Out of Place

I feel painfully out of place, like a piece of pepperoni that has mistakenly made its way onto a vegetarian pizza.

-S

Nothing Box

They say men have a ‘nothing box’ in their heads, a place that exists within their minds where they can be completely relaxed and at peace. If I possessed such a box, I don’t think I would ever crawl outside of it. I’d become a hermit to the nothingness of my mind. It’s rare that I feel even remotely close to calm. My thoughts run rampant 24/7 and they don’t stop, even when I’m sleeping. It’s exhausting to think so much, but my mind doesn’t seem to have an off switch. Though sometimes, very rarely, something flips the switch for me. It might be when I’m being creative or existing within nature, but mostly, it’s a song. Notes woven into melodies that somehow halt the busy highways in my head and let my anxiety fade away. In these brief moments, I have my very own nothing box. Only then do I ever feel completely present. Not reliving the past or worrying about the future… simply HERE, in the now. I wish I experienced it more often, but for now, I will treasure my nothing box whenever it chooses to reveal itself.

-S

 

Being a Night Owl

I’ve always loved the night. There’s something about the sunless calm that brings me to life and fills my soul with creative energy; energy that I expel in the form of writing, art and music. It’s ‘my time’. Everyone is sleeping and the house is quiet, just for me. Being an introvert, having this time to myself is something I consider essential for me to function like a normal human being, but sometimes I wish I could share my time with others, and be in their presence when I feel most like myself. My mind comes alive after midnight, and I have all these thoughts and ideas itching to escape, but no one to share them with. Don’t get me wrong, if people suddenly became nocturnal, I’d feel immediately claustrophobic, robbed of my time and energy. I just wish that every now and then, I had someone to stay up with and talk to until the sun peeks over the horizon and the sky turns dusky. Tonight is one of those nights. As the world is enveloped in darkness and minds drift into unconsciousness, my veins thrum with electricity and my thoughts demand to be heard. I feel alive.

-S

Labels Cause War

Equality. It’s the word of the century, something we are a species are constantly working towards, and yet I can’t help but notice how backwards we seem to be going sometimes. In my short time on this earth, I have experienced the growth of the internet and social media, and witnessed the effects it has had on society. With people being able to more easily find and connect with others like them, I’ve noticed an increase in the number of labels people use to identify themselves. Gay, straight, bisexual, transgender, religious, atheist, vegan, meat eater, rich, poor, democrat, liberal, republican, white, black… the list goes on and on. Not only do these labels exist, and more continue to pop up; but people are talking about them more and boxing themselves into categories. I wouldn’t be surprised if in 10 years, online dating profiles required people to tick the boxes of all the labels they identify with. Humans have a biological desire to belong. It’s in our nature, and historically speaking, sticking together with people similar to ourselves increased our chance of survival. But we’re not living in those times anymore. In this day and age, you’d think we’d be evolved enough to put aside each others differences and unify ourselves as a species. Whether it’s race, religion, sexuality or something else entirely, people continue to label themselves, and in doing so, are furthering the segregation that we’re trying to end. Labels cause war. I understand the need people have to find a sense of identity and belonging in a world of differences, but isn’t it enough to simply call ourselves human?

-S

 

 

 

 

What is Your Story?

We live in novels that have been created just for us. Worlds woven by words that we circle as though we are the Earth and they, the sun. Stories we tell ourselves become who we are, and suddenly, we’re orbiting time and space like we’re following a script. I see it happening to everyone around me. Manifested by our own perceptions, and fueled by our experiences and the opinions of others, an idea is nurtured until it demands to be fed. All thoughts have the potential to grow toxic, but insecurities are born hungry. When I was fourteen, my mother told me that my face was looking fuller, that I had put on some weight and was at last, ‘filling out’. To some, this would’ve been welcomed news – the thought of finally morphing into a soft, curvy woman like the ones we looked up to – but to me, this was the worst thing I could’ve heard at the time. Cue frantic googling of face exercises and hours of analysing the roundness of my cheeks, trying to determine if my fish lips and eyebrow lifts were doing anything to shed the barely-there puppy fat I had become hellbent on destroying. This was the first physical insecurity of many, and the beginning of my understanding that something small and seemingly insignificant can grow to become the whole world. It’s easy to get stuck in a loop; to feel and breathe and live the the repetitive motion simply because it’s familiar. It becomes your story. One you can read backwards or with your eyes closed. It’s the story you tell others, but more importantly, it’s the one you tell yourself. It shapes, motivates and guides you, but does not define you. Living within the novel that has been written for you doesn’t mean that you become someone else when you turn the page. You are more than the the words you tell yourself. If you’re unhappy about something that is within your control, don’t let past experiences be the reason why you cannot change. Don’t let people’s expectations of you hold you back from becoming the person you want to be. Stop living life according to a script that, when you’re taking your final breaths, means nothing. Write the story that you want to read because that would be one hell of a book.

-S

Curiosity Killed The Cat

A friend of mine once said I have an innate curiosity, an intense thirst for knowledge. I love learning new things and broadening my understanding of the world around me and everything in it. If I haven’t learnt something new for a few days, I become antsy. As far as I’m aware, I have always been a curious being. A few years ago, my parents bought me a blank journal and titled it “Google it” because even throughout my teenage years, I would always ask ‘why’ like an incessant toddler, and so they’d always tell me to just ‘Google it’. I’m still a walking question mark, but after realising that most people don’t have the answers I seek or simply cannot be bothered explaining them to me, I keep them safe in a little compartment in my mind. And yes, they all inevitably get Googled. Did you know that it’s impossible to hum when you hold your nose? Don’t worry, everyone sounds ridiculous, I promise. ^.^

I’m on a constant mission for new discoveries; mental, philosophical, historical or factual. It doesn’t matter what kind of knowledge I gain, I just love to learn. If I come across something I don’t know, or that intrigues me, I instantly want to learn about it – such as today, when I read an article about how to properly clean a penis. I do not own a penis, and have no idea why I felt inclined to read this article other than blatant curiosity, but I learned a lot. Even though I might not be able to use this new-found information myself, I can either pass it on to others or wait until I have little boys of my own, so I can teach them. It fills me with joy to learn, even about things completely unrelated to me whatsoever. Perhaps this is why it takes a lot to disturb me… because I’m also morbidly curious. I want to know about serial killers, cannibals, Hitler and everything else horrible in the world, because I want to understand. Why do they think that way; why do they do the things they do? A lot of it is fear based. The more I know, the more I think I can protect myself. It’s a weird thing, curiosity, and I’m yet to decide whether or not it’s a blessing or a curse… curiosity did kill the cat after all.

-S

My Garden

I think a lot. I think far too much, about every detail of every day; every experience and every thought that blossoms in my head. In my mind is a garden, filled with millions of tiny flowers and weeds, and I’ve scrutinised every single one of them, inside and out. You could pick one, and I can tell you when it was planted, how often it was watered and the height to which it grew before I either let it die, or continued to care for it. I tend to my garden every day, all day. I never stop. Every new experience is a handful of seeds thrown in my direction and I HAVE to catch them. I pick them up, one by one, and make space for them to grow. Sometimes I plant weeds. Ugly, poisonous plants that quickly grow out of control, suffocating the beautiful flowers and twisting their jagged roots deep into the earth. I watch them destroy my hard work and cry when I realise that I’m the one that gives them life. I water them when I shouldn’t, and pay them extra attention when instead I should be ripping them from the ground. But it doesn’t matter how many flowers I let die or how many weeds I plant, I can’t stop caring for them because even though they’re poisonous, when they’re thrown in my direction, I HAVE to catch them.

-S

Alone

Have you ever thought about how we’re alone in the world? When you look past your friends and family members; the people who love and care about you, it’s easy to see how alone we truly are. You don’t know what it’s like to be me, just like I don’t know what it’s like to be you. Our experiences and upbringings largely determine how we end up; our identities; what we like and don’t like; our core values and beliefs… and all of these are stored as memories. I am the only one able to access my memories, the only one who can re-live them. If two people share an experience, they both have memories of that experience, but they will be unique to each individual. If two people are sitting on a mountain overlooking a beautiful sunset, they’ll each be seeing it from a different perspective, no two people able to see it exactly the same, and thus, their memories will be different. Some people might think it’s the most beautiful sunset they’ve ever seen, whereas others may think it wasn’t that special, and that they’ve seen better. These differences in how we perceive things illustrate how unique we all are, and how no two people can ever be the same… which brings me back to being alone. So often, I think of people who were briefly a part of my life – we may have shared an experience, or they may have taught me something – and I can’t help but wonder if they remember me too. I could bring up a vivid memory of mine and share it with the person who is part of that memory, and they haven’t the slightest clue what I’m talking about. In these moments, I realise how truly alone we really are. Without someone or something to validate our memories, our minds are the only thing telling us they actually happened. It’s terrifying, particularly when I think of people who have their memories ripped away from them either through amnesia or Alzheimer’s, because they’re literally losing everything that made them who they once were. We’re essentially living through our memories and each moment in the present will become one of the past, a concept that exists entirely in our minds. We live alone in our heads, never really knowing how other people are living, or if they even exist at all.

-S