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.