There is a form of emotional independence that is hard won. It is the mark of the matured brain, one in control of its emotions to a large extent. It is the state Kipling spoke of in "If," that though we love others deeply, the actions of foes and loving friends that once would have injured, feel dull and manageable. It is a long way from the innocence of childhood, when we assume those we love will protect us, and the road to it has made our feet raw. Yet when everyone "counts with us, but none too much," we are able to walk the right path of love to help others who cannot achieve the same mental health. It is full ability for emotional warmth, for real empathic love, combined with full ability for emotional indifference when either cool logical thought or self protection are necessary. It is a sort of emotional switching of gears, a willingness to move in and out of different mental states according to what is best from the perspective of love. The irony is, if you cannot enjoy solitude, you cannot be reliable for others and immune to corruption. The capacity for true leadership takes great mental pain to form and does so properly when the motivation for doing so is love and protection of others. I got there, so can you.
For the first time in her life, she found herself alone. A huddled heap of ripped jeans and torn coats, she sat alone and utterly terrified in the darkness. The dark consumed her frail form. Her mother wasn't there to soothe her fears, nor was Thomas to tell her stories. It was just her, alone in a strange place with strange people.
The cabinet is a wall of tiny doors, each with the name of its resident. For a moment I think of myself as Alice and that each one could be a portal to somewhere new, to some other universe, an escape. I wonder what it could hold that would make it the most valuable cabinet on Earth. Could it hold the secrets of happiness and joy? Could a structure so rigid ever bring the liberty and creativity we need to stretch and grow? So I imagine it as a rubix cube of sorts, that, at will, the compartments rearrange themselves, quite nonchalant to whatever label they have been assigned. Yet for all that wondering it is very much in the room, this wood that swirls with the randomness of each season, the patterns given by the rain and sunshine of each year. It comforts me that even in such enforced order there is still the sweet freedom of chaos. It is how the universe laughs.
Alexander sat upon the cool metal bench, his trousers soaking up the damp morning dew, as he overlooked the sea. Darkness had not long surrendered to the light, yet he could see the thick grey clouds that were cast over the sky. The sea was tainted; no longer an abyss of black, nor did it appear blue. Instead it looked a metallic grey, glistening as the occasional spear of light pierced through the clouds and danced over the surface.
Texting makes these fake relationships; the trouble is... my emotions are real. I start to bond to someone who could "ghost" me in a moment, hear the pains of my life and then simply never respond ever again. That's something that will never change in this electrickery world. So what I need is relationships in real life, real friends who laugh and hug and stand by you. Because otherwise I can't rise, I can't see through the fog of all these emotions, or break their chains. I need a bit more of that world my Grandparents knew, the one where talking to a friend was something so much more.
I've been alone for so long I've got used to it by now. What's it like to feel alone you may ask? Well, let me tell you. It's like being the only planet in a universe full of stars. It's like being in a crowd yet you're closed off in your own little bubble. One is a choice, the other is not. I guess a part of me chooses to be alone for I am afraid of people. Not afraid of them hurting me but afraid of what they think of me. I know what I need. I need someone to save me from this loneliness, to make me feel worthy and loved, worthy of being loved. I shed a tear at the thought I might always be like this, hidden away in this barren home waiting for time to pass only to find out I'm still alone.
The spring, she comes to give her bounty to all her children, setting the example that we give to one another. She sends her rain and warm wind to kiss the rich brown soils, to waken the seeds and sing to them as they grow. She blesses the skies with more of our winged brethren, from the mighty eagle to the firefly. The flowers come, each one so much more than any photograph, delicate and strong. And in this time of newness we fill our lungs to fullness and hear her urging us to run, to feel the power she gives within.
One morning, in social study class, the teacher explained the term, “Dysfunctional families.” Marshall sat up in his desk. That description fit his family perfectly. All the hype through the years about happy families at Thanksgiving and Christmas left him empty, sad. Those two holidays were even worse for his family, and he dreaded them to heart sickness. He knew exactly what would happen. His dad would drink even more. More than once, his dad brought drinking buddies home for “thanksgiving dinner.” This “thanksgiving” dinner was a “usual” meal, with the exception that his mom said a prayer. Why? What did she or any of the family have to be thankful for? How could his mom be thankful for such confusion, and yelling and screaming? How could anyone thank a God who allowed such misery? When he was younger, Marshall had to stay at home for the long nights of discontent on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Now that he was older, he could grab his coat and hit the streets. It was cold out, and his jacket was thin. However, it was quiet in the downtown park.
To build a better world we need to consciously design a better environment for all of humanity, one in which all the choices we have are good options. What we have now is a dynamic that makes people sick and then blames them for being sick. This world of fear and coercion can be swapped for one of love and cooperation, a world that brings us all health and happiness in all our different and wonderful cultures.
She appeared in the room with the winter snow billowing around her skirt. Most did not pay attention to her beauty, but rather her color. Burnt Sienna never looked so beautiful on a woman. With black hair of wool and her head held high, she waltzed on with an effortless saunter. The clicking of her heels added rhythm to the soft classical music that played onward without pause. Her eyes scanned the room with determination in search of someone when her eyes met mine she smiled. So beautiful it was like the stars themselves, decided to rest behind the soft cushion of her lips.
She starved to death in a room full of food, all because the money had piled up in the pockets of others. How they wrung their hands over her corpse, if only there had been some way to give her food...
Trina loved her radio almost as much as her cat. It was like the one she'd grown up with, wood around the outside with circular dials and speaker. In her otherwise department store home it was the only object she felt an emotional attachment to. It brought her music, comedy and old fashioned plays. It never demanded her attention but instead sat quiet and unassuming until called upon. Even if she changed her entire decor that radio would stay - regardless of whether it was the perfect accent piece or a horrible clash. She didn't care either way. One day she'd be an old woman with it by her bedside even if it broke. Then she'd just play the greatest hits from her youth from whatever new-fangled thing was available and just pretend it was from her beloved old radio.