Je dois écrire. L'ironie est que quand j'avais le temps, je na'i pu pas fair rien.
Doesn't matter, I have to write. I keep listening to poets like Keane and Travis and Darren Hayes and I'm here, with the creativity finally bursting forth again, and what's more, the joie de vivre bursting through and I'm not writing and I'm not taking pictures and I'm doing bloody cashier work at Oxfam.
I am a swan, I am a seagull that glides and glides. I am the tree, the squirrel.
Words are all I have to make myself different from you lot. To make myself lighter, somewhat more worthy. How low is my self esteem that I still believe those falsehoods.
I just cannot find people on my wave length. It means I never shall. Or I do and because of my skin colour or because I am behind the Oxfam counter, or because I am in Morden, or London, or the UK, I shall never know.
An opera singer. A person who wants to wear kurtis but is scared of going into a desi shop in Tooting. How endearing. That lovely biracial baby I want to squeeze.
I am not even me. I am IT. I want to diffuse. I want to be sunlight and music and air and flame.
I am, but He insisted I stay in clay. And I agreed. What a dumbass. I mean, how much..... absolute pain and shit was I thinking I could take and come out trumps?
I look at his soul. I can see it - I can. I can! It is lingering behind his eyes, urging to burst forth and embrace my aura which is dying for this contact. For this final consummation of soul. I love that. I love myself, my second self. And I haven't a clue where it is, if it is and will I ever get it.
How can one yearn for something so much, when one's mind keeps telling one that 'It's fallacy. It's never going to happen.'
But then you see happy couples and happy kids.
Let's not talk about children. Except that my inner child is so much happier than before. I think the last time my inner child was this happy was when I was at Aunty Jean's, age 3.
I am an angel, or rather, one of those Wood elves. Or something. I am the leaves, the tree bark, the acorn, the duckling.
What is mundane? Everything.
What is sacred? Everything.
So hard for an idealist to truly accept.
Cosmic joke. Cosmic mistake.
"I feel so sorry for you"
"It's not our fault"
"Dare I eat a peach?"
"Which high school did you go to?"
"Don't smoke"
"It's not fair"
"Will you go for premarital counselling?"
"You're not unconditionally accepting her"
"They're all twats"
"I shake my negative energy into the earth"
"slapping her face - shut up, idiot!"
I want to sing, to play the violin and the guitar.
I can't remember things.
Inhale the beauty of the rose, it will envelope and push out the negativity.
Be with the negativity.
be.
Money for mindfulness retreats. Money for yoga classes. Money is energy. Giving 32p as a tip.
Letting someone manipulate you like that or yielding? I can't tell the difference - except maybe you can by looking at the end result and how it ends up making you feel.
Does this empower you? Is it short-term gratification or long term benefit?
Every decision you make is either taking you away or bringing you nearer.
I miss sitting down with the poor, illiterate but moral and kind. I miss being around the faithful, the beseechers, the mourners.
I keep denying it, I am no better than it.
My worth is the same; their worth is the same.
How sad and bitter must all these twats be inside if they dare to treat me this shabbily.
And I have to go to Sutton tomorrow. I should take the bus. Twatty xenophobic rude English twats. I hate them so much sometimes. Karma dictates they will get theirs, but what's the point? They won't learn and they will still treat people so shabbily.
I am sorry, dear sister. I honestly don't know how it is possible to let these people still get to me after all my so-called intellect and experience and everything.
On oublie. Tout.
I desire to merge. I can't. Why so many barriers ins such a beautiful land (not the people or the buildings or the economy) - just the land - of England.
Fucking Anglos.
Doesn't matter, I have to write. I keep listening to poets like Keane and Travis and Darren Hayes and I'm here, with the creativity finally bursting forth again, and what's more, the joie de vivre bursting through and I'm not writing and I'm not taking pictures and I'm doing bloody cashier work at Oxfam.
I am a swan, I am a seagull that glides and glides. I am the tree, the squirrel.
Words are all I have to make myself different from you lot. To make myself lighter, somewhat more worthy. How low is my self esteem that I still believe those falsehoods.
I just cannot find people on my wave length. It means I never shall. Or I do and because of my skin colour or because I am behind the Oxfam counter, or because I am in Morden, or London, or the UK, I shall never know.
An opera singer. A person who wants to wear kurtis but is scared of going into a desi shop in Tooting. How endearing. That lovely biracial baby I want to squeeze.
I am not even me. I am IT. I want to diffuse. I want to be sunlight and music and air and flame.
I am, but He insisted I stay in clay. And I agreed. What a dumbass. I mean, how much..... absolute pain and shit was I thinking I could take and come out trumps?
I look at his soul. I can see it - I can. I can! It is lingering behind his eyes, urging to burst forth and embrace my aura which is dying for this contact. For this final consummation of soul. I love that. I love myself, my second self. And I haven't a clue where it is, if it is and will I ever get it.
How can one yearn for something so much, when one's mind keeps telling one that 'It's fallacy. It's never going to happen.'
But then you see happy couples and happy kids.
Let's not talk about children. Except that my inner child is so much happier than before. I think the last time my inner child was this happy was when I was at Aunty Jean's, age 3.
I am an angel, or rather, one of those Wood elves. Or something. I am the leaves, the tree bark, the acorn, the duckling.
What is mundane? Everything.
What is sacred? Everything.
So hard for an idealist to truly accept.
Cosmic joke. Cosmic mistake.
"I feel so sorry for you"
"It's not our fault"
"Dare I eat a peach?"
"Which high school did you go to?"
"Don't smoke"
"It's not fair"
"Will you go for premarital counselling?"
"You're not unconditionally accepting her"
"They're all twats"
"I shake my negative energy into the earth"
"slapping her face - shut up, idiot!"
I want to sing, to play the violin and the guitar.
I can't remember things.
Inhale the beauty of the rose, it will envelope and push out the negativity.
Be with the negativity.
be.
Money for mindfulness retreats. Money for yoga classes. Money is energy. Giving 32p as a tip.
Letting someone manipulate you like that or yielding? I can't tell the difference - except maybe you can by looking at the end result and how it ends up making you feel.
Does this empower you? Is it short-term gratification or long term benefit?
Every decision you make is either taking you away or bringing you nearer.
I miss sitting down with the poor, illiterate but moral and kind. I miss being around the faithful, the beseechers, the mourners.
I keep denying it, I am no better than it.
My worth is the same; their worth is the same.
How sad and bitter must all these twats be inside if they dare to treat me this shabbily.
And I have to go to Sutton tomorrow. I should take the bus. Twatty xenophobic rude English twats. I hate them so much sometimes. Karma dictates they will get theirs, but what's the point? They won't learn and they will still treat people so shabbily.
I am sorry, dear sister. I honestly don't know how it is possible to let these people still get to me after all my so-called intellect and experience and everything.
On oublie. Tout.
I desire to merge. I can't. Why so many barriers ins such a beautiful land (not the people or the buildings or the economy) - just the land - of England.
Fucking Anglos.
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