust and daring on your thousandth time as on your first, offer it up.

It’s above me now. I am what I am. So what can be expected of me. I'm a bastard. You're a bastard. We're all bastards here.

In the end, every tear will be wiped away. For you are good and pure, of that I am sure.

Oh Lord, I have done this because I am what I am. And so what can be expected of me. Such transgressions or even worse. I would like to find out where I die, and vow to never go there. I know my fate and I would like to never meet it. Those who are humble will be exalted. Who do you compare yourself to? I was so profoundly lazy. I am not a good person. I am a murderer. It's obvious in his stature. He regrets nothing. For he is dead. The dead do not regret and how in this moment I wish that was me. 

I will answer with truth even if I'd rather cut my tongue out. My soft heart hates to cause her pain. But I will. I have been secretive for a long time. I was not able To share my truth with another. Sharing my thoughts could have resulted in a merciless death. But I am trying.

Stand vigil. Push through the night, pray continuously. Midnight is the height of the spiritual battle. Then, wait soberly, and you will see demons running to the retreating darkness. Behold the bright, exposing light of day.

I had a debt To pay and so I found you. Exposed. Your illness. Your pain. Your loss. All in service of God’s entertainment.

We all have one life, but in you I wished to live again. To be with you, from the beginning. For I lived a thousand lifetimes in your eyes. Now your eyes have shut and now a thousand lifetimes you deny. Now you've closed my gates to eternity. Maybe I'll persuade you to open those gates for me once again, in the next life.

How does it feel to die? To be reborn? Does the novelty wear off after like the second time. It’s easy to be courageous when there’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s impossible, actually.

Everyone dies twice, the day they stop breathing and the day their name is last uttered. And as you read these words right now, you forget. You are dying.

There is a soft knock at the door. It’s far too early for breakfast, so this must be about something else. Fear skitters through me. 

Hey, let’s be honest and brave now. Okay? And I do not reply, I cannot reply. And she sighs. A resigned acceptance. We take a walk. Look at the geese.

Some people are not afraid of dying. That’s crazy because it scares the shit out of me. 

And so we sit in silence.

You know, I never expected to find anything. 

She squints at the horizon and the sun falling into obscurity.

I look to her and think it might be nice for a fresh start. You are the answer to my prayers. I’m doing fine trying to topple my tower of self-doubt and pity. What a skyscraper I have created.

Bow before dishonour herself. And that is precisely what I do. I kneel at her feet. Rub my face against her pillow-soft thighs. There I beg for forgiveness. For solace. For peace.

Why did you do it? She asks.

Because he asked for help. To be in this existence, this experience, you must feel both the glory and the Cross. They joy and the pain. He had chosen to set his down. This is a fallen world. Already forsaken. Your God has left you. An absent father.

Pain is simply participating in the fight for moral redemption. Pain unites us. How to open the heavens to the earth? Suffer, and offer it up. God, use this. Father, unite my sufferings to your suffering. Pain makes a story compelling. There is no life without suffering.

��Please,” Her eyes scrunch shut as she whispers, “say it isn’t so.”

She doesn’t come to see me the next morning and I try to swallow my disappointment.  

If she can’t understand me, I understand that.

[bigfeelinghuman]

el amore

I find love so hard to define

I expressed it in a million different ways All with the same goal 

To find your soul intertwined with mine

Could you feel it?

in the gentle caress of my hand trailing across your face taking in every detail  of your finely tuned design stopping only to sear its image in my mind hoping I'd never need a picture, if I could see you behind closed lids

Could you hear it?

in my desperate rebukes  of your unhealthy habits not in judgement but of care and worry and in hopes of extending our fleeting time in this finite world

Could you decipher it?

In my restless desire to know you

Your heart Your soul Your mind

every fragment of who you are

the broken  the mended  the yet to be pieced together

Whatever you were 

I wanted, I craved, I yearned to nurture, to love, to accept

but what was our love, if not a violent act, a restless chase that leaves me weak as I pour out my love only to find you’re not  to be its destination 

for how could we intertwine if we were never on the same plane of existence  to begin with

[silentscarsjournal]

Are you brave enough to write on this page?

[the-feral-quill]

In Every Unspoken Word

Instant. Electric. Connection.

A vibration, words I never knew I needed, a feeling completed.

Scary beyond all reason, because it was only chance that led me to you— or was it fate, knowing that one needed two?

The effortless way you stay on my page, finger under each new word, listening to every unspoken word I say, bringing me comfort and peace in ways unknown to me.

Keeping your heart within arm’s reach, whispering in a way I almost hear your doubts, like you’re trying to sort your feelings out.

But they spill, overflowing, with every time you speak to me, with all the effort you breathe into me, with all the silent laughs and hard smiles, with how, with you, everything slows down for a while.

All the while, my heart races every time you say my name; a breath hitches in my chest when I say yours. I’m overwhelmed and anxious, but you make me a choice, not an option.

You speak of me like an old book you’ve read over and over, like you’re waiting with bated breath for the next chapter— because you want to be it.

You want to hold me gently in your hand, knowing, understanding that the pen in my hand is shaking, that the previous pages had my heart breaking, that the old pages are torn and bruised.

Yet, you treat each one as if they’re shiny and new. You don’t put me on the shelf; you don’t hide me in a box or closet. You display me coyly, so others can see my beauty but never hold me the way you do.

For there are secret pages within that, if others could, they would covet. You know they’d love it.

So you hold me close to your chest. I feel the warmth, and I forget how afraid I was to say the words I couldn’t bring myself to say, how I held back too long—they’re overflowing in every way, and how I keep praying to God you’ll stay.

How I pray every day you’ll keep choosing me, and I’ll keep my heart open to you, because things are just beginning.

But damn, do I want you— want you in whatever form you may come: slowly, thoughtfully, patiently, growing, feeling, everything, all at once.

But even these words will never be enough to express everything you make me feel.

Let’s be real.

[sunnyanddumb98]

Ambition

Running shoes, thin layers of clothes, mittens, headscarf, socks, seagulls, the moon setting on the shore.

Virtual, abstract, clear, firm warm wood floors, sun-dried linen, a full fridge, chamomile and oatmeal.

They close my tabs, get me through the motions: folding clothes, client service smile, sunrise journal, and class.

Open books, then close them up, sitting in front of a blank page. I stare; I cannot lie or get around. Another yearning aches, another yearning makes, leaking from my eyes, my mouth, my ears, from my bleeding fingertips.

Every word I hear, a song, a whisper, a scream of what it could be. What once hurt now types for me.

What once paradox, orthopraxy toast, ink wasted none, make every word count. Ink running out, clock ticking nonstop.

Just one more word, and someone finally hears, finally sees, what I so dearly hold, what I have long known.

[thisunfoldinglife]

How I Came To Live in the Woods

Two years ago, my husband and I bought our dream house. This lovely seventies fixer-upper has robbed us of every last pound, consumed months of our time, and has signed us up for another decade of sweaty evenings and weekends spent painting, repairing, and renovating. We sometimes stop, paintbrush in hand, and ask each other, “any regrets?” Well…no—but we both pine for simpler times.  

I look around and marvel at this big house and everything we’ve accumulated since our move to England. We arrived eight years ago with only a few suitcases and a handful of hopes. Unlike normal people, we didn’t ship our furniture and household goods from America. Instead, we had a massive yard sale and sold the rest on Craig’s List. I said goodbye to my sewing machine, guitar, bike, and camping equipment. We had to rebuy everything from brooms to blankets, dishes to clocks, silverware to shoes. It’s amazing how long it takes to rebuild your collection of stuff, especially when money is scarce.

Yet all this didn’t faze me. I was already well versed in the art of minimalism. When I was twenty-eight, all my worldly possessions resided inside the boot of my car. They would remain there for two years, while I tried out life as a vagabond.  When you’re young, the promise of adventure can outweigh all fear. When it’s just you—no partner, no kids—just you and the great big sky, there are more chances you can take.

It all started after reading Brazilian writer Paulo Coelho’s book, “The Pilgrimage”, which sparked my desire to embark on a solo journey to Northern Spain to walk a 500-mile pilgrimage route that’s existed since the Middle Ages. Looking back, my decision to walk this ancient path set into motion a new trajectory for my life that wouldn’t be altered for several years. Walking the path for forty days, with nothing in my backpack but my journal, clothes, food, and water, certainly perfected my predilection for a minimal existence, but it was truly the time before and after the pilgrimage, that tested my resolve to embrace the unconventional life.  

I was desperate to get to Spain. I had travelled the length and breadth of The States, but outside of a quick hop to London, I hadn’t properly travelled overseas. I didn’t have any form of savings to purchase a plane ticket or even feed myself for the two months I’d be gone, yet still, I couldn’t ignore the pull to go. I had a sharp distaste for fear and regret, and a stronger desire to be the bold protagonist in my own life story, so I needed to find a way.

I was living at the time in Flagstaff, Arizona. This high-desert mountain town boasts turquoise blue skies and perpetual sunshine to beckon everyone outdoors. At 7,000 feet above sea level, it’s cooler than its neighbouring desert towns, and yields deep winter snows that will never meet the cacti of the south. Flagstaff’s natural beauty draws an alternative collection of hikers, skiers, hippies, and transients. The cost of living is high, but the desire to be there great, and so many people find whatever means they can to stay. I had heard about a few odd souls who camped in the surrounding national forest for weeks at a time. I would be one of them. It was the most feasible means of funding my travels. I was renting an apartment then, with a kindred friend, Marike. Partial to avoiding conformity, she too, knew the value in travel and adventure, and so she wasn’t hard to convince. Together, we gave up our apartment to head for the woods. I quickly sold my furniture, giving away everything that wouldn’t fit inside my small Toyota. All I had left were my books, photos, clothing and gear.

Marike and I set up our first camp in a clearing of aspens and pines a mile down a long dirt lane. It was close enough to make the morning trek to work, yet far enough from the main road to ease our minds about cops or potential serial killers. My tent was narrow and thin, but sufficient. We’d forage for firewood, heat cans of soup on the stove at night and pour water for each other to wash up in the morning. Every other day, we’d pay to shower at the local hostel. Being April, the snow still fell, and so the coldest nights would find us curled up in the car beneath heaps of blankets, where sleep was fickle and fragmented. It was challenging, uncomfortable, and at times scary, but also exhilarating. The difficulties were dotted with starry skies, deep conversations, and the perpetual fresh mountain air that magically invigorated us despite it all. I felt raw and alive, my eyes open and senses heightened. My inner strength was blossoming, and my fears grew smaller, giving way to a confidence that began to permeate all aspects of my life.

Soon after, I left for Spain. Walking the pilgrimage was an epic alter reality that inspired and stimulated me daily. The path had brought many wonders and gifts—among them, a thirst for freedom, both internal and external. I felt tethered to nothing and life’s possibilities seemed boundless. The journey had liberated me from nearly all my money and material possessions, so when I returned to Flagstaff, I wasn’t ready to buy furniture, pay rent, and adopt a normal life. So, I returned to the woods. Marike had left for other adventures, and I was on my own, uncertain of how long I’d be there.

I was a vulnerable single woman alone in the forest, but through either ignorance or grace, I felt protected. I enjoyed the town and the trails by day and spent time with friends in the evening. I’d often find my way to the local bookstore before bed. Their late hours gave me a pseudo living room to read and write before driving back to the forest. On my way to the woods, I’d roll down the window to inhale the sweet smell of wood smoke escaping from well-lit houses, where people sprawled happily on couches, glasses of wine in hand. The line between liberating and lonely began to blur as winter closed in, but still, I was in a pleasant state of surrender. I believed life would shepherd me to extraordinary things, and magically it did.

At a random party, in a place I had never been, I met a married couple, Vickie and Bruce, who were soon to sail around the coast of Mexico for three months. I foolishly disregarded them as a wealthy privileged pair whom I’d have nothing in common with. Yet as our conversation grew, I quickly realised that they were making sacrifices to pursue their dreams, the same as I. And, when they asked me to look after their pets and home while they were away, I was humbled with euphoric gratitude. It was a blessed encounter that, not only granted me a home during the cold winter months but brought me a lasting friendship. For this couple, who were once two strangers, became dear friends. And their home became a haven of warmth and stability, to write, relax, and even grieve when my father unexpectedly died months after. And, two years later, when I met my husband, Vickie presided over our wedding.

Vickie and Bruce went on several long jaunts to Mexico, in which I was always happy to look after their home and pets. And in between, I found several other house-sitting jobs. I stayed in homes with hot tubs and hammocks, along rivers and among mountains. The most remote dwellings were quiet and wild, and I’d spy elk, coyote, and bear. Some were affluent, and afforded me weeks of luxury, soaking in big baths, lounging on plush furniture and dining in stylish kitchens. Others were more rustic. One January, I looked after a cat in a converted camper van on the edge of town. Without any electricity or water, the camper had only a small built-in wood burner to shield me from the worst of the winter cold. In three feet of snow, I’d chop logs into kindling and fall asleep to a roaring fire that demanded to be rebuilt several hours later, yanking me from sleep to action.

When one job finished, another would harmoniously begin. I only occasionally camped in the woods in the interims. Everything seemed to fall into place to facilitate this unconventional existence. It gave me courage, trust, confidence, and the precious gift of time. In escaping from the rat race, I bought myself time—to simply be—a luxury I have so little of now. It’s hard to believe I lived like that for two years. But in my wandering spell, I’d somehow cultivated true peace within myself. And even now, in life’s most constricting moments, my soul still wanders free because of it.  

My vagabond days eventually proved their limitations, and I began to crave a place of my own. With great resistance, I exchanged my car—which brought me such freedom—for an apartment, where I acquired a rescue cat, a collection of mismatched furniture, and soon after, my husband.

I look around now at all this stuff—sofas and beds, tables and toys. I never thought I’d accumulate so much. Yet instead of weighing me down, it pleasantly anchors me. I think children need rooms and toys to call their own. As do I. And from the comfort of my couch, I now enjoy the smell of wine and wood-smoke from my own chimney. Someday I might don my backpack again and set off on another pilgrimage. Maybe I’ll even find a quiet spot in the forest to dwell for a while. But first, this house needs work and love, and as it’s filled to the brim, there is no more room for regret.