How do you fuel the fires of optimism?
How do you fuel the fires of optimism?
Iron[wo]man. I have too much time on my hands. Or not enough. I’m not entirely sure. Continue reading
I’ve been gone for awhile now
Lost in my mind
I’ve whispered secrets not allowed
Can you hear my cry?
It’s a shame you are no longer here
Did you know the time?
I fear the end has come, my dear
Let’s embrace our last flight.
Laugh at me,
Just make me cry,
Do whatever you want,
But don’t tell me why.
Say that you hate me,
Tell me I’m worthless,
Just don’t say you’re sorry,
If you don’t really mean it.
Do you know that I miss you
With each day that passes
When you told me we were through
I didn’t anticipate this sting
It’s not fair that I sit here
All alone with my memories
As I cope with feeling bare
Cause you took all of me.
The quiet Earth gives way to a shallow flowing river,
Allowing the thin trickle of noise to take resonance.
The wind sweeps through the branches of a tall billowing tree,
Creating a majestic rustle of red leaves rushing.
An abandoned parking lot lays empty and alone,
Forgetting its days of youth, life and longevity.
And in that parking lot lies a tiny wisp of a flower;
Frail, and on the edge of being broken and abandoned.
All the while an absence of heat from the blistering sun,
Leaves living beings unsatisfied with an unquenchable tumult,
One that appears on a mothers face like a stern expression,
And sits in the gentle Earth heaving an all-known great presence.
And all this time the deep gusts rush past me in great lashes,
Leaving me chilled, and forever pondering the meaning of life.
It’s funny how I feel the need to justify my writing. I’m practically apologizing for being human and making mistakes anytime a person finds even the most minor of flaws within my creative works. Hell, I’d probably do the same thing here on my blog. It doesn’t really make sense. I should not feel the need to make excuses for something I put so much effort into, because the fact of the matter is the person is trying to help me. Have I mentioned that I’m terrible at accepting help?
Maybe I should rewind.
Recently, I gave my mom the first two chapters of a novel I wrote. This novel has gone through a series of edits, and I finally got to the point where I decided I was going to redo the entire thing. I gave my mother a copy of the renewed draft, so even though it’s way different than the previous one it is still rough. When I came over for dinner with my family, my mom asked if she could write on it. I don’t know why I took it so personally, but I began to feel bad that I had given someone something so unpolished. I shouldn’t feel bad. I’m sharing. She asked to see this, because she’s proud of me or whatever. I don’t need to make excuses. I know this. Yet I do it anyway.
It’s a side effect of me constantly thinking my writing is sub par. I need to break this habit, because I don’t need to be perfect. Comparing myself to others is not going to do me any good, because how boring would it be if everyone wrote the same.
This is where I make a point to start finding the beauty in my style and owning it. Because I’m never going to be anyone other than myself.
~ Johana Spade.
I’ve been feeling pretty down in the dumps lately, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Then it came to me. As the weather started to turn sour, so did my mood. It’s one of those things where you begin to find it harder and harder to get out of bed, and you start putting off tasks that would normally be a quick job. That’s been me lately, it’s really a wonder I’ve been getting anything done.
The reason for this is because I’ve had a flare up of S.A.D – season affected depression that is. Sometimes I forget that I suffer from it, especially when last year I was so busy that I really didn’t have time to be alone with my thoughts. It didn’t hit me as hard as it is hitting me now. I’m posting this here because I want everyone to know that they are not alone. They don’t need to feel bad if they are having troubles adjusting, because it happens to a lot of people. Especially here in the Pacific Northwest.
In fact, the other day I wrote a poem that I would like to share. It depicts of how I feel whenever this comes around, and I’m betting people can relate.
You can feel like you’re choking
Suffocating on air
Your lungs could burst
But really who would care
Your feelings are fleeting
Your heart might be ice
Because you don’t have the will
To even play nice
You really wish you could feel
The way that you used to
You wish you could just see
The light instead of blue
But most of all the thing you want
Is for your heart to beat
Instead of breaking and pulling taut
Because you can’t stand that
Obviously it’s reflective of the funk I’m in, but that’s neither here or there, because really the reason I shared that was to give tips to those who might feel the same way. Some of the techniques I have found useful for this empty void in my chest are as follows:
Hopefully this at least helps somebody out there, because I really do know what it is like. There are people out there to support you, and you are not alone.
This is just an old poem of mine that I’m still attached to. It remains unedited, but very dear to my heart.
The mystical flaw of leaving things all alone
Hides nothing but openness, like a budding rose.
There is nothing but petals, stems, and leaves,
So the only secrets created, are not meant to keep.
There is a definitive potion of absolute serenity,
When cautiously handling all things clandestine.
Just like an old sofa, with fabric of deepened red,
Doesn’t show the sodden stains of blood.
A secret can be exchanged between close friends.
It’s a confidentiality that is given with permission,
Like a gift wrapped with paper in shades of hued gold,
It has a purpose meant to bring people closer together.
The whispered words oft come in a soft sounding caress,
It’s the reason they can sometimes sound more than a little sad.
But a small child will only shed tears when he or she is unheeded,
So always share your closest words with those that are the best.
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