Moving through her depths, I become aware of her currents; the sea is more as rivers in three dimensions with no need of banks. In them are schools of the living, the creation that remained in her watery embrace when we land dwellers sought flowers and the shelter of trees. Though to her fish swimming is as easy as breathing underwater, it is no doubt time for me to return to the waves and the boat that awaits, anchored for my return as it rests upon her steady pulse.
From copyright to “right to copy” - my own personal work on Descriptionari (not the work of others, and excluding samples from my fiction title, “Darwin’s Ghost") is now copyright free to enable young creative writers to grow naturally. Learning is “observe, imitate, practice, master” and as such some copying is vital to development.
I am particularly thinking of the many young writers of social platforms such as Wattpad, and this I feel is the best thing for their development, especially with Wattpad moving toward being a publisher.
That said, do respect the copyright of others and acknowledging myself as the source of my writing is encouraged and appreciated-
Young writers may copy and paste -
“Some writing is borrowed with permission of Angela Abraham, 'Daisy' of www.descriptionari.com”
The art of the peacemaker is the their ability to hold on to what love is in the face of confusing statements; those who are distracted by power lust, the need to cover a damaged ego and, sadly, struggling to recover from a lack of real love in their childhood, will mix "the good," "the noble dark" and the "evil" so that many are swayed and lured into war, barbarism and evil deeds.
The peacemaker is immune only if they love so strongly, so fully, and so broadly - their love being for all mankind and all creation - that they will only agree to measures that protect life, liberty, abundance and peace. The peacemaker has the right intuitions for love - that the right paths into our future are always built from empathy, compassion and creative solutions - ones that help all peoples and our Earth.
The warmaker twists the natural sense of love into something tribal and though they speak of noble dark, they are actually emotionally indifferent to the lives of others and are motivated by greed, vanity, power-lust. They have a desire for unearned pride at the expense of others, and are coldly indifferent to whomever they choose as the "outsiders."
And so it is clear, that the key to peace ongoing into our future is love, the sort of love young children have, innocent and pure, welcoming all, joyous and free. As Aristotle said, "An education without love is no education at all"; let's get educated.
The adverts were games of word associations you never volunteered for. They took normal words and said the phrases over and over until you weren't much more than a biological robot, feeling as if their product was friendly and it gave you some emotional value that objects can't. Happy is a feeling within, a soft contentment and comfort with who I am. Love is a bond I share with people who love me back. Joy is a sometimes rise in emotion, a burst of love that makes my social bonds stronger. And so I wish these adverts would say those things, program my brain right instead of luring us all down the path that's hurting our Earth.
Becoming independent is an adventure for sure, yet one I want to go into with both eyes open. I can't be one of those as the hampster on the wheel, or one who justifies their days as a way to a comfortable old age... there is so very much more to living: nature, joy, music, dance, friends and love. So as I take these steps to independence, it is with those things as priorities. I want to really live and be so grateful for a the opportunity to do so, not take the blinkers that come with so many "dollar bills."
Music, to her, was like turning back the clock, traveling and returning to a previous life full of agony and lose. She embraced the music and in turn the music took control. She found herself in a different world. A world of pain.
Her movements flowed with a dazzling grace that took away the breath of every person in her audience. She could feel her soul become one with the music and she unleashed her emotions into her dance. She needed this as badly as she needed to breath.
Her entire being moved with a purposeful clarity. With each stride she made, it became more painfully obvious how much heart she put into her routine and how punishing it was for her.
But no one saw the tears she let roll down her round cheeks.
This house is my home, where the laughter happens and I can rest at the end of the day. From the street it is bricks and mortar topped with tile, the same as any other. Yet if you step inside you'll feel it's so different, a place where the lungs choose to fill a little deeper and the heart beat a little steadier.
There is the hug of gentle arms that still gives the space to breathe; then there is the hug of strong arms that tells everything that your are - body, brain and soul - that they are with you. I love both, the duvets and the human shields, each has their time.
He looked at me and smiled. I nodded in acknowledgement, my head against the doorframe and my arms folded.
“I’m in a bad mood”.
I didn’t look at him to see his reaction; frankly I didn’t care. But then I felt him move closer and pick something out of my hair, sliding it down the strand slowly and carefully. I didn’t know what it was, possibly blossom; it was early spring. But in that moment I suddenly felt different, it was a sensitive act. Normally he or any other boy would grunt, “You’ve got something in your hair”.
This was different; it was an attentive side I hadn’t seen before.
Our house was the result of years of hard labour on the back of swarthy Bengali-speaking workers. At the height of its sumptuousness, it was the jewel of the river; the house of an important government official. Even when we lived, nearly five decades later, its pertinence and grandeur endured. But the formality of the house was both frivolous and well receded, so our childish endeavours could be fulfilled and we were free to squander away what was left our childhood on the riches of the land.
The cold moves in only to meet the warmth of my blood, my defence against such ice. I feel it wash over my skin, again and again, only to be met by the beat of my heart, again and again. The truth is, as hard as it is, that so long as I keep moving I'll win. The ones who stop are the ones who freeze; the victors reach the safety of home because one foot always moves in front of the other in defiance to the wind, in a rage against the winter blasts, at ease with the volcano that breathes under this snowy mountain top.