I was 31 years old when I realised I was allowed to enjoy life

Blog

  • The Fight!

    My shiny new life is crackling and seeping blood around the edges but is unmistakably, completely & unabashedly MINE, for what the fuck ever happens next I know I can get through it fine.

    Building my found family is underway, and the kindness I came across still reliably outweighs the crooked energies that pester me.

    I’ve been becoming more and more discerning with what I want to devote energy to, and whose presence I tolerate at all. This is not to say I plan on becoming abrasive or shut off, but mindful of what values drive me and nurture my growth.

    About a week ago, I did a small ritual to seal away my chaos seeking ways that love revenge and thrashing my soul in front of the thing I loathe + damaging only myself in the process, for the evil one who does evil things to begin with, will never reach the self aware accountability I beat myself over the head with every five seconds.

    Now that I’ve given blood to it, I am afraid what might happen if I break this seal. As good a solution as any: fear of letting the universe down & attracting the opposite of what I try to conjure…

    He tried to tell me that I don’t know myself, but I deny none of who I am, no matter how rough to touch the feature feels.

    It was projection, and it had nothing to do with me; I’ll always say openly: this is the rot inside me, as this is my guiding light and the soft feathers that carry me from one mess to the next.

    We hiss at shame, we let it skulk around our feet but not quite land a bite; it tries nonetheless and shrinks with every sweet word, touch and proof of reciprocity being abundant when the right source appears. When shame nibbles on the crops, reciprocity feeds and kisses them and lets them reach harvest and feed everyone around.

    With many more mistakes still on the way, I trust that the indomitable human spirit conquers trouble as long as it is fed light;

    I will caress, rock it in my arms, mouth feed it liquid light, and then we’ll curl up and sleep together.

  • imagine

    imagine spending all the bandwidth
    that you spent on
    making people think what you want them to think about you
    and thinking of how you come off to them
    and
    instead
    spending it on loving me

    imagine.

  • The Anger

    I’m not even sure if I’m angry or disappointed or led astray or all of it at once with a simultaneity of a thousand roaring stars.

    I keep rotating the same events over and over and finding them more of the thing they are, digs at what makes Me me, what makes me happy, and a passive tolerance if I did anything that appeared of value to the Golden Hand that got to take away from me as it pleased.

    The stupid thing is, I make the excuses, the excuses I’d never be able to use on myself, for the words most vile, and if I had ever uttered such words devoid of any compassion I fear I may possibly crumble like some dehydrated biome, made of soil grubby and crusty and aching to be stirred!

    The Longing had killed me so that it made a belly flip and decided to long for nothing, and that somehow brought forth the most plentiful amount of Love I ever experienced and it was safe and free of tethers and completely encapsulated each other’s shape; even with the scared fawn disposition and the wary stare of paranoia, this was all looking to be, by all accounts, something Real and maybe Rare and many degrees magical…

    Now to understand this immense contrast: had I come upon some star struck fate led by divine whatsoever?

    Or, is this only by virtue of comparison that I rose so high and the only way is down, like boisterous Icarus who yearned for the Love of the Sun.

    As with all things experienced by creatures such as I that are bound by time and space, more sun cycles are the only prophets at play.

    In spite of whatever the result may be, good or bad, the good spirit has to keep propagating, and it will never be broken.

  • The Avoidant

    I remember asking him why he doesn’t compliment me more, and he answered: ‘I don’t wanna blow smoke up your ass’.

    Now, the more I pull myself out of the thick mud gathered around my ankles that was pulling me in, I realise how truly telling that singular interaction was.

    Someone who will withhold loving word and find no trouble lavishing words on conflict and criticism, is someone who wields language just as well as he wields his brittle ego, in my humble opinion.

    I found scribbled on a piece of paper in my desk drawer,

    ‘foolish is the one who’d rather brandish the fine words for fight than for love’

    I wrote it out one time after another interaction that felt like a perpetual Me vs You (and there was no way You are losing).

    Quite sad it is when someone who will not take care of their Tender Thoughts and prune them gently into lovely shapes, starts throwing up bile and assorted garbage all across everyone’s carpet.

  • The Party

    On some things, my mother taught me well.

    She taught me to let the bee take its fill of an apple when you’re at the beach, and not to kill spiders because they hold purpose and are passengers that don’t deserve a sudden death.
    She didn’t teach me so much on how to stand up for myself, tell people I don’t find what they’re saying particularly palatable, and frankly not everyone has to agree, really, we can just get on with it, right. So I’m finding my feet on that front, still. 

    It yields both good and bad as in, good because I’m more honest, but bad because people don’t like it.

    I met a girl at this party I went to and she was sweet and nice and we danced all night together, and when the thing ended I really didn’t want to stop talking to her so I walked her home, then asked her if I could come in. In so many ways, she reminded me of myself, and I just wanted to take care of her and make sure she’s okay.

    I’m thinking of whether I’d have even felt a smidge comfortable when I (myself, back then) was the husk of me, with someone just being kind?

     But I was just really happy we got to spend some time together. Anything else is just, out of my hands, right?

  • 18.03.2025 ‘GUTTED ALIVE’

    First time doing ink & bleach on paper
    Life drawing class, 18.03.2025
    (with the model who is one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen)

  • The Love?

    Sometimes it feels like the Love I feel is too much, and it spills all the way across everything I know.

    Pure, untamed […]  has been a concept I nudge gently for fear of finding out some awful secret in my guts; digging and clawing through a variety of meanders showed a clear favor of opposition. There was no awful secret in my guts, there was only misdirection.

    When well known patterns meet a well known adversary, is it not magic?, I said, but only as a whisper because the undignified shape of a starved monster that’s been kicked around is just too sharp to bear.

    Broken is a broken word unto itself, propelling its sad little entity. Broken is as broken does, a label so seemingly self evident it can send you for a loop with how intoxicatingly self fulfilling it becomes.

    A sad imp, a joke, an entertaining excuse of a single minded deluge, tossed into a fire and convinced the fire will not scar.

    Fire starves oxygen. Fire consumes oxygen. Fire will burn until the oxygen turns pale, and then try for more when oxygen gasps for breath. The fire only burns, it will have no concept of oxygen starvation. It cannot do anything but burn.

  • The Ground

    I’m not mid air
    I’m touching the ground and moving across it
    left, right

    the truth hasn’t changed; but I wasn’t firmly in it
    the floating dream is just a floating dream

    it can’t reach me here,
    the place where reciprocity colours everything
    with hues that are not distorted

    I’m leaving your shrine up in the sky untethered
    so that it may disappear up and out of the stratosphere
    into a different orbit
    a different body

    I have
    an every morning and every night
    steady in its resolve

    now I speak to the whispers at the altar of me
    and when they go quiet only I will remain

  • The Realisation

    Many, many things made me smile today. I realized things that should have been so obvious and wondered if those things had been obvious to everyone else all along, with just me bumbling through in the dark with no earthly clue. The first feeling, unsurprisingly, was shame, the little shivery grasp holding your lungs tight, the default that I want to chase out of my home; it is the rabid animal that keeps nibbling on my crops.

    But trying to chase it away only powers it more with the resistance, so I may have to just let it float. I wonder if it will ever release its shining, wet clenched fists, sobbing down an empty box with all walls secured.

    The imp on my shoulder purrs gently and curls around all the hard edges, but freezes when asked a point blank question. It moulds itself to anything it can grab. The imp has carried me all the way here, but I think the imp might be due for some time away.

  • The thought

    I had this thought as I was walking home with my dog, sunny Saturday, headphones on, looking up at the clouds and the plane trails forming intersections and fanning outwards and upwards, and I felt it so intense that I had to go home and write about it, but now that I am here, I can’t seem to come back to it. The very act of trying to chase it chases it further away, frustratingly.

    And that is perhaps the crux of all, that want will lead to suffering. How often just the expectation set in our head can ruin what is otherwise something quite exquisite.

    Want is, of course, evolutionarily needed, in order to live. In order to exist, there must be the will to live. When your consciousness decides it would rather be dead, that is not how the cells that make up your body feel, they still go on, independent of you disgracing their life’s work with your willingness to part with their carrying you through the space we occupy.

    Without want, there would be nothing. Without nothing, there would not be a something in its stark contrast.

    The want to write is what kills the writing, I guess. That’s pretty unfortunate.