A Dedication

There are so many things that I cannot explain, but I can provide you with endless comments, anecdotes and insights.

I don’t know why it targeted me or why I allowed it to. In fact, I don’t even know how it all started. One day I decided to sign my life over to Literature.

Though I did it indirectly and unknowingly, I still did it. I have never looked back. Literature has never treated me badly, so I will not allow a bad word. I don’t want to over-complicate things here, I simply want to state.

This is a dedication, in it’s truest form... to Literature.

I’m partial to negativity aimed at my owner. Everyone can identify themselves with a piece of Literature, there is something out there which stands for every individual. You don’t have to want it to stand for you, it just does and with acceptance comes understanding, in that order. Literature is one of few constants in this world, and everyone likes something to rely on. Literature is that glance that speaks to you in a firm way. You don’t have to know what it is to know what it means. With one thing comes another and nothing is alike.

Literature has seen everyone through an experience. To assume your exemption would be to ignore your own being. It doesn’t have to make sense, it creates the rules and you’re simply a follower. A cherished one, I assure you.

This is a dedication.

When I cannot give anymore, and when I feel like my mind’s capacity to mind is overflowed with nothingness, I turn to you. You turn to me! We turn, and never turn away. This insistent binding of you and I on every separate occasion, is simply that... separate. The layers of relationship I form with Literature each time I trace it with my ears, eyes and mind are significant to my character.

I can sit and admire for hours. Literature is my idol. We are Literature’s children, so this is a dedication.

Don’t turn away and shrug as though you don’t recognise; Literature is the lady who gave you your mind.

To know me...

To know me, is to understand my love. To understand my love is to appreciate that fine divide between complexity and simplicity.

Some words, phrases, sentences, need not explaining further.

Mr. Optimism carries my heart in the pocket of his corduroy trousers. As he walks, runs, hops and sits my heart bounces around inside there, complacent in the frivolous bustle. I like it. Whilst Mr. Optimism teaches my heart to extend itself to the more pleasing outcomes, he also teaches it realism. Don’t slow down, don’t dwell too much. Enquire and hope, move forward.

Mrs. Cautious holds my mind’s hands as we walk together in satisfying embrace. (I say satisfying because; sometimes I wish I could rid of her and form a secret love affair with Mr. Careless). Oh what a life. They say it is mind over matter, but it is matter over mind when Mrs. Cautious leads the way. ‘Don’t do that’ she says, ‘think of the consequences’, ‘what about everyone else?’ Suddenly overwhelmed with her tedious teachings and extravagant morals, I give in and my soul comes second... sometimes.

Ms. Meaning has enraptured my soul and I don’t want her to ever free it. Lately, more than ever, I have been enticed by Ms. Meaning, stealing me away from Mrs. Cautious. I don’t mind though, I’ll happily go wherever Ms. M wants me to because I know I’m sure to have fun. She gives me this free feeling which is neatly locked with a shadow of purpose. Purpose which never hides and is shamefully brazen, but still elegant and reposeful. The intricate relationship Ms. M and I share is one which I cannot explain. She encourages expression and provides me with clues, for which I have to give my own explanations.

I can say that three work in perfect, ignorant harmony... but I would be telling a big Mr. Lie. They are in constant competition, battling to overtake. I love all. My three loves give me diversity in their glory and unknown. An imperfect alignment that works so conventionally. Contrasts within similarities.

It works for me, because I love this way. 

the painfully obvious

My skin. Smooth, new flesh – a golden, pale brown complexion. My face. Round, full of life.

My mind. My most beautiful asset and the one I care for the most. This one teaches me how teach. Ironic. Uses my eyes and ears as it’s tools of perception and uses itself to interpret, understand. It guides me through my days, it grows, it changes, it is in constant transition. Never have I seen it this way. The mind is so magnificent my words do it no justice.

I’m looking at everything. I am noticing delicate and intricate details that didn’t show themselves to me before. I see myself as singular, one. A product of my time simply adapting to change everyday – whether I am succeeding or not I cannot tell – time will show and prove my strength...or lack of.

The will. The will to continue this expedition. This journey with it’s unknown destination which picks at my core and gives me indifference. Leads me down routes I would never have considered had I known the consequences. Foolish. Learning.

This feeling of...this unknown feeling which gives my mind, my hands and my heart the urge to give myself through my words. My mere and simple words so obviously inferior to so many others...I give them nonetheless. Their significance alters as they leave me...’for better or worse’. More for my own benefit than anyone else’s. I enjoy them. Wanting to give more but my fear of giving too much and losing myself is far more overpowering than my ever so simple want.

I find solace in words, in feelings, emotions, thought, music. A natural lover. You can interpret in your own way, I really don’t mind. Take what little I give to you and use it as your own – I share for you to care. I’m not sure how powerful or influential my words are, if at all...but please don’t let them go to waste.

My style. I choose to give.

My mind, so elegant. Everything so natural, not forced. So new. Appreciating my mind, what do I give back? What do you give back? I give my words back, some stimulation. Literature, love, music.

Guitar strings softly pulling, softly melodic. Tranquil. Grateful. The cotton of my shirt, soft and fitting...but not closing me in. Freedom to give.

Freedom. I feel free in me. In my words and my thoughts because I’m not obliged to give, hence why I do.

‘The hardest thing is to have a good man after you’ve had a bad one.’

Try...the hardest thing is to give after everything you had has been taken.

Everything you worked for, you lived for, you stood for. Stripped. Naked, ears pulsing, overwhelmed. Where has it all gone?

You build, you create. Give yourself something so that eventually, you can give willingly again. But heal first, before you give everything away and someone takes off with it all.                 Vulnerable.

Learning, loving, knowing how to give and share. Keeping your most sacred thoughts and feelings to yourself – between your pen and paper – give the rest.

It’s free. 

A state of...

Are all of the thoughts we project our own? A mass so heavily influenced by exterior factors. Our own thoughts and emotions become overwhelmed by the excess of information we receive.  The capacity to digest and understand what is going on around us; this absorption may often cloud what we are really thinking and feeling. Does this indicate that the recognition and acknowledgment of the presence of other’s thoughts mean that we adopt them as our own?

Can you clearly distinguish between which thoughts are yours, came from you and which thoughts have been planted in your mind? Surely a thought not shared, but forced on to you, is one which can easily influence you in a way which you may not even think is possible or even be able to comprehend. Every day we live our lives we are bullied and beaten by the words and thoughts of others, so much so, that we simply may not be mentally able to keep a clear mind, space for ourselves.

Space for ourselves, in our own minds. The thought of the absence of the presence of such a thing is just unthinkable.

I sit here and write my own thoughts consciously, certain that what I’m writing is my own when subconsciously; these could be the thoughts of another.

Thinking is a constant. You feel, you think. You think, you feel. 

My letter to life.

Dear Life,

Thinking about when our journey will finally end, when you will leave me for someone better, younger and more beautiful. I’ll be alone, lonely, singular. I do this all for you. Will I ever be ready to see you go? I often question myself and my ability to progress, whether I will fulfil everything that is necessary before I must say goodbye?

Biology robbed me blind. I want to remember the exact moment you found me, but we know the memory does not stretch that far. All I know is this; you were there before anyone and throughout my years you have not left my side...thankfully.


My love for you is unconditional but you have bought to me the most grief, pain and hurt. In fact, you have bought every possible negative emotion to me. Tortured my mind, body and soul with your poisonous intent. Damaged my heart and my character. You have pushed me back, prodded me hard in the left side of my chest with your long, strong index finger. I used to hate you, sometimes I think I still do, but then I treasure the fact that every day you become more and more exclusive to me. 


I’m not grateful that you abandoned some of my loved ones, that you stopped loving them because it suited you. Do not try to justify your actions – I don’t need that.

I should thank you for your lessons, your blessings. You are my favourite teacher – nobody can do it the way you do. It is your art and your craft. Your knowledge is immeasurable and you share that with me every day. You teach me things I can’t learn in books or through my peers. I adore your lack of structure. I adore your ability to roam freely and adopt yourself to others. Your honesty and brutality are what make you so magnificent. You give me love.

Sometimes I stare into the darkness, suffocated by silence...and wonder if that is what it would be like without you. No laughing, loving or sharing. Just darkness, immobility and the overwhelming absence of sound. Interjections. You have so much substance, to see into your core – I am truly not worthy. You humble me, I owe everything to you. What’s mine is yours. 


Every unique situation you assign to me, good and bad, I know I have no option but to see them through. I'm filled with emotion, anger, when I witness people so evidently ungrateful for your presence. Used to be. Can you blame me for wanting to hold on to you? I want to keep you prisoner, but you’re far too strong and independent for that. 


You give me the motivation to keep writing, giving myself. 


Science does you no justice – it excuses the emotional responses to your existence – I have so much to say. You took my heart on that cool evening and beat it, rhythmically. Things fall apart. Why will you leave me? I don’t care for the when, just the why. You gave me understanding...and I thank you. You know I am grateful. Do you appreciate me too? Everything you have given me - priceless. You can stay, I won’t leave you I promise. 


With my pen and my paper, I write you, breathe you. 


Tears fall at the thought of your presence and I am weak. You make me so weak. You make me so strong. You make me. You wake me.

Our relationship is too complex, too complicated for others to grasp. They wouldn’t understand our bond, too strong. Keep them safe. Everyone has a right to you, stop abusing it.

We love you

I love you

You’re mine

Stay a while

Love always, Lauren x

Untitled? (I don't know what to say)

Too complicated to love? Food for thought. Love to live, live to love. I don’t want to be a cliché. Picking up the pieces of your past to create a foundation for your present and a platform for your future. Apologies. Kisses in the summer and yearning in the winter. My mind is like, like, like, leaves on an autumn afternoon; a diminutive tornado before your eyes. A whirl of red, yellow, brown, a little green. Me. Thanks. Can we have silence? The silence of life. Memories; beautiful and grotesque - dancing underneath my scalp on cold Sunday mornings. Representative of whom, them or me? I carry my body, who carries my soul? Hope. Telling a story with your eyes, not your mouth. Creativity and beauty too overwhelming for attention - sad. The brazenness of your presence is so attractive. Funny, that.  Looking around there are so many clones and it’s upsetting – upsetting to see people who are all replicas of each other. ‘Dare to be different’. Hypocrisy is so hard to avoid. A confused generation where morals are regularly beaten to a pulp – destroyed and lost in translation to a point where they simply cannot be recovered. THE world is a sad place in retrospect; YOUR world is what YOU make it (or is it?). The influence of others will always be a person’s downfall. Wisdom comes with experience, not age – you learn from your journeys, the people you meet, the things you see. To learn you must apply yourself, the ability to learn isn’t given. Words are heavenly. Literature personified would not be physically ‘conventionally’ beautiful – that is far too cliché. The beauty of literature personified would be somewhat anarchistic because words inflict emotion beyond lust and admiration. Excuse me and my opinions, or rather, don’t.  I don’t want to be excused or dismissed. I want to be heard. Let my voice be the ‘rebellion’ of the 60s. Listening/Expressing/Listening/Loving. Time is a curse of life. So many lessons to learn, is there enough time? I can’t answer so many questions but I love to ask. Unanswered questions allow my mind to wind down streets, roads, cities unheard of. H o w ...? 

Raheem

He made you as his finest piece of art,

Crafted you, perfected you and handed you to the world.

With the world, you shared your beauty,

With the world, you shared your heart.

A caring soul, your smile was unforgettable,

Your presence was a present, I’m grateful.

Watch over us all, as we live our lives,

We promise to never forget you.

For how could we? Our beautiful Raheem,

Our darling, our sweetheart, our angel.   

(A simple, short, sweet poem, in the loving memory of my darling friend Raheem. May he Rest In Paradise)

Appearances

Be free. Easier said than done. We live in a world where appearances are the most important thing. The outer shell is what counts, what people see with their own eyes and hear with their own ears. Not necessarily physical appearances but appearances. How we appear to others. So what of the people with depth? The introverts; too solitary for public expression and the extroverts; often misunderstood for too much expression. Where can we find the even balance? Where can the people with depth go, to express themselves freely? Ah.

Appearances. Some are so shallow; too captivated in the world of others and not enough in their own that they forget their own meaning, their own purpose. When people become too reliant on how they appear to others they lose their sense of self and act in ways which only appeal to the shallow world. Where are the people with depth who don’t look for acceptance but instead, look for ears, eyes, noses and mouths to connect with? Ears, eyes, noses and mouths that EMBRACE the depth of another being? 

Woman

With elegance, with grace, she gave the silk permission to roll off her shoulders. The glistening magnolia at her feet, humbled. The silk had worn her for too long. Now, looking in the mirror she was seeing strength in that woman’s deep, shallow eyes. The mirror put before her a naked body, one which had never been loved. Every part of it so perfectly imperfect. The exaggerated facial features; eyes, nose, lips – victims of the world. The eyes looked back at her and showed her love. The lips gave meaning. Glancing over at the silk, she was free. She no longer needed that silk to carry her for she could carry it. Owning it with a sense of pride, no longer a victim of the material that had stripped her of her identity. After years of living, she was now ALIVE. The beating in her chest told her to stand up, look in the mirror and claim that woman. The woman who had never been claimed. She wrapped her arms around the woman and kissed, the shoulders, the hands, caressed the thighs. Sigh. Relief. The woman had been claimed... finally.