Showing posts with label Pretty. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pretty. Show all posts

Wednesday, March 28, 2018

A This Is Me

March 28, 2018 1



‘When the sharpest words want to cut me down,
I’m going to send a flood, going to drown them out.
I am brave,
I am bruised,
I am who I’m meant to be.
This is me.’
-Keala Settle (This is Me)

                        Have you ever looked in the mirror with an air of diffidence, resisting the urge to circle every blemish or scar that lines your form in a circle of red ink?  The words that have been whispered behind your so called deaf ears ringing in the rather silent recesses of your mind, leaving behind a persistent murmur that echoes like a never ending loop. 
A reminder of your imperfections.
Those words uttered from narrowed lips leave scars that can’t be seen on the surface of your skin, but are sunk down in the very marrow of your bones. 

“Courage is being yourself every day in a world that tells you to be someone else,” he tells his class as they stare on attentively, catching onto his every word.
“Take me for example,” he continues,” I came out of the closet on the day I turned 21.”

Cover it up with a shade of beige makeup, they say.
            Cover it up with that velvet rimmed hat.
            Cover it up with an act that’s not true to who you actually are.
            But why cover it up, at all?
            Why cover up all those imperfections that make you, well, PERFECT.
            That make you identifiable.
            Your blemishes, mentality and personality are what make you a unique individual.
            Instead of covering it up, walk the streets with a confident air, with a smile lighting your face at who you are and not at who others want you to be.

‘One day, it won’t be called ‘coming out of the closet’ ‘, he thinks to himself as he fiddles with a piece of paper seated upon his ebony desktop.
‘One day it will just be called ‘falling in love’.’
“Why should gender come into the picture while holding the hand of the one you love while walking down the street?
Why should gender come into the picture while showing your affection towards another human being?
Why should gender come into the picture while having a relationship with someone who shares the same respect and admiration  for you as you have for them?”
His voice bounces off the classroom walls as he takes a breath staring at the eyes of his students, feeling as though he’s just stripped his heart bare and is lying there vulnerable with his feet planted on a tile floor which will open up underneath him at any given point of time.
‘There isn’t judgment there’, he realizes while gazing into all of those interested eyes,’ there is only acceptance.’
With a shallow breath he continues.
“If talent doesn’t have gender, then why should love?”

Those words that leave you standing in front of a broken pane of glass with fists that bleed crimson , wondering if it’s alright to be different, to think differently, act differently, speak differently, are the bullets that sink the deepest into flawless skin. 
            But, your skin isn’t flawless.
            It holds the effect of overwhelming emotions, riddling that unblemished canvas with the paint of an artist.
            The paint of an individual who creates their own beauty, finds their own destiny and shapes their own moments of ecstasy.

“The beauty of standing up for your rights is that seeing you stand, other people will start standing as well,” he speaks loud and clear with a bright glint in his eyes.
"At the end of the day shouldn't we all be treated as people with equal aspirations, dreams and rights?"

            I am strong even with my weaknesses.
Beautiful even with my blemishes.
Secure even with my insecurities.
Broken and bruised, yet, strong and passionate, all at the same time.
This is me.





           
           
           
                       
           


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Wednesday, January 24, 2018

A Dance On Broken Glass

January 24, 2018 0

‘I bet on me and my own heartbeat,
When all the odds are piling,
Like bricks around my feet.’
-Rachel Platten (Broken Glass)

            You’re a survivor.
            The world that throws glass, debris, sticks and stones at your delicate form, now lies at your feet, being danced upon as you groove to your own beat and hum   to your own tune.
            
                                                                                                                          The world failed to drag you down with all of its negative glory.
            The world failed to anchor you down on its sinking ship, rolling over raging waters.
            Today, you showed the world ‘you can’ when it told you ‘you cannot.’
            Today, you showed the world, not only are you a survivor, but also a fighter.

            Drowning. 
            That is how he describes the feeling.
            Drowning in dark murky water, that reflect his feelings precisely.
            The water is still, almost like a pane of glass.
            When he moves, it causes the glass to shift. 
            Disrupting the flow of everything. 
            
            Words.
            Sometimes, they can be charming, gentle, kind and considerate.
            Most of the time though, they cut through the warm atmosphere like a cold, sharp knife.
            Words help us communicate with one another, but they can also be the reason that all forms of communication come to a sudden halt.
            A contradiction to themselves.
            A paradox.
            An oxymoron, if you will.
            Next time, that knife is thrown your way, remember that instead of standing there and taking the harsh blow, you can always just catch the blade and spin it so it points the other way.
           
             Everybody has a chapter of their story that they don’t read out loud.
            His is the waves that lap against his skin as he lies stranded on the shore.
            He sputters, gasping for a breath, coughing up water.
            There’s an arm lying on his shoulder that squeezes lightly forcing him to look up. 
            His gaze meets a look of concerned blue eyes, reminding him of the ocean that lies not less than a few centimeters away.

           People cry not because they are weak.
But because they have the strength to care.
We don’t always know one another’s stories- what one has endured, can endure, will endure.
But sometimes, if along anyone’s path they’ve felt as though they are not surviving, not living at all.
Just remember, you are not alone.
Those tears that you keep trapped inside hidden under a plastered smile, living every day just to get by, is you fighting every day to survive another one.
Keep fighting.
The strongest action for any person is to love themself, be themself and shine amongst those who never believed they could.
Even if you’ve tried one of those things, you are already a survivor among survivors.

Her eyes swirl with mirth as she gently rubs his back.
            She is water.
            Powerful enough to drown you.
            Gentle enough to cleanse you.
            And deep enough to save you.
            He is the drowning man.
            The anchor that she doesn’t know she needs.

            ‘I’m going to dance on broken glass just because I can.’
            Those shards are nothing compared to the rough soles of your feet nurtured by invisible scars and bruises from other people’s unkindness.
            Almost exactly like a flock of ravens.
            Just waiting to pounce on your insecurities.

The ocean sits there like a sheet of glass, just waiting to be broken.
So that is what they do.
A slight shift of a foot causes a ripple in the perfect pool of clear.
Just one simple movement.
And yet, the glass has already broken.
Dance on broken glass.
Build castles out of shattered dreams.
Wear tears like a cascade of precious pearls.
Proud.
Relentless.
Unshakable.
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A Raging Fire

January 24, 2018 0

‘ If you listen close you’ll hear the sound
Of all the ghosts that bring us down.
Hold on to what makes you feel.
Don’t let go,
It’s what makes you real.’
-Phillip Phillips (Raging Fire)



          That raging fire that lights up your soul like a canister of fireworks-
Feel it. 
Embrace it.
That flame that dances in your eyes is one of the most beautiful sights in this world.
Why?
Simply, because the flame in your eyes may very well be the hope reflected in someone else’s.

He’s looking down from the top of the skyscraper, his fingers folded atop the railing as he leans his weight against the bar.  
His eyes are lit up in amusement as he watches people passing by, completely unaware to the world that continues to go on around them.
He smiles, the crimson hue of the setting sun casting a fiery orange on the lip of his iris.

‘A fire always burns brighter in the dark.’
But what if life is a large crackling flame spitting out scorching rays of scarlet that burn your skin until the heat is too much to take.
The wind that washes over your skin is now a relief rather than the reason that the flame has turned into oblivion, isn’t it?
But maybe that’s what makes life so special.
You survive because the fire on the inside burns so much brighter than the fire that surrounds you.
That spark that envelops your being in a frenzy of orange fury is nothing if not embedded on the inside of your soul.
The raging fire comes from you.
Not your surroundings.

‘There’s something intriguing about watching life go by as no one bothers paying it any heed,’ he thinks to himself, pulling out a couple of little paper parachutes attached to small notes with a few words scrawled across them.
He takes a step closer to the edge and takes a deep breath, allowing the gusts of wind surrounding his very being to touch the fire that surrounds his soul.
There’s a slight hesitation as he feels the flame teeter in existence.  But then, with a last confident flurry, the paper parachutes are thrown over the edge and falling into the streets below.

 That skyscraper that towers over you is not as ominous as it seems from the ground.
 Why not stand at the top and look down? 
 I’ve heard the view is better from above.

Eyes scan the skyline, watching in awe as beautiful white fills the sky, drifting down towards the ground.  
Little arms reach up to grasp at the wondrous art that floats elegantly across the heavens, the elderly rubbing their eyes, mouths agape in amazement. 
People, once busy looking down, now look up.  
Small smiles that once held no flame are now letting out sparks.
There was a fire there, just waiting to be kindled.
Now, it burns bright. 

Remember that song that keeps you humming all day long because it just won’t get out of your head?
Why not sing it out loud and let the world hear the song that makes your heart flutter with joy?
Why not dance to your own music?
Paint the world through your own eyes?
You make your own boundaries, don’t you?
Why diminish your flame, when you can use it to illuminate the world around you?

She stands there waiting at the bus stop, her fingers folded atop the railing as she leans her weight against the bar.
Her hands grip a note connected to a paper parachute dangling from her fingers.
It reads:
‘I can see your flame from here,
It’s bright, beautiful and downright blinding.
It would even put the Devil to shame.
And yet, you still walk around as though a pile of water,
Always going with the flow-placid and neutral.
But what about that fire that I see inside, attempting with all its might to break through the surface?
Don’t fear the flame.
Embrace the flame.
That dragon breathing in your chest is meant to be heard.
Those people who think that you are weak,
Are wrong.
That red and gold in your iris,
Should lick up the rest of their doubts.
Let your fire burn bright in this dark, dark world,
Filled with beings who believe that putting that spark out is the new norm.
You are not the harbor of the flame.
You ARE THE FLAME.
It’s bright, beautiful and downright blinding.
I can see your fire from here.’
Her eyes light up, a spark flashing in their dark confines.  
She smiles, closing her eyes.
‘The flame always burns brighter in the dark,’ she thinks, staring into the black that now surrounds her.

This day will be what you make it.  
So rise like the sun,
And burn.
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Sunday, July 23, 2017

A Story

July 23, 2017 9
         

          



          
A story.  We all have one.


           Some of ours may be worse than others.  Others, well, let’s just say that anything that has even the happiest of endings probably started out rough.

             Not everyone’s story is meant to be flawless. Or perhaps, even meant to be exemplary.  A story in dull black in white is nothing if not clipped with a few shades of gray.
 
            

             What everyone’s story is meant to be, is different.

            A story is one’s character, one’s identity, one’s persona. 

It’s what makes you, you and not just a spitting reflection of the person staring back at you in the shattered mirror called life.  Each shard is a pinprick in the vast ocean of fragile glass that you carefully tread upon.  Sometimes, you get cut, a small spurt of blooming crimson rapidly covering rather flawless skin.  Other times it’s just a spark of pain, silently receding just as quickly as it had come.

            ‘If the journey was easy, it wouldn’t have been worth it.’
            At times, the thought is just a constant reminder of how life can be relentless, with a little less sugar and a lot more salt.  But the thought is also one of hope, perhaps even smaller than that which resides in Pandora’s box, but nevertheless, still existent.

           
            ‘Who am I?’ You ask.

            I’m afraid there isn’t exactly a proper answer to that question.

            I could be the girl sitting in the corner of the library with her nose buried deep into a book or the boy whose gaze keeps darting from one end of the window to the other as though suffering from a mild daydream.  Perhaps I’m one of the popular one’s, always among a group of friends while silently indulging in the secrets that lay whimpering right underneath the surface.
            In all honesty, whoever I am doesn’t really matter.

            This story isn’t about me.

            It is about you. 

About us. 

All of us.
           

And maybe, just maybe, at the end of the day, that’s what makes this story one that’s worth telling.
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