The Other Blog

Silence is common to us all,
We speak from the shadows,
With words polite, movements proper,
Yet no one hears intention…

We reach out and touch each other,
Who do we truly feel?
We speak of breaking down walls,
Only to fortify ourselves further

Afraid of being in the light,
We stand in the darkness, naked,
Flawed, we attempt to hide our scars -
A masquerade of character.

Serendipity has brought me to you,
From a voice unheard, I hear your words
A thousand ways can love manifest
And you’ve given me love anew

Disrobed, I see my own scars,
Unafraid, I embrace the light
I conceal my defects no more,
These imperfections make me real.

All I need now is a touch, true,
A single word, truly meant.
I am no longer afraid of being myself
To enfold you in my arms is now all I desire.

My screams echo off the silent walls, yet all I hear are whispers, sobs and sniffles. Agony takes a seat in the second row, compassion occupies the front row. Ecstacy, now stained, takes a piteous seat at the back.. Pain, no stranger, smiles as he takes my hand. Welcome, all, to the story of my life. The show has begun.

Friends. Strangers. People I don’t know, people I love. Through silence, I hear you speak, words arranged like flowers in a garden. My breath gets taken away by the beauty. Every thought you plant blossoms in my head, giving rise to emotions and feelings that come all that once, making me confused. All at once, I am honoured, delighted, happy beyond belief and then frustrated beyond anger. I want to be here in your garden, and yet I seek to run away. Behind a tiny flower plant of my own, I hide myself. There’s nothing to show, but there’s so much to say. Now, by myself, I speak so no one hears.

Life is so strange. Why is it that even when there’s nothing wrong, I feel like not everything’s right? Even when I know I have every important thing I need, I feel like there’s something missing. I am lucky to never have to starve, to have a wonderful house to live in, to have a family that genuinely cares for me, to have the ability to spend on objects I truly desire… then why have I been waking up in the morning these past few days with a heavy heart, and feeling like I could bite someone’s head off?

Black easel. Nineteen-inch canvas. Ten paintbrushes and twenty-six primary colours. I’ll mix them up and play with them. I promise to create magic…

Now the morning comes, dark and gloomy. The lovely grey clouds of promise have turned ominous black. It’s the calm before a storm. In the stillness, I can feel the tension about to explode this silence. Fingers have stopped moving, but thoughts are running faster than ever. Brows begin to furrow. I jab hard at the backspace key. A line gets wiped out. Yet again, fingers come to rest. Yet again, thoughts run faster and more furiously. Brows furrow tighter, meeting in the middle - wrinkled skin. A final thought…

The storm announces its arrival with an explosion of thunder! With an angry shout of frustration, I pick up my sentence and smash it into the ground, words and letters going flying about - the result of a perfect thought and an imperfect expression. I stare into a semi-completed piece of art, in progress for days on end, and slowly get up and walk away for now.