Warmth

Sitting here, realising what I've done, remorseful, brandishing my shame like a type of child’s blanket, I look around the room. Comforting, warm, with the ever growing feeling that, one day, I’ll have to let go and face the life in front of me. I'm not scared, hardly a coward, but moments like this are few and far between so I'm at a loss as to how I'm supposed to proceed.

Logically, methodically, the answer stares me in the eyes. Right there, just in front of my face, resilient, barking the truth at the top of a voice but, as usual, it’s not just about logical fact. There’s always feelings. Feelings that pick, damage, devalue and berate a person. Usually I don’t like to mix the two as they can confuse. One says yes while the other, often, states no. They say that you’re supposed to go with your gut but, when you’re honest, if ever, you know that ‘that’ view usually leads to trouble.

We’re all born beautiful, kicking or screaming, a near blank slate, but fate and fact have led to this very second. I'm not perfect, never will be, which is a design of life and society, but I can at least try. From across the room I can feel the heat, from the roaring fire, flow across my face and hands. It’s a special heat, not fabricated like many modern houses, despite the fact that it could destroy all I see, it still holds a place in my heart from when I was a young boy. That’s the type of heat that I want, that I need, from the people in my life. Real warmth, a real feeling, despite many of us being surrounded by fabricated and veiled lives.

We sit at home, alone or with others, yet feel the deepest loneliness that can hardly ever be shared. There’s moments, those seconds, while alone, where it manages to escape into the void of your life. You feel it, within those seconds, then quickly console yourself, maybe even brandish harsh words against your view, before conducting your composure to reach a valid smile that could fool but the most vicious truth seeker.

I'm stuck, here, right now, right in front of you. I find you exhilarating, I need you to be exciting, spontaneous, to take that fire from this room and to instil the feeling within my soul. I'm flickering, I'm but an ember of whom I used to be, but I'm never, ever, going to exclaim this to anyone but myself.

I'm not allowed, not permitted to do such a thing. We’d all like to reach out, at certain times, in order to seek help, but surrounded by souls working away at their own square of life, it’s selfish to expect a knight to move for a rook. Forgive me, I've slipped into a game of sorts while knowing, obviously, that life is not a game.

Maybe it is, maybe it’s just the way of things. I'm going to let go of the blanket, I'm pushing away the supports I've built around myself and, right this second, I'm going to step forward and do what I need to do. Time is precious and, more than anything, it must be lived. I'm stepping forward, to tell you, that you’re amazing. You’re who I would like to give me warmth. But that, when I reach the end of the words, is up to you and every other person we meet today.

Young

I was so young, all those years ago, with the oppression experienced by a child, carefree, without any weight upon my shoulders, albeit believing that I was always hard done by if I couldn't go out at a certain time. I thought that I knew everything, had the world figured out, yet still trying to understand the basics of maths and English.

I was so young, all those days previous, when I started the weekend job, venturing forward into the world, away from the safety of home and parents. It seemed easy, it all happened with such speed, but at that point in life it all moved at a snail’s pace.

I was so young, when I first fell in love, the heart strings finally being placed into the hands of someone else, someone new, with wide eyed feelings and trust. The world seemed to stop, for the shortest time, with each kiss and the thoughts that we shared.

I was so young when my heart broke, for the second time, the third time, while managing to also break someone else’s heart. It was tragic, it was a mess, with emotions spiralling out of control, the world making little sense while staying perfectly, exactly, the same.

I was so young, blaming the world for everything and anything. It was never my fault, it was not quite due to my beliefs or actions, with situations and stagnation settling. The repeating ways of the world ensuring that I, once again, managed to end up in the exact same place.

I was so young, when the world decided to apply pressure, with a mortgage and things to maintain. It seemed like fun, it seemed like the right thing to do, the same as everyone else, yet I had started to let go of the real safety net of home, parents, as well as the ease at which I previously lived. Life was happening and moving faster.

I was so young when I finally realised, on that amazing day, that I was to blame for all of my problems. I could no longer point the finger at other people, other loves or similar relationships. It was all me, the circular situations, that had taken many, many years to finally become reality within my heart and mind.

I was so young when I resolved issues of the past, a momentary reprieve and reset of the actions and circumstances of my younger youth. It was glorious, it was mind changing, plus also a tomb where being self sufficient belonged to my present and future.

I was so young when the biggest part of my life left this world, which nothing could prepare me for, no rhymes, no prayers, no sacrifices or situations. I was powerless, vacant, lost and for the shortest time, completely alone in the world. No matter how hard you hold onto a hand it will eventually, one day, let go.

I was so young when I realised that my friends, along with the people that broke my heart, with the people’s hearts I broke, plus the family in my life, formed who I am. They are special, they are my memories, my current space, as well as my past and hopefully future.  I have no enemies but a few friends.

I was so young when I realised that I would never truly, completely, understand life. I understood that there were questions that I’d never have answered, not even possibly upon leaving this place. I knew that if I could return to when I was young, to an earlier moment, I’d impart wisdom, I’d prepare myself, but I would still be too young to appreciate the words no matter the age.

I was so young when I knew that this is it, the experience, the crazy ride that we call life. We have to live every second, love every minute, hold onto the special people and be good to all others. We’re here together, with all ages alongside us, breathing the same air and speaking the same thoughts.

I was so young when I finally, on that last day, knew that it was my time. I’d loved many people, I’d left a few, had a few leave me, worked in many places, seen far off places, but still managed to reach the end of this paradox. I've always been young. I've always been that child that arrived into this world many years previous, but I never, ever, let all of the experiences take away that youth. Hold it. 

Embrace it.

I was so young… .

Paint

With a thunderous rapture, a cacophony of events smashing the brief second of silence, the brush moved with ease and effort. The canvas, A3 in size, is held tightly to the ground from a stand built to last, painting in whatever circumstances life decides to throw my way. With each movement, each moment of purpose, the picture forms and speaks to me.

I'm alone, on this mountain called life, viewing the valley ahead of me, being brave, fearless, vehement emotions beaming from every single slice of my skin. I'm here, right now, surrounded by the very nature that breathed life into my veins all those years previous. Nature, all around, feeding me, believing in me, wishing me to be all that I can or should be. The canvas, an expression of my mind’s eye, a place to create, to express, to clear my mind of the daily folly.

The rain starts to pour, covering the land all around me, washing away the weight of the world. Many words could have been spoken, in vain, in anger, but now all that can be heard is the ear splitting sound of said rain. Washing away everything, cleansing my soul, flattening the electric tension from the world.  I'm trying to feel free, apart, separate from the daily toll and toil of life. I'm here.

The rain kept on thundering to the ground, but with each stroke, with each deciding line, a splash here, a moment there, I'm creating the forward view onto this canvas of mine. I'm in control, I'm aware of what I'm creating, no matter how many clouds or moments, it’s my story, it’s my picture drawn in my own special, eloquent and specific way.

I don’t care about the rain, I'm ignoring the spurious thunder, I'm ignorant to the cold forming over my shoulders, as this moment is all mine. Stepping back, just a step, I can see the colours, merging, being formed from the rain adding their own take on my creation. It doesn't matter, it’s hardly a sin, as outside forces often try to reform whatever you wish to take place. It’s a liveable circumstance, it’s how I expect things to be, but that picture, it’s still there, alive, part of me, no matter how it’s changed or maligned by life.

I close my eyes, imagining my picture, the lines, the expressions, painting my heart out, while taking in the ambiance all around me. It’s the moment, it’s right now, it’s how I envision the finished picture whilst also knowing that it might not quite be what I wanted. It’s okay, it’s fine, as life is creation. Life’s a revolution of time, set to come back again and again. Maybe I’ll repeat this moment, next week, with completely different emotions, moments, but that’s what life’s about. Experiencing, expressions, trying the unknown whilst chancing and changing the known.

Another splash of rain, another stroke from the brush, the seconds ticking as the clouds allow a peak towards the sunshine. The thunder is over, the rain is at a stand still, with a new moment waiting behind the wailing. I've painted my heart out, I've done what I came here to do, to experience. I'm awake, I'm open eyed, despite the clouds, the rain and thunderous shouting.

Maybe I'm the canvas, maybe my words are the paint, forming, creating, showing each of you what I, we, you, could be. Maybe we’re the brush, taking control of our destined picture. We’re capable, all acceptable to each other, within the limits of our own sized canvas of life. Maybe we’re the view ahead, controlled by a higher power that holds the very brush that creates our lives or, just maybe, we’re none of the above. Maybe we need not be defined. Maybe we’re an abstract creation.

Either way, no matter the picture, no matter how smudged we become, no matter how the conclusive picture reveals itself, at least we tried. It’s complete, the journey for today, the task of the moment and, above all, I have something to show for the very seconds spent on this journey. I know that I'm alive, I know that I can even place myself into the picture.

The whole world is your canvas, no matter the weather or location, all you need to do is close your eyes and… paint.

Prison

Resting my head, onto my hands, as my legs rest on the cold concrete slabbed floor, I realise that I'm here for one specific reason. I can look back, to the past, the misdeeds, the missteps, the never-ending cursing of faith or ability but, when I've finished procrastinating, I'm still the reason why I'm here.

The rain, smashing against the walls outside the cell, seldom bringing comfort but at least it affords a moments relapse from the silence. That, alone, can be such a deadly place to be. Alone, solitarily confined within your own mind, waiting for a respite, but that seldom arrives once your own mind starts to tick away at your patience, strength and resolve.

I often, while lying there, cold inside, think back to the decisions that I’d made. Should I have turned left, maybe the right side of right would have been best left alone, but we just sometimes do not know which way is left before looking to the right. Straight forward, the usual fast forward of life, grasping, shouting, thrusting forward with such strength in order to enforce the resolve of conviction, sometimes just destroys the very bridge you've created with our bare hands. It’s tough, it’s tragic, but it’s life. My life.

Lifting my heavy head, with cramping neck and trap muscles reminding me of the strain, I reach forward grasping at the thick black bars ahead of me. If I had the strength, the resolve, I’d use every ounce of my energy to escape this place. The bars, their imposing picture, become a constant reminder of the space just beyond my confinement.

The trouble with all of this, the very crux of the situation, the pondering insights into this very state of mind, is that I'm probably still here because a part of me doesn't want to leave. It’s safe, confined, away from the world, a palace of misery with no golden slipper at the end of the road. If I could turn anything into something else I just might. My companions, the stone walls, the dust, the shallow mattress, are all so perfectly safe. Maybe I'm deluded, promising myself that there’s bail just around the corner. A solution, a rescue, someone to take my problems away from me. Heaven knows I've placed my faith in others before, prescribed to them my perfect prescription of cocktailed comfort, but we all know that I'm the only one that can escape this place.

Using the bar to steady myself, I rise, slowly, to stand as tall as I possibly can. At any point, at any time of life, I can stand as I have just done, I can change my thinking and proclaim my innocence. It’s possible. I can dive, from this place, into an ocean of freedom. Sure, of course, I might not be able to swim once I get there but, amongst anything else that can be said, I’d prefer to try than die as I am in this place. 

I know the solution, I know the issues within and the cause of this cancerous position that I'm in. I realise that my dis-ease will form the disease that finishes me off, so right now, this very second, I have to decide. I have to take a single, solitary, motionless second to change something, to change anything, but most of all I have to realise that this prison, this very place, is all in my own solitary mind. It’s up to me to simply… Break free.

----

So many people suffer from mental issues and, thankfully, there are millions of people that do care and ‘can’ care as many have been through situations or can at least try to appreciate or connect to those feelings.  There is hope and there always will be. Talk. Talk to yourself… Find an answer.

-6,188 suicides were registered in the UK and 451 in the Republic of Ireland since records began.
-The highest suicide rate in the UK was for men aged 40–44.
-The highest suicide rate in the Republic of Ireland was for men aged 25–34 (with an almost identical rate for men aged 45–54).
-Rates have increased in the UK (by 3.8%), England (by 2%), Wales (61.8%) and Northern Ireland (18.5%) since 2014 – however increases in Wales and Northern Ireland may be explained by inconsistencies in the processes for recording suicides in these countries.
-Rates have decreased in Scotland (by 1.4%) and the Republic of Ireland (by 13.1%) since 2014.
-In England and the UK, female suicide rates are at their highest in a decade.
-Male rates remain consistently higher than female suicide rates across the UK and Republic of Ireland – most notably 5 times higher in Republic of Ireland and around 3 times in the UK

Bodyguard

Waiting, patiently, daydreaming, while playing with a cuff link, he stood next to the door as people walked past his view. He wanted to tap his foot, giving in to his impatience, but he knew better than to allow his mind to take over his view of the current world. People watching, resolving their situations, playing a game within his mind imagining how each of them interacted with the people alongside them.

To his left, the table closest to the expansive glass building front, sat an elderly couple. Both silent, they themselves people watching, having lived an extensive life travelling the world. Perhaps they’d really seen it all, with nothing left to say other than timeless silence, but at least he could see that they were still holding hands. Both of them, viewing the world, taking in the youth around them, probably thinking that life was simpler back in their day. It was, more than likely, with a stiff slap across the head if you stepped out of line. He let a very small, silent, expressive smile appear on his lips for the briefest of seconds before composing himself.

The couple at the table, to his far right, by the cashier’s desk, looked vaguely dissatisfied. Probably annoyed at being so close to the main walkway or, more than likely, they’d had an argument. The man sat leaning back in his chair, arms crossed saying nothing as she tapped a rhythm of intent onto her phone. She was messaging, not texting as that’s yesterday’s thing, which meant a dinner picture probably sending itself into the world. All it would take is one second, one moment of compassion and understanding, for both of them to smile again but, of course, that would be far too easy.

Just next to the desk, the lift doors opened, with people flowing forth in their quick rush to be somewhere else. These were the high rollers, the type that wouldn’t stand for such a restaurant, despite it already being far above what people would call normal. This place was special, but where they arrived from, it probably all seemed mediocre. Divisions, lines, scales of balance, all meant to keep people segregated in an invisible whisper of diversity.

With a quick glance to his right, taking in the view, he caught a glimpse of a gentleman glued to his phone walking slowly to the male conveniences. Probably an Entrepreneur, wanting to be noticed, judging by the level of noise being made by his voice. Brash, with a stylish hair design, new, spotlessly clean, to the point of over indulgence. He'd caught the eye of a lady standing over by the bar, threw a wink and a smile her way, then opened the door and vanished as quickly as he’d arrived. The lady, returning to her drink, smile falling from her face, looked discomforted and, of course, alone.  Good looking, striking even, with just under shoulder length hair and an outfit to much her ability to gain male attention. The shoes, obviously matching her bag and accompanying accessories, added the extra significance and charm.

Returning his view, to carefully look ahead into the area, he brought his attention to himself. A quick look downwards at his shoes, which were still viciously clean, a wobble of his tie, meant that he was still as he should be. Clean, crisp, equally fresh as the start of the night, waiting for her to appear for the second time. He didn’t mind the wait, not even for a second, as this was what he was made for, his purpose, to ensure that they both experienced the night as intended. Warm laughter, a meal where they could both flirt over a glass of wine, while wondering when and where they could both be alone, again.

The door, beside him, opened with a small whoosh of sound and he quickly composed himself. She was beautiful, magnificent, to him, in every single way. Each time he saw her again, every second, just seemed to be that experience that he longed for. He knew, no matter what, that he did have a job to do but this was more than a job, it was a lifetime. All other situations, all other people, no longer mattered as much as they did before. She smiled and, as she placed the final small implements back into her purse, they both started to walk towards the door.

With two quick steps he’d closed the gap between them and the exit. With one swift motion, while checking the area outside, he opened the door with a smile. She smiled back at him, saying ‘thank you’, as he followed behind her closing the door as he went. He carried the smile with him, realising the ease at which he respected her as this, after all, is the least of what a husband should and could do.

Operation

With steady hands, being minutely careful, the knife gently pressed against the artery and the importance of the situation suddenly became clear. One wrong move, a flinch, one small miniscule movement and the situation could be lost forever. The beads of sweat appeared across my forehead, my heart suddenly banging against my throat lining, reminding me, grasping at my thoughts, enlightening me to the dire position that I’d managed to get myself into.

The damage, as is often the case, was 60% inflicted by another, 30% self-caused and the remaining 10% an utter mystery. Even with eyes wide open, even with the smartest of minds, the best of intentions, we simply leave ourselves open to so much pain and suffering that it’s a wonder that any of us venture forward into the world.

The beeping sounds, emanating from machines and possible others in the room, all began to spin inside my mind. An impossible task, hardly considered a professional at such things, but I could never be chastised for not trying or at least caring. I'm a fixer, a problem solver, a solution finder and that’s remained with me since I solved my own issues. Despite life trying to remove such things from my consciousness, it’s still there, yearning, asking, trying to find the world to make things right. Either way, in this day and age, people seldom ask for help when presented with the Social Network of attention. A new age.

Looking at the void of another person’s heart, I swallow my fear, maybe even a miniscule taste of pride, readying myself to scrape away the disease inflicted by another. We speak such tepid words into the world, with vapid feelings, thinly veiled shouts for help, all the while knowing that what we think forms how we heal.

This person in front of me, right now, had entrusted her safety to another, interlocking their hands together, their lives, only to find that people can often change and become such monsters. It was too late, once you've fallen for the wrong person. It’s a shame as we’re all searching for something. Someone. A place to call home. We often fail to leave, until it’s too late, due to fear or a host of other ideals.

Scraping away the evil attached to the arteries, carefully, trying to erase the years of abuse, I suddenly see a clearing of hope. It’s possible, there’s light wherever we decide to look, if we decide to see such things. The trouble with life, with people, is that we sometimes simply don’t want to heal. We want to submerge ourselves in the pain, the loss, the ever-comforting dark whispers of a forgotten familiar friend.

I can see you sliding backwards, into the dark place you've called home for far too long. Leave, run away, get out, destroy that place, it’s but a creation of your own mind. Release yourself from that place. There can be windows where you only see a wall. There can be a door within the dark room of nothing. You control you and once you decide, you can be freed. You need not one other person than your own heart. Your mind. The strength given to you from the moment you were born. Survive. Thrive. Become more.

Although the task is an arduous task, a mountainous pursuit, no matter the outcome, I will always try to heal a broken heart. Although you need no other to accomplish this task, right now, for these seconds, I’ll help and guide until you’re able to move forward.  We, together, can repair some of the damage and the rest is up to you. Never stop fighting. Never stop believing in yourself and, at all times, repair your thoughts and heart.

With careful caring hands, I lean forward, touching your heart, reminding you that everything will be okay. You, after all, have survived this far into life so we can, honestly, survive the next few hours. A smile escapes through the fear, the solemn tears drying under your eyes, with hope threatening to keep your heart afloat. There’s hope, always, in all life.  Readying myself, taking stock of the situation, I hold your heart in my hands and brace myself. It’s time to hear the entire story, warts and all, with both sides possibly making an appearance and, within myself, a small part of my own heart escapes and connects with yours.

This is life, real life, with a person’s issues being larger than any other life. It’s expected. It’s permissible. It’s called being human. Now, please, tell me everything... .

Whispers

I heard a whisper, maybe even barely a thought, that seemed to want to resound throughout the world. The universe laughs, already at peace with the balance that we crave instilled into every corner, lacking on this very world of ours.

I heard a few words, nearly breaking through the deafening silence, created from spouting the same said rhymes and rhythms. It seems that the more people scream, the more they shout, asking to be heard by all, the more we switch off, fail to listen or even become swept away with the life we, as well as they, lead each day. When I was younger, listening through the silence, watching, waiting, too young to truly appreciate, I wanted to understand but didn't know what, the where, let alone the why.

A sentence forms, it appears in front of me, wondering and asking to be understood. I'm failing, am I succeeding, not sure of the reasons why I need the message at all. I'm lead by the words spoken on an elongated box, or the spouted poison spread through the on-line frequencies. Misunderstood, maybe, disproportioned, of course and misconstrued all day long. The words are created by others to control, to make you obey, play nice, to stay nasty, to mistrust and scorn others.

I’m close to visioning a paragraph, a strong structure of letters forming the many words. The font increases, becoming bold, starting to seem ever so heavy. We’re not built for such depth, the words that can free hold so much weight that it threatens the very world that’s been built for us. It’s heavy, foreboding, always keeping us on a knife edge yet happy with our new purchase.

I ignore the further whispers, replacing them, blanking them, ignoring their ever presence in my world. I block the weight, I remove the guilt, standing tall from my own two feet and morals. I do hear the words, I see their meaning, while others remain oblivious, but I am, we are, just the few within the very many. I could exhale my words, as I do, as I am with the typing clicks from this very keyboard, but there’s a limit to the truth that can be heard.

I raise my hand, blocking those heavy whispering vipers in the world, I've finally had enough and can no longer listen with the mind that I have. I respond with kindness, I realise that I do care, which is something that the media doesn't want. I summon my own thoughts, my further whispers, forming my own stability from within. Smiling, understanding, I proclaim to the world,

“If there were a thousand words, spoken in a thousand cities by a thousand people, hopefully, surely, the message of love would spread throughout the world.”

These are the whispers that we need, those are the kind of paragraphs that can conquer the hatred, the injustice, the idiocy of the way the world works, the kind of sentiment that the universe would be proud of.

Let’s start whispering.