He has weaponised his emotional indifference, abusing rather than cherishing my loving emotions. Tears escape my eyes, running away upon my cheeks, leaving my body as if they cannot bear to witness yet another verbal assault. Threats of hateful things are spoken as if he were ordering food from a takeaway menu. Hateful things I can't explain. When they shame you in the assault they feel sure you won't share it or call for help. It just hurts. But in that context, the word 'hurt' holds a lot more meaning than usual definitions. It is a lingering pain, one you can only shake by gaining a greater perspective, by standing back and imaging yourself as someone who loves you. Then you ask, "What would they say about all this? What might their advice be?"
Once I’d reached the edge of the forest I stood in front of the tightly knit trees and stared deep into the darkness ahead as if begging permission to enter. Then I respectfully stepped into the massive realm of woodland, and from the first footfall the whole atmosphere changed. The ground was spongy, like walking on foam, and as I put my full weight down the earth seemed to hug my boots and gently release them with each step. Scent from the foliage, mixed with the dampness and decay, danced through the air and tickled my nostrils, and sprinkles of dew that were lying in wait leapt from their hosts to anoint me with weepy atoms, and cooled my face with their misty kisses.
Someone once told me I am strong. Sometimes, I really do think that I am. But on days like today, when my feelings overwhelm me, the word "strong" becomes insignificant, to the varying waves of emotion that engulf me. Today, I got lost in the tide and I caved, swept away by my own fears.
I am only human.
Fortunately, I am not defined by my moments of weakness and fear, but by the days when I muster the strength to rise above the tide. Then and only then, I consider myself to be... strong
At the end of colonialism, when we were in an era that accepted that the money-nexus days were numbered, there was an interesting reversal of roles. It was somewhat as those renovation shows with a team of builders and a client, the developing world was the client and the developed world's task was to listen to their needs and find solutions in keeping with their culture and wishes. They had been Cinderella, now it was time for the rich industrialised nations to act as fairy godmother.
The zombie masters would hit the fear centre, drive their followers into the primal areas of their brains, induce a form of dependancy in which variation from their "hymn" was a sort of apostasy from the group. They defined their group via hate yet preached of love, caused chaos and spoke of stability. Once this had been done for a period of years the capacity of the population to have logical thoughts, to analyse, to question lies and seek truth, was all but gone. And in those challenging days their only way out were the word whisperers - those who could use a form of linguistics to reawaken the sleeping abilities, to form a new generation of philosophers, of science, of faiths that really love and cares for all.
Competition and individualism are close parts of the same dynamic, and they lead us back to caveman times. The success of the human animal is all built of cooperation and the formation of complex societies with individuals taking on different specialisms to benefit the group. Thus cooperation is the only path to a good future, one of abundance and technology, one of peace. While we compete, we will always be on a path to armageddon.
The lighthouse was bathed in rainwater and brine, the pure and the salty, season in and season out. Around it were the rocks both proud of the waves and submerged. It had been a long time since there were real steps to the door, ones that could be traversed with ease, and so they waited for the tide to pull the sea out a little further, to wait until all the rocks could breathe fresh coastal air.
His focus was scattered, so filled with nervous anticipation was he, so excited, even giddy. He couldn't hold a conversation or sit still while his thoughts danced in infinite directions. Yet he had to get through the day in one piece. He met Mairead last Tuesday at a wedding and this, he hoped, was their first date. He could picture it already - holding hands, a tingling feeling spreading throughout his entire body. He would take her for a walk through the park and count the ducks; it seemed the most natural thing in all the world. And she, his special girl.
A widowed wife. A mother of two. Living in a country of chaos. She lives in a scattered pile of concrete held together by fractured planks of wood. Trying to survive in a country that wants everyone dead. Seeking refuge in any broken, run-down house that is still standing. Living every moment of her life in constant fear of death for herself and her children.