I attempt to ascertain my sadness as a form of productivity because it’s been drilled into my head I am worth no more than the fruits of my structured labour. I cried on the phone to a friend of mine.
“Why are you Crying?” He asked me.
I told him I was ugly, I said I knew not why I wept and that I wish I could stop
This is when he taught me about this “radical softness.” A state of being in a harsh and brutal world where one can open up their petals for the chance to be kissed by the sun. Call it escapism, but it made a lot of sense to me. I staggered my thoughts to articulate them in a fanciful web of utterances which wouldn’t communicate how it is I feel. To feel weak in a powerful way. To radiate your sensitivity through a hardened exterior, shining forth to blind others as they squint away. To cry for no god damn reason.
“Why do you think you’re ugly?” He asked me.
I told him I’m ugly because of my skin, because of my identity, because when people get too close to touch me they flinch and recoil.
This is when he assured me I was one with the earth. If I wasn’t in such a state I probably would have hung up the phone because who has time for this hippy bullshit? But I was in a state, so I heard him out, I heard what this friend of mine on the other side of London murmured as I curled up under a blanket, my once white pillow turning a blotchy black. My brown skin wasn’t to be hated, but nurtured. To bloom. How can I bloom in the dark? Can any of us bloom in the dark?
I dunno, trying to write about a thing that is uplifting seems to go against all the nihilistic tendencies of my mind. It doesn’t seem it, it is it. I want to write about happiness but whenever I want to write I am unhappy. I want to communicate the speck of hope I often examine on the tip of my finger but then I ponder, “what’s the point? This happiness or unhappiness is mine and therefore I cannot communicate it to anyone because it is mine and it is mine alone.” So aside from being selfish in my own unhappiness, the only logical thing to do is be generous in my happiness.
Can I take this happiness as something to be found within my tears, within this radical softness? Flowers will bloom because what the fuck am I going to do about it? I’m going to bloom because what the fuck are you going to do about it? After embracing my radical softness (don’t get any ideas because I’ll still cut a bitch) I found a strength. Not only am I soft to others, but I am soft and gentle to myself. And in doing that my regimented self care came to fruition.
“I envy your tears,” I recall this provocation as I sit in this pub nestled in a South London town completely on my own. This place doesn’t serve food, only liquids. It would be a bad idea for them to serve food, there are so many places on the street that offer cheap and hot food. It would just cost them money. My tears which have been since elated are in a bit of an uncertain position. They’re not used to gentle treatment. Now I idolise them in their happy bountifulness. They’re not used to a confrontation without the stigma of manic depression. I always precariously gift my mental state to others, like a cat who brings home a mutilated creature. I thought I did good to bring home my prized possession! I hunted my mind, won’t you examine it? Commend me for my agility in its entrapment, let us dissect my brain and dance in its blood. And so on, and so forth. Perhaps cats know just how hideous their prey is, and that their masters will recoil at the offensive smells. But what else can kitty do, it must bring home something. It can’t simply be an elusive “thing, object, pet” with no substance. I cannot go on with no substance! Here, I thrust my rodents under your nose. Smell the decay and through the decay you shall smell the roses.
Through these tears I wiped away the dirt and uncovered my self! I sit here in a cheap fur coat, too broke for a beer and I could easily scream “I exist!”
I exist!
I am a fog
A selfish fog
A fog that wants to encompass everything
And smother your sight
Your breath
Your voice
I am the fog which is the only thing everything can see
There is nothing
Nothing, besides me
But, like all fogs
For I am no exception
We fade away
Slowly, the mist evaporates
My self dissipates
Then you’ll see
You’ll see beyond me
The veil is lifted and I,
Well I, I am no longer a fog
You can see now, with a forked tongue and eyes alight
I am a fire
My colours they dance!
They dance, they sway, they flicker, they beckon
My colours, they dance
The fire that I am, I want you to come closer
Move away from the fog and touch the shrill blue
My beautiful blue that truly
Encompasses everything I do
Recoil! Shudder! Move away!
The blue, this blue that wants you to stay
But you run, you hurt
You’re in pain,
I’m sorry that this blue
Was misleading in its hue
My rain comes forth and smothers this fire
Killing this pain and in turn
Nurturing you higher
This is my love, my love for you!
And I will water it, all the way through.
