This Hard Rock Bottom, I Will Survive

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Self-help / Shorts

If ever you find yourself in a place of non-power, where the odds seem infinitely stacked against you, and where the last of your will power seems to have left your body, know this;

“In your suffering, and in your failure, there lies a seed of great success, the kind that shapes an extraordinary human being, and one that anecdotes quote, and space and time will not forget, and in this knowledge, also know that the road is beaten, and the road is long, but success is yours if you fight the fight today, and keep marching ever forward.”

Your failures don’t define you, but in a way, they do. Your failures have borne witness to the triumph of your spirit, and the bravery of your heart. There is no definition of human capability that would hold true if it did not account for a point of failure in one’s life; for although failure isn’t supposed to define us, in a way, it does.

“Be sure to take a step today, toward your hopes and dreams,
For although the world you know has stopped,
A step will start the spinning once more,
A step today, another tomorrow,
And before you know it, your world’s back on track.
So, before another thought of dismay,
Crosses your pacing mind,
Take a step.
Just one.”

Our understanding of loss, pride, and self-worth come from a narrow vantage point that places us in the centre of our universe. Placing ourselves in such positions of high regard automatically bring with it expectations, and the need to be the best. It is for this reason that we often feel disheartened when we haven’t achieved societal standards of good or great. Understand that if tomorrow you were to lose a job, a marriage, a personal battle, etc. the universe will continue, time will move, people will age, and that loss will slip away amidst the sands of time. Nothing is infinite, no pain, no loss, nothing. This understanding is needed to realize the small speck we occupy in an otherwise grand design, and we must, in this speck, try to live; truly live, only to grow as a human, irrespective of the standards of greatness set by society. Recognising our own mortality, and gaining strength from such a realisation is our biggest strength, as a species.

Strength is often described as a measure of one’s courage;
Of their ability to power through situations of bleak defeat,
Or how much they’re willing to take before they give in.
Let me realign your understanding of that strength.
That strength is willpower,
It allows one to tap into the strength of their spirit,
To try and will oneself out of a slump, emotional or otherwise. 

However, true strength of the spirit, is the resilience of one’s vessel,
The kindness and love, that allows one to navigate the worst storms,
And still wear a smile at the end of it all,
That is true strength.
To understand the futility in holding on to destructive emotions,
And the capability to breathe when the air gets heavy,
Knowing that the air is just that, and it will not hurt you.

So much of our understanding of what life is, or is supposed to be, stems from our misunderstanding of who we are and what place we occupy in a world of ember and ash.

There is so much to this that we do not see, so much that we cannot comprehend, but therein lies the problem, because our blindness is self-brought, it exists and thrives on our inability to see beyond ourselves, and our inexplicable need to see ourselves as all-deserving of the good, and non-deserving of the bad, not realizing that there is such a thing as balance.

Before You Forget Me

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Author's note / Blog

An open letter to my readers explaining the past few months of inactivity.

I haven’t put up regular content, since the 3rd of December, save one post a few weeks back, and the reason for that is two-fold; One, this year marked the last leg of law school, and thus there was so much to do before graduation, and concentrating on acing my tests, and working on my college applications for my postgrad was the goal for the initial part of this year, and now that that’s taken care of, I can get back to my writing, and engage you with fresh content once more. The second reason was that I used the sabbatical away from my writing as a period of introspection to understand what I want to do on this platform, and what I want to put out there through my blog, and to my surprise, I did not have an answer. I was honestly unaware of what the ‘brand’ I was building through my content was, and that is partly because I feel like I’ve tried polishing my approach to a point of being ingenuine to my actual style.

However, the thing is, I still don’t know what my brand is, or what my style is– definitively, but I understand that it’s okay as long as I’m putting up content that I’m happy with, and continue to pursue my writing with the passion that encouraged its start.

Thank you for your continued support throughout this period, and for the engaging e-mails that some of you have sent me. I will restart my writing as of tomorrow, and look forward to sharing more of my writing, and my world with you all.

Sharran Thomas.

They Too Shall Pass

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Black / Mind Matter / Poetry / Shorts

This moment,
these joys,
your eyes,
even the curtains that separate the different acts of my life,
they too shall pass,
shall turn to dust and nothingness;
for they too shall die,
with me.

I question the validity of pain–
on the hills of reminiscence,
Looking back at my wayward life,
and all the battles I fought in vain.
Those with myself, and those with my brothers,
Those with God, and all the others.

I question the reason in living–
on the plains of endless loss,
considering all the lives that were,
and all that may come to be.
I see them rise and fall like me,
a few droplets in the sea,
born at loss, who fight for loss,
nevermore to live so free.

I question the permanence of death–
in the sea of spiritual knowledge,
and whether the land we move to, in death,
is leased to us, if only for some time,
and whether once forgotten, we are recast,
into this world again,
to make the same mistakes,
only with different faces,
to live this life again.

But I know that thoughts,
are thoughts of thoughts,
and soon,
they too shall pass.

Lessons For My Child

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Shorts

There is so much that I cannot teach you.
There is so much that you must go through alone.
The world is good, but it is not entirely so.
There are people who seek to harm you.
Not for any fault of yours,
But due to faults of their own.
Not everyone is like this.
Not everyone navigates through the wrongs alone.
However, be aware, that they will present themselves to you.
As wolves in sheepskin, they will offer themselves to you–
In friendship, or in love.
You must be wary of these persons,
For friendship is not what they offer, and love is not theirs to give.
Be wary, young child. Be wary.

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Those Who Fall

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Poetry / White

Falling in love with all I see,
falling for people,
falling for trees.

I’m the boy who wields the harp,
who plays the lyre, and lights the spark.
He, who falls for love’s naiveté,
so entranced by her perplexity.

I’m the girl with the wispy hair,
with the long dark streaks, in knotted plaits–
with a full face, and painted lips,
reflecting the visage of the Queen’s eclipse.

I’m the child that they brought into the world,
full of joy, and full of love,
who cares so little how it all unfurls,
so long as I have my spot of fun.

You are the man who showed me that,
the world lay silent within your hands,
You are also he, who brought me to my knees,
and slipped away like grains of sand.

This world is all that I’ve been given,
and from it I must make honey,
Through bitter tears, and clenching pain,
I must always seek to make honey.

Ten Feet of Earth

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Black / Poetry

Ten feet of Earth,
we are known to inherit–

One belonging to our past, and all of its lessons;
of all those who lived before us,
who tell us their tale–
morbid, black thunder,
from beyond their grave.

Two for ourselves, and all that we’re worth,
all that we’ve gathered,
and brought to this Earth;
all the hate that we’ve spewed,
and the lies we have said,
to all those we have loved,
who now lay dead.

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Big City

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Poetry

Big city,
your bright nova’s shining.
What dreams can you not make true?
I can’t imagine the number of dreams that were brought to you.

Where, pray tell, are those dreamers now?
sprawled in mansions along your vistas?
or lost amidst sidewalks too poor to fix-up?
Where, pray tell, have their dreams then gone?

I reckon one day, I’ll come to your keep,
and offer my penance, and my dreams, so meek–
and tell you a tale, of whence I have come,
and hope that you’ll see me a befitting son.

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Ballad Of A Painting

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LGBT / Poetry / White

Painted in shades of grey,
he was raised within a wooden frame–
that did no justice,
to his imprisoned grace.

Thus, from his cage
of grey, he rose,
to paint himself in shades of white,
and raise himself outside the frame,
that had so unjustly held him down.

As he moved through the world outside,
that always peered in,
he brushed himself in teals and pinks,
till there was no grey upon his skin.

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Her Highness, Sadness

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Shorts / White

On a balmy spring afternoon, he sat there on the floor, with flushed cheeks that carried rivulets of warm salty tears down its length. His raven-black hair stuck out amidst the library walls; walls that were no stranger to this boy, for after all, they had seen him grow to the age that he was now. He sat picking away at a rather obscure thought, one that had been discussed, and dissected over the eons, one that did not, however, had not been answered to his fancy.

Sadness is the purest emotion.
When sadness ascends the frame of your body, and takes over the planes of your mind,
you pay no heed to where you are, or who you’re with–
the emotion takes the reigns.

 You could be a man of much self-assured hubris,
and yet, when sadness sings her tune, you care not where you are–
Looking at the blood reports, on a crowded hospital floor, confirming your worst fear,
Receiving a call during a Diplomat’s dinner, notifying you that your best friend has died.

No, not even the most proud and unshaken can silence sadness when she calls.
We are slaves to a Queen who ruled much before man,
who has seen more death, and fed more pain than we would ever know.
 

Sadness is the purest emotion,
for purity stems from a place of force,
a place of non-escape.
Where all are equal,
in one way or the next.

Flushed cheeks, pulsating against the rivulets that have now run dry; the ones that have now begun to pull at his skin. He cried, not because he pondered about sadness itself, but because the reflections it brought were far from happy. Reflections, like crystal rain, where within each drop he could see the sadness of his life, the truth in his thoughts, and the sheer weight of this dark reminiscence that kept him rooted to the spot, unable to wince, or think of another, for when the Queen spoke, she demanded all attention, and all attention she received.

And thus, upon once barren land, along grooves etched by forced rain, erupted more warm, salty rivulets.

A Comparative Analysis Of You And My Body

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Mind Matter / White

It’s almost the end of 2018, and I still think about you. I Still think about your hands, my hips, and your warmth.

I still fantasise about us together; and you have no idea how hard the reality of today with respect to that, confuses me. Because I fantasise about the idea of you, more than you as a person; the idea of someone who would be perfect for me.

I’m finally able to say it. Our relationship –as two human beings existing, but for a moment– granted me so much happiness, and allowed me so much contentment. It didn’t shake me to the thought that I was in love with the man that you could be, and not the boy that you were. It helped ease my mind into not questioning it. I should have; in retrospect, I should have– because, given some foresight, I would have recognised how I was channeling my need for a perfect future, a stable future, with someone I cared about– onto your broad, yet fragile shoulders.

Maybe if I did question it, your eventual departure, and sudden withdrawal would have bothered me much less, and maybe then, I’d have sooner understood that what I felt for you was but a fleeting emotion that I attest to the spirits of all those who I felt romantic love toward; all of my valentines in blue, who have vanished without a trace, all the ones that till this  moment of clarity, remained elusive enigmas in the woods of my mind.

Maybe if I questioned it more, or gave it more thought, it wouldn’t be that every space I look to, in the name of love, I would have to see your face, or hear your voice, or smell your scent. Maybe then I’d allow myself relief, and solace, in the knowledge that our love was short-lived, but not fake. But since I did not, I sit here writing, in the atmosphere of yet another song that reminds me of you, and rainfall that takes me back to us; but this time, in reminiscence rather than fantasy.

And now that I have written, in prose loosely suggesting your impact on my being, I feel full again; as though I have washed in incense and elderflower, your scent from my body, and your mark from my spirit.

The first rains are supposed to be cleansing–
you poured down onto my body, like a monsoon cloud burdened with rain,
but whilst you shared your bounty,
you flooded yourself out.

I can tell when we began,
and now I say that we have ended.
How glorious that is.

Thank you.