breathe in with the power of my soul, my inner truth, I enter my cavern, the whirlwind of my mind as extravagant windswept daze enlightens every phase, whether past or present, it is whole, in the right place, about face, I will take the first step in knowing that I, I am the creator of what I need to manifest, I have the strength, the desire, the power, to make my world amazing or something worthy of being devoured whole, in momentum, perfection in its truest form is what I once sought but now, keeping them at the length of my arm are those conformers, that I needed to be right, look like this or that, pull these nonsense, commandeered thoughts out of my hat and now flutter my eyelids, softly, softly, my world is present but the glory I seek to view is pure in ecstatic goodness, I tap and tap my mind’s eye, hoping to draw feelings forth, activate something deeper within, and I smile to myself, what have I created, in this moment of manifesting madness? I look back upon the paper, turn behind me at the pavement, then two steps back and three steps forth, as I look over my warbling thoughts, I head north within, to seek more precious artefacts.
We went through isolation, lockdown for many months, we craved human interaction, now I treasure tranquillity for myself.
Being stuck between four walls had caused me much distress, now I enjoy the hush of it — instrumental to my peace, the meditative nature of my success.
It’s not that I don’t treasure time spent with family and friends, it’s not that I’m not grateful that many restrictions were able to end.
However, I’ve learned to accept and appreciate time alone, by myself, quietness I’d never yearned to find, a busy calendar? No, a rested, calmed body, life, and mind in themselves.
Plateaued. Neither high nor low this time. Simply existing as I lie here, my mind blank, strangely it is not a feeling that perturbs or is out of place.
It’s just that the noise has stopped, the odd chatter that weaved in and out, through my mind as though as a slithering snake has calmed itself and I am here, at one, with the quietness, the peace, the solitude.
Even intruding noise pales in comparison to the stillness, I seem so far away from it, it’s as though there’s no link from my auditory path to it.
Like I have wiped away that connection, I am dumbfounded in mind and soul, and it’s not something that needs deflecting from, for I am welcoming these sensations which lack in their own.
Neither high nor low is my mood. I am not raging, I am not frustrated, I am not elated. No, no.
I am presently a blank canvas, waiting for an artist like myself to splatter me with my own colours, my own schema, my own shades from my palette, and why, there are many, wouldn’t you know it?
Though, there’s no need for any bright tones, there is beauty in the unfinished, the white rectangle I am present as is surprisingly perfect, a wanted moment, a feast for the eyes, for if I imagine my own scene, my own painting, I can alter myself, in a way of doing so, everything, I appreciate the freedom of the mental creation I can see and breathe.
Neither high nor low is how I am, not rushing toward the finishing line, neither despairing because I have not reached it in time.
I will create if I feel like it, but for now, a sudden newfound static in my head is utterly welcoming.
Rosemary oil swiped either side of the doorway, and below the walkway, where I will enter into my abode. Rosemary oil, so glorious is the scent, wiped below the lip of my desk, to harness, relax, caress.
I am embracing the softer side of life, scent, meditation, heeding surfacing dreams, taking care of my body, operating holistically.
After being so hard in my thoughts, so obstinate in being unchangeable and closed-minded to things I was unfamiliar with, I am finally open to the healing permitted in this world, different types of blessings.
It may seem like a small step to others, nothing really worth mentioning, but for me, it’s like addressing an inner power that allows me to finally embrace what I’ve been missing.
And the amazing thing is, I can already feel the differences, the self-improvements, the happier state of mind, the positivity beginning to trickle then flow.
No hardened soul to be envisaged anymore, there is no need to fight to struggle against my negative capabilities, I will relish the healing, I will cherish the process, and I will fall in love with the self-knowledge I am gleaning, the knowing.
Graham the Muscle Man adored impressing the ladies. Whether it was through his bulging, well defined physique, or his suave manner, when he murmured his sweet nothings to them, in a manner of eloquent speech, or his fetching red swimmers, known as red budgie smugglers, Graham was able to draw positive female attention wherever he went, women flocked to him, their feet pounding on the pavement.
Graham spent a large portion of his life at gym. To him, looking good was very important to him. It was nothing to do with having a healthy body and a healthy life; it was all a means to satisfy his desire to be viewed of as a delectable prize. You see, Graham was somewhat in love with his image and himself, his loving understanding of his life, unintelligent words about him would not suffice, for he knew he was clever, wise, attractive, well built, and most of all, kind.
Although he would always draw these women in, by standing on the beach, or in a park, subtle flexing his muscles so they could be greatly seen, he was also rather fond of impressing in the evening, the very dark mean streets. He always remained hydrated so he could take advantage of vascularity, when one’s superficial veins were so well hydrated that the muscles appeared to be further bulging. This meant more attention to his immodest self, this was what he wanted to be experience more and more then – with a shriek a group of women down the street called out, “There he is! Graham has been sighted, Graham of you I have seen!” The women rushed down from the brush and car park, and upon the sand they did now land. With a secret smirk, Graham knew he was famous to these women, that he was somehow well known to them.
“Can I have a hug??” one lady begged. “I don’t even care that I’ll get your fake tan upon me shirt and pants, I can change when I get home, I’d rather wear these stained with your vivacious shade of yours!”
“Why, of course,” he replied, now very modest. He needed to keep up a sense of pretence. Respectable and knowledgeable were separate things, but being narcissistic and in love with oneself was frowned upon by society, even though this is the way that most of us are operating, or at least how society itself is currently being portrayed, our visual media upbringing. It was as though it is a free for all, look after all features of your appearance: cosmetic, invasive, clothing short, sharp, snappy, the perfect job, life, pet, children, that everything is something to aspire to, can’t we always be happy with what we have, with what we already knew?
She grabbed him tightly, wrapped her clammy mitts upon his back. “I’m sorry for sweating, it’s a nervous reaction. I want to get it looked at,” she said, trailing off. “One of my best friends told me I’d never meet a man with my excessive sweating problem, yet here I am with you!” He noticed she wore a brooch-pin with his face upon it with a large decorative button. He smiled at her dedication.
The other three women from the group, also giddy, wanted a hug, and a firm squeeze of his biceps, and potentially another all over look, because they knew they would never meet such an attractive man again, especially not one who graced the cover of many romance books. For Graham was a model, he enjoyed being on covers of much loved novels, read by many a woman and men, but mostly daydreaming women who loved the sense of escapism. Romance covers allowed him to meet other women and impress them with his well sculpted physique, and commence conversation with them in the hopes that once comfortable they’d like to grab something to eat. But the current view of the situation is this: they only wanted to be friends, for they felt that Graham was romantically interested in men, not women, and this was how their thought processes went. These thoughts were obviously incorrect, and incredibly remiss.
Just because he was a giggling gossip, a man who loved to look after his body, look utterly fantastic, what did it matter if he highlighted his effeminate, pixie-like features with a thin face of makeup, besides, he knew that inside he would find The One eventually though, his search need not be pressured or drastic. But if most of these women automatically assumed he wasn’t interested in them, how was he meant to find a lady of his own, on his own volition? It was like he was going through a sort of enforced human condition, where he had to prove himself to them, that he would be a willing member of a relationship, a loving participant.
But for now, he would draw the attentions and eyes of the women all around, perhaps he would change his attire, remove the makeup, smile more and lesser of his contemplative momentary frowns, and now that he was joyous always, he was able to draw the ongoing attentions of females in every way, something which he had wondered if he was able to do, be, or even say. With each random meeting, he knew love was closer to finding to him its way.
On the beach one day, he decided to roll and roll in the sand. He didn’t care that he was covered with tanning oil and lotion that would cause the grains to stick upon him in every way, not a thin layer, but thickly instead. He giggled to himself as he felt himself being coated as though a piece of crumbed chicken, laughing and laughing, he could feel his mood lifting. Why should it matter how many women he could and would and had impressed, there was nothing malleable to take from those experiences except that he was attractive and well wanted. It spoke of nothing of his character, zero point to his personality, and then he realised that what truly mattered was that he be himself, not worry about the superficial, there was nothing further left to ponder. Over loving yourself can be a terrible disease.
So, he returned to the gym, asked for a week and a half off from membership payments, then at work, handed in his notice of resignation. He had always hated this job, and now he absolutely loathed it, so despite being told never to quit until one had a newer position, he wanted to be free of obligation, so he made the decision, the choice, to become available to what life would determine. “Throw at me what you will!” he dared the gusting breeze, the sun filtering through the trees, the clouds moving so slowly yet very, very freely. He enrolled in a yoga and meditation retreat, where they were not allowed to speak for ten days – the length of the retreat – and were only permitted to speak on the inside as though permanently introspective.
Here Graham found himself, his centre, his core, of who and what he truly was. He was not a showy being only intent of showing his body off. There was more to him than others viewed and this was important to be known, this information was never meant to be suppressed or misused, but he wanted to keep it carefully tucked away, upon a hidden message, stored at home. He didn’t want his true vulnerabilities to be shown, that he was an ostentatious man actually disguising a gentleness unknown to the women.
Now he operated in a manner so very modest, he was dressed well, his skin was scrubbed clean of fake tan, and his hair styled appropriately for the age group of 28-35, Graham was now an improved and less showy man. Now he was free to life his life, and perhaps, in a strange occurrence, he would meet his future wife. Who knows? Sometimes pigs could fly.
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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