Don’t get me wrong, I understand that connection with others is equally important in weaving the golden threads of a good life – laughter with friends, the quiet comfort of being in a loved one’s presence – they’re vital. But with the relentless pursuit of external connection and validation perpetually purported to be our saviour, I firmly believe that we’re losing sight of the importance of connecting with ourselves.
On female rage…
Yes, we are feminine; we are the shelter from the storm, but rest assured: we are also the fucking storm. We are the gathering clouds, exhausted from years of quiet observations, comments, patronising, subtle, persistent moments of being undervalued; the patriarchal pronouncements, the dismissals, the undercurrent of doubt that threatens to shroud us in perpetual shade.
Moondance
Whispered sighs blending into melody, a story waiting to be told.
Will this work?
We are all, after all, delicate creatures of routine and solitude, and new connections demand a shift; a recalibration of what is familiar to us. And that in itself can be scary; vulnerability requires connection, after all, so we’re immediately on edge – assessing.
That’s all.
I want to roll over into arms that understand the strength it takes to wear my armour all day long. I want to be held by arms that appreciate how important it is that, with them, I can cast my armour aside to be warm and open and gentle; completely vulnerable without fear.
The first thing to happen to me was birth.
As individuals, we all sit at a metaphorical potter’s wheel from the beginning. Our clay is soft and wet to the touch, and it spills in endless motion. It forms new shapes constantly; versions of ourselves that, once finished, can only be shattered into countless sharp, unforgiving shards.