Indulge me
Dear reader,
This blog is a work in progress, much like myself. Similar to a baby clumsily figuring out how to take their first steps, I’m traversing this new world, knowing full well I’ll fall flat on my silly little face numerous times. As fate would have it, I’ve always fancied faces abundantly etched with stories. Perfection has never appealed to me. Indeed, I lust for dimples like the craters carved deep into the moons surface. Scrap that, give me history, scars, like the one my sister carved into my left cheek when I uttered something mean spirited to her ten-year-old self. Occasionally, I run my finger across it and laugh hysterically at our inherited ferocity. A ferocity worn so loudly, so unapologetically, sometimes it even scares me. These scars illustratively paint a gloriously messy life, a mess in which I’ve begun to find comfort in. For so long I’ve been running from this chaos as a form of escapism, but I’m tired. My muscles ache and my beating heart needs a rest. Or perhaps I’m done pretending? As I’ve grown, I’ve come to accept that this race wasn't sustainable from the start. Surely, it's more productive to rid myself of a finish line, embrace the messiness of it all, to simply surrender.
I want to kiss your ugly
I want to befriend your monsters.
I want you to cosy up with mine.
I want to bask in our mutual darkness before turning technicolour together.
"The writer who refuses to explore the darker regions of the heart will never be able to write convincingly about the wonder, the magic and the joy of love for just as goodness cannot be trusted unless it has breathed the same air as evil." - Nick Cave
Which leads me back to this blog of mine…
She’s burning is the metaphorical ‘room of my own’; a room wherein I can free fall with my thoughts and feelings, satisfy my every whim. I guess once a tumbler girlie, always a tumbler girlie (minus the how to starve yourself inspirational imagery).
Surmising She’s burning is tricky, particularly in this infancy stage, alas, I’ll do my best…
It's poetry
It’s prose
It’s personal essays
It’s creative dialogue
Its musings
It’s sharing the magical interconnectedness of writing and music
It’s cultural recommendations
It’s me grappling with this big, bad world
It’s self-soothing
It errs on self indulgence
It’s a permission slip to create for creations sake
It’s undefinable
I’m merely a multifaceted human with a lot to say. I extract meaning out of everything. I don’t know how else to exist.
And so I’m writing. I’m writing because it’s the cheapest and most nourishing form of therapy. I’m writing because when I write I feel like my most authentic self; the words that evade me in my daily life pour out of my pen.
Sometimes the world feels like a hideous, soul-destroying beast closing in on me. This little room of mine helps me to make the heaviness bearable. Society has forever told me that I feel things too deeply, overthink everything, say too much. Yet, I’ve come to realise that immersing myself in feeling, in sharing, in connecting, is when I feel most alive.
