Unadulterated truth.

Strip all keeps me afloat, distractions, pretences of a life hoped, vacations from this reality to another and back again to one unrecognised ready to recreate and what I find is a dank hole filled with heaviness, a soul alone, unwanted. This is in me, this is what lies in wait at the core of this person I avoided as far back I know. The lostness of a child spent drifting, not knowing who she was aside inherent belief she must be hateful, wrong to deserve all she's given, what life meant, loneliness and fear plagued her steps into the world. Least of all she knew not what it felt to be cherished enough to be stood by, protected, loved by just one person...that would have been enough. That would still be enough. I carry her like a dulling weight holding me back. She cries in the dark to be held till she breathe that sigh only comes when safe, at last, understood. Seeping into my existence as I push her back, command control over the vulnerable, the hurt. I fight ardently to never let another harm whilst I feed her pain every day in need of removal from terror she feels. It's me she turns, it's me she needs...I would be enough.

The Hard Work of being Lazy

At odds with a society that values busyness, equating with success, vitality and oddly, supremacy. It took a decline in health to force me into learning the art of doing nothing...I knew as an introvert the necessity for time out, slowing down but pressures both internally formed from childhood conditioning and externally won out until they could no longer. After over 10 years I'm still struggling with being 'lazy', a lingering whisper keeps me thinking I'm less than worthy if not being productive, making money....as if production profits the maker more than the 'owner of property'. The word itself is suggestive of weakness, ineptitude or uncaring attitude when in reality and if for the reasons explained in the video, it's healthier, inducing creativity, deeper understanding than appearing to know we are in innovatively in control, of value when we are instead running the treadmill to nowhere worth being other than to have the story of busyness to tell.

It is the most miserable thing to feel ashamed of home....Charles Dickens

Faced opposite with interested black eyes, stinging, enticing as they are, it amuses me tentatively you think I don't know what rules of game you adhere, that you don't know the end has come. I won if objective was freedom from control, to further enhance my stride home the closer I cut tortured strings of rejection keeping me near, dismissal for not providing your needs required...for being my honestly complex self with easiness. I am not the slightest ashamed of where or how I choose to live, I am with heartfelt gratitude for knowing my strength in line with weakness, passion, efforts afforded in creating a just world if fairness only lies within my own sphere.

I simply choose not to reveal all to you as witness I learnt how you use information I provide, adding weight to your needy assumptions of who I am...your projections mashed with inflated sense of self worth only standing scrutiny by way of belittling your challenger, I'd wager.

I am, my darling, too large in stature from years of building residence on solid foundation to be crushed by such transparent insecurity I see in you. That you don't recognise me is your abject failure, lost game even if saddened myself over liberation from sensuous gain. I shall take those eyes deep in story belonging only to you along my journey anew, your kiss gentle to my embittered bite as I will my self saved identity in fluid tact. Friend as I am to you I said should you want endures...I doubt you will want.

The edge of freedom.

Is why perpetually drawn and draw near who maim for needs content...to cry ultimately? An effusion of dolour readied to forge forth...when only notched tears of exasperation overrun, the bona fide affliction, agonising splitting in two borne of derelict duty, disobliging presupposition, ultimatum, dependent condition masquerading as love was stimied. The chasm has yet to fatten enough, crack wide for seeth the way, passage to continue where always it laid...the untainted tenderness resting uneasily within, out of sync with institution, in indefectible euphony with esse, acclimatized to jingle my spirit yearns to jauntily vocalize, twirl my soma aches to spill, expression laid in waiting within, mewl to be witnessed, attended.

Centre of attention removed self from psyche in subjugate meet with unripe infantile, shifty addictive insistence of the other. Astray are we to interrelation, worried, horrified misled...break now the fetter, breach to locate domicile, become requirement paramount for I preserve. Gain relish in solus, not abscond. Now off to squall tears for emancipation, in considerate freedom, we all shall prevail.

In quest to be seen, I am astray.

Candidly myself in isolation, sheltered aloneness I am found invisible. Deformed inventiveness, I imagined observed...simultaneously choked, adroit with jaunty enterprise, inexhaustible bounce.

Combination of maternal paranoia, paternal impotence to know the daughter birthed proffers confused this now woman in search of recognition...wishing to be revealed yet lost from view when studied. Not for approval I seek but in relation, identified soul to allot. I am what you do not witness, I am what I do not manifest. I am all I vexatiously exhibit in response...your detach, retort, maladjusted projection, you are incarnation of guardians I leave wanton, I am not. Yet, in friendship I find freedom.

CANNED HEAT - LET'S WORK TOGETHER

So long as the story remains in this country that only minority groups are disenfranchised we shall not have a change in politics...the rise in the middle classes has enabled the most corrupt % to flourish beyond anyone's wildest imagination. Why aspire to be like them when being grounded, compassionately motivated, emotionally connected and community orientated is what enables society to function for everyone, not just the most insecure irrational need for more than we can ever possibly require? People it seems are becoming more insular, self seeking and detached from the very people they play a part in the deprivation, the hunger and death. It's much easier to lay blame on individuals for their own downfall (and conversely, success) but the bigger picture always reveals a very different story. Societies are interlinked and delicately balanced works of art...without a majority participation in creating a just and equal landscape that picture is always going to be skewed in favour of the darker, narrow minded and corrupt amongst us. We have been set up to play their game but there are other ways to live where we can be the masterminds of our own rules...be you sheep or trailblazer? If not for the ignored slaves of capitalism, none would have the comfort and privilege they lay claim to being 'self made' today. No, my darlings...not one person is self made but a product of a wider extraction of empathy, humanity. Judge value by what we give, not take.

Some kind of comfortable...

...turned to unease in another distant day.

Obstructed, oppressed by ghosts permeated every fibre of neglected existence...forgotten trodden paths walked so far, long, hard entrenched are the furrows, lines etching memories still lived. I am frightened, anything nearing worthiness yanked in a jittered beat, stiffened, ridged against joy awaiting...unspoken as unbroken never made promises of a bed of blossoming buds, sweet scent of hope I rip from rooted attachment. Terrified of satisfaction...no, not that, attainment for when I hold dear I risk eventual theft. So I break free before I am held, bound embrace...I am in control, I have to be. In remaining, surrendering I am exposed, vulnerable, held back by my own dread of abondenment...not in their leave but impatience with my slowness to trust, my sabotage to prove right any prophecy hinged around heels dug firmly in. I've never spoken of the sexual misuse as a child...never thought it mattered so much as having trusted parent to turn, my primary desertion repeated throughout. Oh, I told them twenty years and more ago doubting I'd be believed, my story would return with jealous enmity for preparing such twisted tales for attention...this I swallowed, doubted my own recollections.

As I write I'm starkly aware of the distance I place still between myself and reminiscence unexplored. Why do I close myself off when touched in most gratifying ways? My domain, yes...for me and nobody else yet in letting that other enter my private world where uncontrollable depth of emotion can only exist and to trust is all I strive to consummate. I confess, I relished the touch so young, the gentleness of hands arousing skin to tender heights I couldn't have imagined but since become wet with rape of respect. That was the damage done, early stimulant when all else hurt, too young and untaught to comprehend connections made, associations formed, hardwired for replicate. I recall none but one detail of what he did, my incestuous uncle, that moment is soldered, the rest rusted, forsaken, I'm unprepared to find, too dark is that journey, there is no coveted need...I am tightly held shut. This unease in me to some kind of comfortable in recognition of pattern, shape of developing relationship, connection with self and the other. This is the way the indefinable it is and it is alright, no preference left to change, to forge a path of my own making, steer direction but to drift instead with how we are. I am set to wallow in delicious complex entanglement, awkwardness of misunderstanding, clashes of wills...I am ready now to free the life I know I am, live fully in parallel...and trust where trust is met.