AP

There is a prison inside my mind, too small to keep my body, excruciatingly small to keep my spirit. I have grown past its confines long ago, the bars dig into my tender flesh, pain pulsating with every attempted movement. I long for freedom like it is a partner whose mere scent sets my body aflame with desire. A glimpse of it in someone else is enough to make me want to offer up my very being. I hate the prison, and yet I must love it too, for I can break the bars but choose to satiate myself with a familiar pain. I know there’s so much more beyond this, I catch glimpses of it brought by scents of unknown tides. Unknown, yet familiar. And all the vastness of my spirit trembles with anticipation of galloping across that field, unyielding, honest, free.

To be free is the only fight. How do you fight that which you cannot fully see? You carry on swinging in the darkness, bravely and stupidly, expanding in surrender to the call. The call is the answer, a whisper of the distant truth. So fragile, so easy to dismiss. And yet enough to reach you in the darkness of the prison. One stubborn breath. And then another. There is no greater pain than that of self affliction. But every breath pushes it farther and father in the background. And I begin to see, in masochistic delirium, just how ridiculous the prison is. A hurricane in a jar. Both cage and freedom bend the rules. How long can you deny the call? How long will you allow for shallow gasps knowing you were made to hold the storm? I hate the prison, and yet without it I wouldn’t know which way the freedom lies. And so, I must learn to love it too. 

11.06.26

It’s a balance, I suppose. Between believing in yourself and believing in the universe. The curse of the ambitious is constant self undermining. I keep having dreams that I am late for a train, and no matter how hard I run it leaves without me, as I come to a stop at the station, panting, with a taste of iron in my throat. I don’t think there is a way to avoid it, even if you forsake the social media. A bit like self expression, we cannot exist in a vacuum. Doubt seeps in through the smallest of cracks, tiniest of pores - and we are alive, pores a plenty. Even if you are at your core rebellious, defiant - smallest of expectations are nagging in the back of your mind. I am not where I want to be in life right now, not where I thought I would be…

If there is only ever a present moment, how come it always feels like it is slipping away? Excuses, reasons, blame everywhere, one pulling on the other like an unravelling yarn, piling up on top of me, and if I let them, even for a moment, to cover the sun - I cannot move, I cannot breathe. Action begets action, what is life if not a constant motion? In this way, small death is around every corner, we fight against smallest of deaths every day, without knowing, without seeing. We have a perfect timeline in our minds, a draft. A dream is a vision, a road marker. The only way to have the print-ready edition, is to let go of the draft. Yet I stand there clutching to it, as if my life depends on it, as if the goal itself will fade if I let go. And all along - the moment slips, and there’s another, and another, while I seem frozen, and the gust of wind from passing trains keeps trying to tear the draft from my hands.

Come, the life is begging. Who told you it is so unsafe to move? Or that I’m not leading you where you want to go?

What if it's not the way I wanted it to be? I answer.

Fair, it says, what if it's better?

What if it’s worse?

Better or worse, it would still be alive. Wouldn't you rather it live, than remain here, holding your breath?

I would.

So trust, be seen, failing if need be, ugly, bruised, until you know it isn’t scary, only unfamiliar. Until you know how to get up and you can see, everyone has been there.

And you are not alone.

Ever.

Trembling all over, I unclench my fists, and there goes the draft I can no longer see. But my foot is finally aboard the train. 

.

“Another day” thought Alexander, cranking open a can of lager. He sat on the set of stairs leading to his apartment on a second floor of a two-story building. The sun was just setting over the horizon, he could barely make it out behind the multitude of buildings. A low hum of city slum life and his neighbours fighting downstairs - someone trying to sell or settle something - he was only half listening. A child started crying, and a dog barked in rebellion. His mind settled on the dog. There was something primal and relatable to it. He could hear the barking over everything else, louder and louder, his thoughts only partially actually there. An emptiness washed over his eyes. He searched frantically but couldnt find anything. What is the point of this bleak existence? Every day is exactly the same. “Would anyone even notice…” He blinked himself back to the present, getting up with a small grocery bag. Inside of his apartment the light of the tv dominated the room. Passing images that also didnt matter. Alexander boiled a cattle and watched the steam rise over his noodles. He mixed the contents and walked over to the tv. He sat there in the low hum of the news, finishing off his beer, but his gaze was elsewhere again. He went through the motions of the rest of his day, same as every day. Clean up, take the garbage out, set his clothes for tomorrow, brush teeth - all in robotic precision of practiced, almost military, discipline. He stared at the ceiling of his bedroom for a while, emotionless, listening to domestics of his neighbours - a daily lullaby. 

The next morning was the same as the others, Alexander did his routine diligently and walked out the door to head to the office of the law firm he worked at in town. He almost didnt notice it at first, in a cacophony of morning rush and half-interested nods. There was a letter sticking out of his mailbox. He never received any. Alexander pulled out the envelope and briefly scanned over the sender address with no name. His name was clearly written on the front. He ripped it open. 

A postcard with scenery from the city he lived in, he recognised the mountain hills. It was beautiful in a way he never noticed before, but only because it was exaggerated for tourists, he thought. The card read: “I thought today is a good day to start. I’ve never seen this city, but the picture inspired me to go to the green cafe I keep seeing on the way to work. I like an americano with two cups of milk on the side. The smell of coffee appeals to me but I don’t like the bitter aftertaste. The article I wrote today was about the quality of that shitty lager I had the other night. Disgrace. This country is supposed to know how to make a decent lager, at least. I think I shall come back to this cafe again tomorrow.” Alexander frowned at the writing, there was something vaguely familiar to it, but who the hell writes a postcard like this? Maybe it was meant for someone else? No, the address and the name are his… He didnt recognise the sender’s address but he didnt think much on it, tossing the envelope into his shoulder bag. 

As the day went on and Alexander got on with the usual procedures - complains about property lines, unpaid or underpaid services, taxations and the like - he found himself dissociating again. Everything was always about money or processions. He joined the profession what seemed like a lifetime ago, even though he was only in his forties. He thought what better way is there to fight injustice than by playing the very game that cemented it. If he knew all the ins and outs of the laws, he could outsmart them, find a loophole, bend the system just enough not to get bent over by it himself. Yet the more time went by, the more bend over he felt. The more he knew the more it felt like there is nothing he can do, no way around the rules. The more he searched, the tighter his hands were tied. More disappointed faces staring back at him and another “I’m sorry, there is nothing else we can do” and the almost-sickening, unbeatable hopefulness and pleading in their eyes. His fingers ran over an envelope in the bag. He read the words again. It still didnt make sense. He frowned, typing in the name of the town in the sender line into google search. Error. What? How can the city not be on the map? A small village perhaps, around the town? The postal code points to somewhere in the city, but not the town written on the envelope. He worked with an old man recently who seemed to forget things, like the names of his children and how many he had, or even where he lived sometimes. Maybe he meant to send this to someone. Alexanders eyes fell on the paperwork on his desk he was filling out earlier, then back to the postcard. A slight tinge of fear ran through him and more confusion. The handwriting was unmistakably identical to his, same tilts and dots. He jolted from his chair. Then picked up the postcard and the rest of the desks contents with the shoulder bag and shoved them to the side and thought nothing of it for the rest of the day. 

He sat on the steps again, his lager half drunk, the same dog protesting the ruckus yet nobody paying it any mind. “I dont even like this brand, why do I drink it…” he thought, “Oh, right… I cant fucking afford the once I actually want.” Another robotic evening, noodles, tv, ironing the clothes, shower, brushing teeth and the lullaby of noise from every wall. He had almost forgotten about the postcard, yet he felt a strange pang of curiosity run through him as he noticed a corner of paper sticking out of his mailbox again the next morning. No name again. It was a picture of a sunset. 

“Oliver used to be such a little thing, now his paws dig into my belly when he jumps on me while I read my books and it surprises me how heavy he feels every time. I got my Americano again at the green cafe. A different woman was serving it today, she had blue eyes and charming dimples in her smile. The editor liked my story about the shitty lager. So I will write about the price of beer, which is ridiculous. I am one of the lucky ones, but I imagine the average salary can hardly sustain a steady stream of anything decent. Oh, my friend Alice called, she wants to go up north on Sunday, the cherries are in bloom. They serve raindrop cake here, by the way. Have you heard of such a thing? I like the toppings.” 

“What nonsense”, thought Alexander. “What is a raindrop cake?” He asked his neighbour, an elderly woman who always sat in front of her door like a statue. He usually tried to avoid her in the morning, even waited by the door a few times for her to go inside, but mostly she was always there. “Eh?” She shrugged in response. 

“Who drinks an americano with two glasses of milk on the side”, he found himself mumbling on the way to work, “just get a different drink, with milk in it. Or dont drink coffee if you dont like the bitterness. Ridiculous old man…” 

That very day the old man came over to talk about his case again. 

“Are you pranking me?” Alexander found himself saying at the end of the appointment. 

“What, son?” 

“It’s just the postcards… it’s just like my handwriting.”

“Postcards, what postcards?” 

“Nevermind.”

Before he locked up, Alexander found himself looking at the name of the city again. Nothing on the map. There is no city with that name, but there is a postcode. And a bus going that way in 15 minutes. He gathered his belongings and found himself on that bus, and shortly, at the location. To his surprise, he saw a small cafe with green exterior in front of him. Only a small table on each side of the entrance. He walked through the glass doors with eerie caution. There was an old woman at the counter.

 “A new face? What can I get you?” 

Alexander looked around the interior, searching for… someone, but no one in particular caught his attention. There were only a few people inside, space for maybe ten people in total, even that would make it insufferably crowded. There was a woman with a child, a teenager with a dog in his lap, and an older couple on the other side. 

“Eh… an Americano” he found himself saying,” with two milks on the side. Please.” 

“Anything else?”

“No”

“Alright.” 

His eyes fell to the display of cakes and pastries. There it was, to his surprise, a transparent bubble slightly shimmering in the setting sun.

“What is that?”

“Oh, raindrop cake. You can add the topping you like, we have three.”

“What do people get with it?” 

“Cookie crumbs, usually. But we have coconut if you like it less sweet.” 

“Cookie crumbs are fine.”

“Coming up.” 

Alexander walked over to the seat by the window. You could see the sun from here, and it slightly blinded him, but felt warm on his face. He liked the cake, and surprisingly the bitterness of coffee was pleasantly washed away by the milk. He kind of liked the idea of tasting the bitterness, but also the fact that it didnt have to linger. A perfect life philosophy. He waited, what for exactly he couldnt tell. As the shop was closing, he turned to apologise for staying too long and thank the woman and noticed something. She had blue eyes. 

“Don’t apologise”,- she said with a smile, “you know, my husband was the only other person who drank his coffee that way. He always said he didnt like the taste lingering in his mouth, so the milk helped wash it down. I didn’t understand it, but I loved watching him write and drink it. He sat at the same table. He died a few years ago, my lovely Alexander. But not a day goes by I dont still think about him. Thank you, for reminding me of him.” She squeezed his hands gently and walked away. 

You are an ancient force coated in rich green foliage - clean and organised, yet with a wild flavour, shaped in melancholy and battered by years of turmoil and collected mistakes turned into art, with roaring fires of humble but assuring warmth. And full of people! “In London everyone is different, and that means everyone can fit in.”

To live in London is to live inside a Renaissance painting. It’s in the colour of the brick, in cherry blossoms, a gust of heat on your face when entering the underground. In moody February mornings lined with trimmed tree trunks. In the way the Thames lessens your worries with each bend and tide, a slight ache in your feet picking up the heartbeat of the endless streets. In the droplets of a cold pint on a Thursday at 11, and the smell of freshly glazed boats and distant coxswain shouts. 

To live in London is to finally know home - when you never really had one. 

London is an eternal rhythm shaped by stories on the shelves and in the cobblestones, where any corner is an adventure of its own - open to souls, not constructs. In London you can be extraordinary just as you were designed to be, as you entered this world - a perfect soul - without pedigree, permission or pretence. You don’t need to be born into the right family, have a certain amount in your pocket, speak or walk a certain way or give due to any expectation before you can be magic. 

You simply walk - and collapse time. 

One turn - a meeting with a thousand years of thousands whispered stories in a single glance. Another - you’re lifted by a cool breeze in your wings seventy floors up. Another turn - you’re in Van Gogh’s brush strokes or sheltered in Richmond’s green embrace. 

London brings you back to life. To live in London is to never feel alone - in your pain or in your dream. To live in London is to never forget who you are. To live in London… is to forever carry it in your heart. 

With love,

Ana Plugatar

A little five year old girl looked into the waters and saw the Shadow Wolf with Moonlit Fur. That cannot be… she thought, I cannot be... She was beautiful, wild, free, with glowing moonlit fur slowly shifting in the wind, white razor-sharp teeth in a soft smile. How beautiful She is, how I wish to be Her, thought the little girl, but I can never... I am not beautiful enough, I don't have such beautiful smile. I’m not powerful or glowing, and I don't know what the Wind is...

"But you are", whispered the Wolf in a voice like silk, "you do".

There was a deep dark shadow in Her eyes, it was heavy, but warm and steady. A sword lay next to Her feet.

"Look", said The Wolf.

The little girl felt the cold heaviness of the Sword's handle, her fingers too little to fully grasp it, her shape too small to lift it off the ground. A shadow settled inside her.

"Listen", said The Wolf.

There was something in the air now, vague and uncertain, scary even, but it called her name.

"The Wind?" Whispered the little girl. The Wolf smiled.

"Listen", She said once more, "The Wind calls... West." The Wolf began turning away.

"Wait!" Shouted the little girl, attempting to drag the Sword behind her. "It is too heavy, I cannot carry it."

The Wolf paused, the darkness in Her eyes a little heavier. "I know", She said, "sweet child... But it is yours."

"I've seen my parents with similar things, but theirs don't look like... mine. Theirs are sharp and smaller. Why can’t I have something like that?"

The Wolf said nothing, yet there was a softness in those shadow-filled eyes, a tenderness that only pain knows how to carry. She turned around and vanished, yet the little girl could feel something change in her, like the shadow of The Wolf still lingered.

Once more she met The Wolf, when she was slightly older. She came in the middle of the night and startled everyone. She was awakened from Her slumber against Her will, called by the little girl. The Wolf bared her white teeth and shook the air with a low growl, ”I’m here, don't worry."

"No," said the little girl, “You frightened the girls."

"They were wrong", whispered The Wolf.

"No... this isn't me." She pulled out a grey rope and wrapped it around The Wolf's mouth. "Go," she whispered in a trembling voice. The Wolf said nothing, She lowered Her head and once again vanished into the mist.

It was a long time before the little girl met The Wolf again. But she could hear the Wind calling, clearly, and her hand could now close around the hilt of the Sword, even though it was still heavy.

"Your Sword doesn't look right", said her parents, "why do you carry it? It is meant to be sharpened with a whetstone every day, and returned to the shelf, it's way too heavy to carry." "It's sharp enough, and I will carry it," said the little girl.

One night the Wind called West again, a shadow of The Wolf ran forth, and so she followed. Hands shaking, she couldn't see through the mist, but she kept walking. Sharp branches pierced her soft skin, coals burned the bottoms of her feet, and ice cold rain shaped her solitude. Slowly, the mist cleared and in a blur she saw a solemn scene. A lifeless grey industrial machine, some years shy of three hundred, an infant, only taking its first breaths and already getting it wrong, already looking like an apocalyptic wasteland, regurgitating bills and pollution while devouring spirit with a grimace of racist disdain. And no people... The little girl was sad, she felt the shadow grow darker. She squeezed her hand around the Sword, shivering, unable to rest by the fire that didn’t feel warm.

Again the Wind called in the night, this time East, and again the shadow of The Wolf ran forth. She followed. The rain, the coals, the branches. Yet when the mist cleared, to her surprise, she saw a different scene. An ancient force coated in rich green foliage, clean and organised yet with a wild flavour, shaped in melancholy and battered by years of turmoil and collected mistakes turned into art, with roaring fires of humble but assuring warmth. And full of people! Her steps were weighted, but something shifted in her shadow as she walked. Home?

She turned around and saw The Wolf for the first time in forever. Tears ran down her cheeks as shaking hands undid the knots she once tied around The Wolf's mouth, they dug inside Her skin now and restricted Her breathing. "Oh..." whispered the little girl with gentle tenderness, "I'm so happy to see you!" The Wolf stretched herself from head to toe and pranced in roaring laughter. "You have grown!" She beamed, "can you hear the Wind?" "Yes," laughed the little girl, "it's like a song here!"

She held The Wolf's face in her hands and gazed deep into Her eyes. The waters she saw long ago loomed into view, and in the shadows she could see her smile reflected.

"Look", said the little girl, one arm around The Wolf, "The Sun is here, you don't have to run anymore." The little girl lay down the heavy Sword. "And the Wind," she smiled, "you don't need the Wind anymore either!"

The Wolf said nothing, She grew quiet, laying next to the Sword. The Wind rustled no more, but Her moonlit fur grew brighter and brighter, until there was no shadow, no Wolf to be seen, no Sword. Just the moonlight shrouding all in a thick haze. "I just want to rest here a little now…”, the little girl whispered in a trembling voice, curling up into a ball. It was warm in that light, so warm that for a while the little girl rested, without the Sword, without the Wind, without The Wolf.

This time the Wind didn’t call in the night gently, it came in like a hurricane and swept away the haze, the moonlight, and The Sun. The little girl sat by herself for a long time, there were no people here, just that lifeless machine coated in frost. Slowly, a shape appeared in the darkness, The Wolf walked toward her, the moonlit fur glowing in the shadows. She gently lay the Sword by the little girl's side, and curled around her. The moonlit fur was warm, Her low breath steady.

“I’m sorry…” cried the little girl.

"For what?" answered The Wolf.

"I thought I could just be the moonlight, I didn’t want the shadows, I never asked for the Sword, or the Wind."

"Sweet child", said the Wolf, "I know. But look how beautifully you carry them."

"Maybe they were right, maybe... the Sword belongs on the shelf, only taken down to be sharpened daily."

"No…” whispered The Wolf, gently wiping heavy tears with Her soft fur, "their swords may be, but yours you carry how you want, how you always have. Listen for the Wind."

The little girl managed a shallow breath “But I'm not... You."

"Oh, but sweet child… you are."

.

.

A little phoenix rising saw a sparkling ray of sunlight. It was a cold winter morning, shadows biting at the feather tips, the phoenix blinked with curiosity and suspicion… so many mornings were spent like this, the cold was more familiar. But the Sun was so beautiful and steady that the phoenix softly released its grip and stretched, shaking off the frost. It was so lovely to just stay there under that Sun, for a while everything else ceased to exist.

“I never want to leave.”

The phoenix blinked with curiosity again, “how strange…” One moment it was soft and pleasant, then suddenly it burned the feathers and the phoenix had to flip and turn so it was soft once more. Again and again the phoenix turned, legs a little weary, head slouching in a soft daze. The steady stream of gold stretched in a potent mist, chasing out the shadows. Again and again the phoenix turned, it burned and it was hard to see now, but it was so pleasant…

“I cannot see, but I don’t need to.”

The time stood still, a day had passed or maybe years. “I cannot step away, it is so sweet, what if i freeze in the shadows? Oh, but it burns…”

Please,- said phoenix,- I cannot see, I am warm, but I need water. Alas,- replied the Sun,- but I have none to give!

The phoenix felt a jolt of pain, throat too parched to speak, the feathers crumbled. “I need to see, I cannot breathe. Oh, but it is so sweet…” And so the phoenix lay there, admiring the Sun, afraid to think of shadows and the frost, its wings turning to dust. “Oh sweet surrender, how it burns.”

And then a sudden gust of wind, the ice, the dark returned, all faded and existence was no more. The phoenix, just a remnant of itself, not breathing, not moving, lay a lifeless shadow for eternity. “Where is the Sun?”

It was so cold and dark the frost before seemed like a welcome memory. “My heart… it isn’t there, its just… coal.” It was quiet in the darkness, no other soul, no movement, no sound at all.

“I need the Sun. I need the Sun. I need the Sun. I need the Sun. I need the Sun…”

Eternity had passed again, still the Sun didn’t show. The snow had come and covered ashes. “What’s this..” thought phoenix, afraid to move as a soft trickle of light entered its eyes. It was barely visible, so thin and weak, “but I can see! The Sun??”

And then explosion, the world so bright it trembled with anticipation, a heart so red it thumped in song, the wings so strong they scattered ice and shadows.

“No.”

Deep breath.

It is the Phoenix.

.

Tiny little elephant was always alone,

He went far and wide, yet had no one to hold.

“I make friends by the dozen”, he said, “I don’t understand,

How come in this big world I can’t keep a friend?”

So he went to the jungle and had a good time,

He spoke to the tigers and got along fine.

He went to the desert, found stallions there,

To North Pole, to the mountains, he went everywhere.

He met a beautiful bird on his travels one day,

She seemed calm and unbothered, and willing to stay.

They laughed and they cried, and they danced in the rain,

They shared little stories and she knew of his pain.

Then one day in the forest, walking yet all alone,

After rain, in the puddles, his reflection had shown.

He saw eyes full of kindness and a heart filled with love,

And the person most needing these things mentioned above.

And it is in that moment that he finally knew,

The one friend that would be there in the days that are blue.

He embraced himself gently, standing there a long time.

“In the world that’s uncertain, I know now I’ll be fine”.

“Life is coming from you, not at you.”

As I make my way to a tube station in West London, I observe the different hues fall and wither. A dreary sight to some, but to me a great comfort. The hues change into mulch that feeds the earth, and I take comfort in a thought that in this enormous universe full of uncertainties, there is indeed at least some pattern of predictability. Whether we are here to see it or not, to register or analyze it… so it won’t matter if we rush or slow down and enjoy it. So might as well, take our time.

I think I understand now that we must learn that out feelings aren’t all there is. We are not slaves to our feelings. We must learn to rule with our heads, to come to our own, to answer to ourselves first. We don’t belong to anyone as people but ourselves, and we owe it to ourselves to live for ourselves. No matter how much we love those around us, that independence is something each of us owes to ourselves as individuals. Only then we can give ourselves to another completely- when we give our freedom to ourselves. It is only when the passion doesn’t cloud your judgment, doesn’t consume you whole- that you can breathe above it, and grasp it hard enough to siphon it your way.

Only then you can look beyond your fears and your doubts and truly own everything you want, feel like you deserve it, and enjoy it and keep it coming. When you learn to balance emotion with logic. Together they give us power. Unbalanced- they rob us of it.

This power is vital in making choices and standing by them. And the choices make up our whole lives.

Believe that no matter what, even despite your own self, you can have the life that you desire. Because you deserve it. And when the day is right, you will find the courage you need to embrace it. There’s no doubt about that. And there will be no more doubt in you.

“Journey” is featured in “A Moment Of Your Time” podcast this week! Use the link to head over to their website if you’d like to listen to me read it. I’m very proud of this piece and it was a pleasure working with them in creating this episode.

Love

.

.

For the first time I’m realizing what achievements are all about. I see it like I’ve never seen it before. You do not get the opportunity and expect it to build you up into becoming who you always wanted to be or what you’ve always wanted to do. You build yourself and then the opportunity comes inevitably because of who you are. Not opportunity first, then I become. You become and therefore you get the opportunity. Succumbing to your talents and letting them flow. Growing them, growing your dextricity with them is perhaps the biggest challenge and it can often take the fun out of it. But learning to have fun in this process is perhaps the biggest challenge of all. Change isn’t easy. Growth isn’t easy. But like it or not you need it to keep up with the flow of life. THAT is the JOURNEY. And however long it takes you to build yourself you need that time. Dreams don’t come true because you fight against their impossibly. They come true because you let yourself be. The opportunity is always there. Waiting for you to let yourself be. And that is entirely up to you.

In a culture that constantly strives for more- be less. Where everyone is more stuff, more extravagant, more expensive. Be less, be efficient, making do with what you have, slow down and find beauty in less and in simple and in the mundane. In the world of pretence and perfection, accept the imperfect and see how truly beautiful it is. How far superior than perfection is uniqueness. Perfection is a myth devised by human nature that is fascinated by the notion. But it doesn’t exist. It is fiction. There isn’t a perfect template. In nature everything changes and evolves and adapts in accordance with its own comfort. We see it when we find it in the wilderness, we treasure and learn from it. But we fail to see the same within ourselves. But it is there.

Beauty is all around us. Right where you are, right as you are.

.

.

People often think that a traveller, a wanderer, a journeyman only applies to migrations across the earth, but I think the same could be said about a life. I would even venture as far as to say we go through many more inner journeys in our life than outer ones. It is a journey to find a partner that is your best friend. It is a journey to get a career you’ve always wanted, or indeed any dream however small. It is a journey to learn how relationships work, how people work, how you perceive the world. But perhaps the biggest journey of all is learning to love yourself. In the world is all about material possessions it is so hard to believe in your own self worth, that you are enough. And you are right- you aren’t enough. You are infinitely more than just mere enough. Whatever journey you may be going through at the moment, this one is always the most essential one. Your soul chose to come here, this time, this body. And it is the biggest challenge to understand that it really is all just in your head. It is a choice to work on oneself, and it’s a wonderful choice, to better yourself. After all, that’s all we do in growth. And it is a choice to alter yourself. But whatever you chose- at no point ever are you less deserving of love, just as you are right now. The world would have you believe otherwise. But you can and you will one day give yourself the love that you deserve, selfless, unyielding, and ever giving, and the most rewarding. Forget the world for a moment, forget your predispositions, your learned habits of harsh self criticism. The internet, the society. Turn your picture upside down and empty your mind. See yourself the way you’ve never seen before. The way others may see you. My darling, you are perfect. And you are infinite. 

First and always- love. It is there, no matter how deep it’s buried. Let it out. 

Love

. 

As I walk in the forest

I feel it living all around me, the ground is soft beneath my feet, the tree tops are humming and the birds respond. The air is thick with warm pine and propolis, pleasant sickness, my head slightly spinning from this saturated aroma. And every once in a while this harmonious stillness is disturbed by human voices. It is curious the way the forest carries sound, deceptive, as if in protection. Or perhaps it is just the nature of the human being, disturbing the balance, completely unaware of themselves.

As I get closer to the top, the air becomes even fuller and fresher. And finally there’s a clearing and the valley spills out way below in front of us. Small houses, and straight lines loosing their value in front of the great green splendor engulfing the earth. A wall of rain is moving slowly towards us, shrouding it’s territory in white. The sunlight is warm on my legs

As we rest on the top, unpacking out lunch, suddenly a big bird comes down in a loud swoosh, it’s wings cutting the air perfectly. It disappears clutching to its pray. I wish everyone around me would quiet down and listen to the breathing of the forest. In and out, clearly, calmly.

Someone rang a gong and it travelled around the slope.

The forest is such an inspiring place this time of year.

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As a worrying person in nature I always seem to come back to time. Once, of course, the daily wheel of concerns has been depleted. After the terminal conclusions of grave mistakes of looking up symptoms online, or occasional thought of blindness in one eye, or paraziling fears of overdramatic fates that might befall someone you love- side effects of growing up a film buff, really,- there will always be time. I used to have dreams on end about missing a plane, or running after a train. I suppose that relates to any creative work or other such ambitious beginnings.

Being in love with something you can observe and want to do yourself is a tricky partnership, because you can see your partner grow and experience things you so long for while remaining completely unnoticed yourself. It does not feel like a healthy relationship, because it is for the longest of times a one way street. To even do the work you must give endlessly, all your love, all of yourself, selflessly, without expecting anything in return. You have to find joy in doing the small things, which is a massive challenge for a perfectionist. For me, it is never enough. Which spirals into a whirl of thought and extends to almost all areas including my character. It is a skill, in my mind, to be able to take things lightheartedly. To give yourself time to grow, when you so desperately want to experience the bliss of immediate gratification. BIzzare really, since change is the one thing so terrifying and so desirable at the same time. But this time is essential, even if we do not realize so at the time. Consider yourself two, three years ago- who were you? How different from today? Could you do the same things back then, and if so, would you do them as well as today? And what would you say to yourself? 

It is a choice, I think, to be content with those small things. To believe that they take you somewhere, because they do. No, you would not have done things the same way because it is a climb and it is only after a time that you look back and realize there is a reason and a right time for everything. Annoying- yes, but true nevertheless. There are so many layers to a human being. Remaining the same in a few years time and in other ways changing completely is one of the paradoxes of that layering. Time is another paradox. Here you are with your current worries and challenges, which seem so monumental in this moment, of course, because they ultimately make up your reality. But they are just today’s worry, tomorrow today will seize to exist but the layers it created within you shall remain. And if I could say one thing to myself from a few years ago I would say do not dwell on time, think of the small steps in between, learn to love them because they make up you. 

Having big dreams is a great thing, but it is so damning as well. Having a vision of a big picture, so stressed by every advisor out there “Imagine your future positively, as if you have it already!”, is so pressuring for a thinker. It is far easier to not see the big picture, to simply concentrate on the small steps in front of you, take you where they will. Because those alone take so much figuring out. 

Being in love with something you want to do is a tricky partnership. Which, just like in a real relationship, takes blind trust before you get anything back. And it will break you heart more times than perhaps any real relationship. Until you learn that drama really belongs in films, and here it is just you and it isn’t so bad. Breathe, be leveled and calm, it is not that big of a deal if you believe it isn’t. Move at your own pace and listen to your inner self. “Don’t give up on your dreams!” -bullshit, I say, give up on them, a million times. Take time to grow. Breathe. Let go completely. Feel utterly gutted. Breathe more. And then stand up again and come back to them. And perhaps this time you’ll see what you could not before. In your own time, on your own terms. Because it isn’t the giving up that matters, it is standing back up.