Alcohol is a peculiar potion; a single glass of it containing hysteria. My sense of self becomes one that I can no longer control. It’s almost as if the prisoner within me, the prisoner that is me, is set free. My inhibitions become myths, a once upon a time fairytale. I listen to the music, the music in the speakers, the music in the air, and I am taken into the rhythm of all sound. My body begins to mimic the beat but then it becomes the beat, speaking only the language of dance and truth. I see those around me, not as reflections of my worth, but as reflections of life. I speak to them with an honest tongue, liberating their prisoners, placing crowns upon their heads. I do not know the science of this, I do not know how, but yesterday I wished for death and today I wish for a thousand years. All that I deemed impossible has proved me wrong, and now everything sits in the front of my mind demanding manifestation. I can do everything, I think. Actually, I can do everything, I know. However, what I don’t know is that when dawn comes, the shadows will too. I will be locked in darkness, once again dreaming of escape, and a man that is allegedly me, will pick up a gun and hold it to my head.
The strangest thing happened today I encountered myself. I have been walking the earth for twenty years but I have never been able to see whom is doing that walking. Today I saw. I attended a university class named ‘Creative Writing: Voices’ and was forced to look upon my soul in all of its glory, in all of its distain.
I consider the act of writing to be innate. It is more than part of my existence, it is the reason for my existence. Weaving words together is a thoughtless task, one that I would compare to breathing. You don’t calculate the way in which you breathe, you simply breathe and I don’t calculate the way in which I write, I simply write. That is how it has always been and the child within me thought that is how it would always be. That child was wrong. Continue Reading
“You look like a giraffe”, “gay bald ginger”, “Damn your foreheads gigantic.”
That is a mere goody-bag of what is said about me on the internet. The reality is, people don’t like me. I am in a homosexual relationship, I have an abnormally large forehead, my voice is high, I have freckles and I openly share my opinions. Those attributes come together to create difference and even though we are living in a progressive era, those who are different are still crucified… I am crucified.
This article does not contain a cure. I am unsure of how to open the minds of the ignorant and fill them with the knowledge that we are all collectively human. I wish I could do that but the history of this world has taught me that no matter how hard you try, some people will always be left unconvinced. On that basis, I only want to share with you what I am sure of; myself. Continue Reading
I did it. Somehow I did it. I logged into my laptop, pulled up Microsoft Word and let my fingers bleed onto the keyboard. When I began writing, I had a story in mind but after the first sentence, the nature of that story changed. I think that’s the reality of writing a book. With each sentence comes new possibilities. The writing process is therefore indistinguishable from the moving stairs in Hogwarts because new paths are constantly being made and destroyed. How thrilling… right?
Yes and no. Yes in that your story comes to life and is given the ability to rewrite itself in ways that you never imagined. No in that it sometimes feels like you don’t have control, which is a very strange feeling considering you are the one writing the story. Continue Reading
That day I arrived I could see it in your eyes. It was pure impurity. You hated me. I stepped into your world, ripped down all of the walls and took the attention you held. I didn’t mean to though. It was the first time that I had met him. Your Dad was now mine. The man that had guarded you for twelve years, the man that had invested his entire spirit into your upbringing, he was now mine. I call upon the moment you denied such a reality, the morning you forced me to the ground. At first it was your eyes which nested your anguish, but now… it was your fists. Day by day you diminished my body. Each punch gave birth to new emotions. I didn’t think it was possible for a boy of my age to hold the feelings I held. You changed all of that. One punch… I question my wrongdoings, two punches… tears saturate my pillow and three punches… I turn on myself. I often thought about fleeing but I knew that I couldn’t. Nobody else wanted me. Continue Reading
There are many spells that bow before me but none that can rid my heart of this wound. Duny was a peculiar child. He came to me at a time that I felt nothing and brought to me the capacity to feel everything. He was not like his mother and if I ever did believe in miracles, that was the reason why. That woman was a despicable product of humanity and her death was well deserved. Nevertheless, I should have realised that apples don’t fall far from the tree. I gave to Duny the language of magic and he left me without a goodbye. I should have known better though… Men have nothing to give, only women to take.
There was a time where my hands did good. I blessed the crops, cured illness, brought the sun and smiled. That time has passed though. I am now a withered woman that sits in my cave, stirs my cauldron and becomes the witch the villagers see me to be. The life I have led has made me resilient but I now know that resilience only exists because my heart is cold. The villagers throw things at me and I feel nothing. Yesterday a piece of timber came at my head and I turned to it, eyes wide open, and welcomed the hate. I am content with being seen as nothing because to myself, I am nothing. Continue Reading
It wasn’t unusual to wake up to nothing. You could look out the window and see only yourself. North Carolina was known for her fog and every now and then, she made it known. She pulled the clouds from the sky and made them her carpet. Young Findlay liked to play on that carpet. He was a foolish boy as many young ones are. A brunette mane fell upon his head and each curl danced its own dance. As he sat upon a rusting slide, he did not notice the other children but they noticed him. They always noticed him. The sun soon climbed upon its pedestal and Findlay descended from his. He then trailed, posture without fault, to the manor at which he lived. Continue Reading