...dear diary, as another dawn chases the night away, I am taking refuge at the edges of my tapping fingers to keep its shadows at bay.
Writing is my way of reinventing what balance would look like for my evolving self. It has been my only path back home to myself. It is how I get to free myself over and over again from the usual prisons we lock ourselves in during our lifetimes.
When I let go of perfecting the best way to express myself like this, I find myself flowing gently with how my mind secretly sings. The conditioned way of running things dissolves and I get to be reborn as my higher self and go about fixing what I initially thought I couldn't.
Nothing about all this comes at ease though. I have lost my light one too many times for fate to find the time to engrave my bones with seasonal doubts. I occasionally give in and let them rule over my paranoia.
And writing about it feels strange when I let it.
I have also run enough miles on low self-esteem and I have had to regrow my self-love from unimaginably painful lessons.
My soul has often made a home in the dark and my ego loves pegging shame on the open letters that I spiritually use to rinse my healing being in. This then becomes the window my overwhelmed mind uses to blackmail me into giving to poetic silence.
And that results in watching myself set me on fire to preserve what people might say. And it feels like choking on something and air can't get to my lungs.
When it escalates, everything within me burns while I crave to line up the voices in my head in some lyrical sort of way but I can't. My thinking then of course becomes why would I want to parade my wounds for the world to see.
But I always forget to let the triumphing side of everything shine. Or how every loss becomes a gain in a whole different way. Or how what the universe was trying to tell me might be lying beyond my passive sense of entitlement.
Healing for me has always been within reach but I seem to always find myself lost in the murkiness of my pride disguised as my ability to keep shit to myself.
If only I stopped fighting against the ways of my bleeding ink and simply enjoy where they take me, I would be able to mend every rip on the fabric of my soul. It is so sad to wield a skill like this and then choose to censor most of my experiences.
My higher self finds it limiting, to say the least.
And so, here is to having an affair with words. I shall forever be indebted that they chose this soul as a forever spring and I give my word to these phrases that I shall try to let them reflect whatever it is that I need to see through their mirroring ways more.
>...the digital art is mine and was generated on wonder.
wambuku w.