As you walk through the slightly lit hallway with your long night gown, scratch the walls with the keys
Scratch the floors
Feel the empty space over your head where your crown used to fit
As you enter the black hole, the feeling of nothing at the end of the walk way
Feel for the keys in your palm
Jump down into the darkness
Your crown is at the bottom of the abyss of broken beauty
Acquire your beauty and follow the scratches made from your keys.
Find your way back
You were never lost
In the past month I’ve been working hard on my first Skillshare class on becoming a creative and expressive writer!
The link below will take you to my class! You can also access this class and my future classes on the tab at the top of this blog.
Link: The Power of “l”: Learn to Write your Life, Instantly Find your Voice, and Creatively Express your Mind Daily
The thing about selfies is you can get the right angel. Put the right face. Send the story you want to tell.
The thing about selfies is you can hide your pain and insecurities. You can filter out what you don’t want to see. You can convince yourself that what you hate about yourself can be taken out.
The thing about selfies is you create what you want to see. You craft the image you want others to see. You unsee the flaws and the suffering.
The thing about selfies is the life is taken out of the snapshot. Just one moment. One instance of stillness.
Selfies are our way of capturing the best light of ourselves. The selves we get excited for we capture in an instant.
When we turn the wrong direction we hate it. We delete it. We don’t want to see it. We speak I’ll of our image.
And that is who we are.
We can’t look at ourselves for long moments in the mirror, in our lives in motion, instead we would rather take a selfie.
A selfie stops time to capture the one moment we see ourselves as beautiful because otherwise that’s not who we see at all.
I’ve been awake at night and asleep during the day.
My eyes dried with the stale realization that I don’t matter.
My voice is low with no echo and no significance. Fingers pointing at me because I’m the dramatic one.
My motivation has wasted from its high expectation.
I fall flat on my face with this realization.
I feel broken, shattering into a million pieces, so I try to grab onto the nearest person to me, but they look at me confused…uncaring…whats wrong with you?
I scream but no sounds comes out. I’m sitting alone. I’m holding my knees to my chest.
I feel pain.
I see the sun come up.
And still I can’t see who I’m supposed to become.
My life has no meaning.
I write it down so I can see it…
You are a life worth living.
You are a life worth living.
And while I wipe the pieces of my broken self and realize it’s just shedding ashes from the volcano that just erupted inside me, I get up.
Maybe, just maybe I will begin to see that my life is necessary.
Being a woman doesn’t make her weak or fragile and it doesn’t make her incapable of any task.
Being a woman makes her capable of whatever her body, mind, and soul allows.
Being a woman is strength. Womanhood is a warrior.
Her body is a castle, a temple, and a mansion. It has a strong foundation and can hold a strong firm family, business, or perspective in its walls.
She is also an individual with power racing through her veins.
She is a Woman who can make decisions and hold an intellectual conversation.
She is a Woman whose burdens may appear too heavy but whose shoulders grow stronger with a sound mind and kind heart.
She is a Woman who will keep going even when odds are in every direction.
She is a Woman whos beauty has transformed her into a masterpiece with her efforts alone.
She is a Woman without any validation. She is a Woman without any apologies.
She is a Woman and she will create peace in herself.
She has power to do what she likes when she likes and how she likes.
She does not owe anyone an explanation. Her words are powerful by themselves.
She is a Woman.
I am a Woman.
I remember the time I was struck with insecurities about who I am.
How I couldn’t explain what I want to do, or who I want to be.
I remember being stuck…
Putting myself down…
After I was done doing a bad job at explaining my interests, I then immediately thought, wow, that’s stupid. What you want is not a thing.
You won’t get anywhere with that. Who does that? You’ve done nothing for yourself to get the unimaginable dream you want to come true.
And as I began to crush my dreams next to tangible accomplishments of the ones around me, I began to shrink. Shrink so small that I couldn’t see myself anymore. I saw myself in the muck and oil of my current state. I began to grab my aching back and bruised arms, rub the pain from my wrist, and throw up blood from the anxiety and the depression.
Then I thought, a hope so big brings people bed ridden for dead back to life. A hope that opens closed eyes and ears. A hope of power that flows and pumps blood to my heart every time. The one time I feel a touch of happiness is when I create something.
While my suffering heart feels myself floating and dispersing into the sea of forgotten faces of capitalistic tendencies, I remember, my dreams is what brought me back to life after my soul left my body..and into an oblivion I went…drowning in fear and regret, I thought I was nothing, but my dreams made me feel something. While my body and soul unite again it’s because of my pencil and my pen.
I remember why my heart started to beat and the oxygen came back into my lungs.
I created something.
Thats what I do.
I’m a motivator for life.
Living is my motto.
I remember I was struck with insecurities about who I am, then I thought one more time…I create to give back the life of those whos bodies have left their souls.
I came to give back hope
This is a letter from the one that kills herself trying to be the best because shes always been in the shadows.
The second best.
The girl whos been rejected.
The girl who developed anxiety because she overcompensates and overdoes it.
The one who was so tedious in her actions that she gets nervous when shes not perfect.
The one who got up extra early to be on time but all she gained from that was loss of sleep.
The one who stood up all night studying and skipped breakfast.
The one who raised her hand every class.
The one who was the weakest link.
The one who couldn’t go to graduate school.
The one whos mental illnesses crippled her to mental paralysis. Dark. In a daze. She just wanted to be...the best.
The best is an illusion. The best is fake. The best is a lie. No one is the best. Everyone has talents. Everyone is really good at some things, and not so good in others. You have something about you thats great. That doesn’t make you better, or the best, it makes you who you are.
Get rid of the notion that you need to be the best. The best is a disease. Take your time. Go slow. Find yourself. You’ll then realize the best is already in you.
Create a masterpiece in your dark place. Make something amazing in your sorrows. Be creative in your struggles. Those are your best pieces of art.
When your mind is in darkness is the best canvas to create something powerful.
Part 2 because it all started with a cash register…
This is about a cash register and how the dinging of the change in the drawers became dinging in my head as I saw too many people coming and asking too many questions about the same things.
This is about a cash register and how the cash button on the screen makes the drawer bash into my stomach where insanity was brewing.
This is about a cash register and how all the bills would pile up and I would just count them but the numbers always go over. They spill over.
This is about a cash register and how slowly I would make up in my head all the things that could go wrong and the questions I don’t have answers too, a dark room is created.
The cash register.
I stand there, all day. I have no where to go so I stand…at the cash register.
The questions. All the questions.
The people. All the people.
The fear. All the anxiety, it just fills my stomach with a monster. A little monster.