Tag: creative writing

The echo is fading

The echo of my upbringing

The melody of my home

The beat for control and safety 

The voice of the strong

.

The righteousness of virtue 

The power of the right path

The morality of good people 

The perfect package for the world 

.

The echo is humming 

The old song is fading

Safety long gone

The old voice a whisper 

.

Virtues have been debated 

The right path was left 

Morality has eroded 

The package got broken 

.

The echo turns into memory 

The song got a new rhythm 

The search for safety into surrender 

The voice became my own

.

Virtues turned into intuition 

The path leads to me 

Morality into knowing 

No package longer needed 

Falling

I grow by falling

letting go of clenching

see that I am bigger

feel my heart’s expansion

almost dizzy by the knowing

ready for what is coming

.

there is nothing more amazing

then the witnessing of one’s transformation

no pain sweeter than the breaking of a closed heart

no fear more tempting than

the one of falling

no wonder bigger than the power of life

.

nothing more humbling

and yet eagerly awaited

as the falling into a new awareness

no heartache’s melody sweeter

than the breaking of old chains

.

no feeling ever more wanted

no fear better hidden

no breakthrough bigger

than falling in love.

The whisper of Macbeth

A deep voice

A calm deep voice and a present mind

Made me exhale

Made me realise

That I am still on my path

That I have not arrived

To the place I wish

To the feeling I need

To the people who see

To those who have time

The painfully sharp contrast, like a black tree against the evening sun, between where I am and where I wish to be

carves a scar into my heart

A bit sick at heart I continue my walk

With every step, I feel

My painful longing for

a work, a place, a stage, a studio, a garden a couch

Where people have time

Where they speak with a calm voice and present mind

The voice called me home

With patience for details and

With a luxurious amount of time to talk about the unseen

The superstition and the past

The whisper of Macbeth

The voice called me again

To a world of magic, to a world of the unseen

The present mind, an invitation

The description of sound on stage; a sign

Bring me back to me, I beg

Bring me home to me, I adjure

I exhale

And I see

That I am there

That I have the time

that my voice is calm and my mind at peace

where was I?

Why again? Was I caught up in doing all these things I don’t want to do

But the world tells me to do

So, I can finally do what I want to do

To talk with a calm voice

To have a present mind

To recall moments of lights on stage

To speak to people who see

About things that matter

Like the sound of a butterfly

A glimmer of a teardrop

The superstition and the past

The witches in Macbeth

Your deep voice

Brought me back to me

And I feel what I need to feel

To know that it’s here

My table, my home, my laptop my work

My calm voice

My patience for details

My lavish use of time for things that matter

Its just me sitting under the tree

Just let me be.

Let me be the girl with low self-esteem, the anxious, the overthinker. Let me be careful, let me be slow. Let me sit under the tree. 

Go, you confident Super-succeeder. Go, have your fun. I won’t steel your show in the front row. Go, enjoy your old-fashioned hero mentality. 

Let me sit and watch you win.

Let me be careful, let me be anxious, let me be slow. Don’t bother me, enjoy your bravery, your high self-esteem.

Just let me be the girl I want to be, the dreamer not the achiever. You can have it all, the money, the system, and success. 

I no longer even try to be part of it. 

Just give me my time, give me my space. I need my time and my space, to cry over the pain I caused in my body by trying to keep up with your measurements. I cry over the pain caused by all the years of not following my own slow, careful, deep thinking, imaginative, dreamy way of being. For the years I tried to rush to do things. To work, to achieve, to survive. The pain of this endless trying sits deep in my stiff neck and has closed my heart. 

But you, go, run, do. Have your money, enjoy your success. 

But let me be, let me cry. Let me cry out all the pressure built up in my body out of that childish need to fit in and to be loved, to be accepted. 

I don’t even want that anymore. And I certainly don’t want your advice – for how I must live, to fit in somewhere no one wants to live anymore. 

Let me be and try to do the impossible. Let me try to be authentic, true and honestly me.

The shadow of poverty, failure and cold toilets are hunting me. But still, let me try to be me. Not a product, nothing to sell. Just a bare soul to show. 

Just give me my space. I no longer want your recognition or your admiration. Just the space I never had. I need that space to fight against the ghosts from my past which still whispers in your goal-oriented, success-driven, old fashioned, deadly dangerous language into my ear. 

Just let me be, let me cry out, let me not manifest anything. Let me be the failure I choose to be because I didn’t manage to fit in anywhere. 

I am sorry for the pain I cause when you see me suffering. I am sorry for your pride being damaged. I am sorry for disappointing you. 

I am sorry I wasted my talents. I am sorry for the hours spent utterly unproductively, for the time I watched the sunset and sat under the oak tree. The hours in which nothing was sold, nothing produced only hours filled with tearful healing. 

I never thought I needed all my time, my strength, my talents just to create a space in which I can be and breathe. I never thought that half of my life is just cleaning up, is just fixing, just transforming trauma. I never thought my life would end up like this. It’s a shocker.

But don’t be shocked, let me show you the real work I do that nobody sees. Let me praise all these hours of endurance, let me enjoy the hours of loneliness. Let me enjoy the breathing into my pain and the reordering of my left shoulder. 

Let me be, let me be mad, let me scream, let me breathe, let me feel, let me express all the pain I endure in pretending to be normal. Let me express my truth. Let me talk about the uncomfortable, about my back pain, my neck, my closed heart, my disappointment. Let me be real. I safe my goddam sweet smile for later. 

Let me be me. Let me be powerful. Let me say it out loud that I don’t agree. Let me remind you that in being a non-productive being I honour myself and I create: I create a space for the future. 

I create a new way of living. Let me be; I am birthing new realities. 

Let me be a failure of the old, let me be a failure of a system no one truly loves.  Let me fail to have space and time to birth the new thing we are all hoping for. 

Give me my time to transform the pain of the old into the new. I do it for free, I do it for you and for me.

That’s success on another level, it’s purposeful beyond imagination. 

There is no master’s degree, no certificate, no timeline, and no budget plan. It’s just me sitting under the tree.

As long as I am alive, and I am breathing; I am transforming. Let me do my job, let me do the unseen, the unspoken, the deep woven. 

Get out of my space, let me create! 

my muddy, dark green freedom

What was I looking for when I decided to move to the land of wet, cold, and rainy Sundays? What was I hoping to achieve when I packed my suitcases with determination and flew here in a pre-pandemic easiness? But more importantly, what was I trying to escape from? 

I count myself very privileged to have the audacity to make life-decisions simply based on dreams and hopes.  Some years later, I am now walking the dogs through very wet and muddy, dark green park scenery: Isn’t this the freedom I wanted, only a little colder? 

It certainly feels like I am experiencing British life at its best. After the walks, I come home to an old-fashioned high-pitched tone of a boiling kettle; doesn’t it sound like my new definition of success?

Feeling the warmth of the oven, sipping on my de-caff while looking into a wonderful winter garden; isn’t this my goal? Isn’t it here in the stronghold of cosiness where my heart can heal, and I can stubbornly ignore my financial situation to allow myself to live a life of illusion? The illusion I created smells of fresh coffee, biscuits, and a hint of freedom. Which is, considering that we are living in a time where freedom has become debatable and reconstructed, quite a big achievement. 

Didn’t I manage to escape the world of predefined values, a world where opinions are needed and fired at each other as though on a battlefield? 

My sweet little rebellious life has a newly added sound of a snoring dog in the background and a view onto a winter garden. I marvel at my illusion – for a little while at least.  I wallow in the false feeling of freedom until I get reminded that money is still required in this world.

From the cage to the movies

While I am finishing my tea and observing my neighbors cat, I am thinking of the next topic I would like to share with the world. Not having had promoted my blog too much yet, doing so was probably be very wise; I am thinking.

Because the topic that constantly pops up in my head and eagerly yearns for attention, is in other words, not at all glamorous and fun. I am seriously doubting the idea of writing about it, but contrary to me, the theme doesn’t mind my fear nor my outdated shame. It wants to be heard and spoken about; right now. More so, it demands that I fully honor its existence by calling it by its name, and the name of this reckless, self promoting theme is; (next to all other equally important topics of our day, like for example the tears of a fallen leader)

Premenstrual anger!

Here it is, proudly, sassy, it stands now in the open field and gives me the look; saying, see, I made you type it! I am here, on your page, on black and white! You can’t ignore me no longer, you wanne be feminist and intellectual, how dare you not to speak about the topic that matters so much! You can’t face the uncomfortable truth! You, who hides behind novels of past days, interior magazine and other lighthearted girly rubbish!

My premenstrual anger all of a sudden loves the lime light and gets completely over confident. Like a wild animal, held back too long in a dark cage. Now stands in the light ready to fight a battle with words like; “period poverty”, “social taboos”, “blood soaked tampons”, and “shame”.

“Ohh no, please, really”?? I am pressing my palms over my ears. Really, do I have to listen to all that now. “Hold yourself back a little, please.” I try to sooth that wild beast. “This is only my third blog post, and I am still in the process of finding my voice! Please don’t scare me or my readers away!”

But all the soothing words have absolutely no effect on my premenstrual anger. So I had to come up with some mean accusations. “Old bastard, you’ve already ruined enough of my life!” I add with reassuring voice. “You made me start endless, stupid conversations, made me look ridiculous and hysterical as I was trying desperately to defend myself and explain feminism to idiots! And yes, you even made me cancel a date!” I add here a little theatrical pause to give my words more meaning and to observe the reaction on its face.”Go back where you belong!”

My premenstrual anger, however on tasting the freedom of expression, had a new sense of confidence and was impossible to stop; it was not the slightest impressed by me. Like a lion on stage, it turns around ready to attack, dominating the space with its elegance and tension. The beast owns its power and walks majestically in the red lime light. After a dramatic head turn it stops and looks at me with big bestial eyes and tells me the truth:

“Firstly, be happy you can feel me! It means you are alive and healthy!”

“Second, if you think back at all these apparently embarrassing moments. Wasn’t it true what I made you feel and say? Wasn’t it me, who told you all the injustices; wasn’t it me who gave you the strength and power to speak up? To confront? You overly indoctrinated girl, your strength has already been weakened by all the social norms and conditioning!”

I take a step back, starring at the beast unable to find the words to say or contradict.

“I will leave now” the lion roars. “and will come back next month, to discuss why I had you cancel the date”

And out it walks into the free wild prairie and engulfed in the deep red sunset. I add some imaginary music to it, and feel the sadness and relief of an ending, similar to the end of some old fashioned, way too long western movies.