There is a nostalgia in me that is not mine. How can it be when I have never worshipped the Sun? When I have never danced in the full moon? When I have no name for the plants around me? This longing is embedded in my DNA. And it has been waiting. Waiting for me, for us to remember that we are nature.
I seem to find myself in a unfamiliar world. One that hurts my eyes with screens, hurts my ears with screeches and hurts my soul with pollution. A world that worships the new Gods of economy, materialism and individualism.
False Gods that bring no joy, no peace - only work and hollow aches for someone elseâs life. I ache for the old ways, long forgotten by me. For I am the same as everyone else, I have too forgotten. I am disconnected in a world so connected. Alone in a world over spilling with people.
Each of us long for people to reach inside and see us. Someone to fully understand and know us. And yet we never know how to reach into each other. Who are your neighbours? What is the name of the postman? Do you even have a local shop?
Community is dead. We have been separated and I fear on purpose. By a system that wants us alone and powerless, so it can use us. Grind us down for every pence are atoms are worth. You are not a person, you are potential profit.
And so we are too busy. We are too busy working, that we have forgotten we are alive. Wasting away behind screens, behind closed doors while the old Gods call from outside.
Am I the only one that hears their call?
Remember us.
Come to us.
Help us.
And even I do not go. I think we are all trapped inside the machine of society. Trapped into making the economy grow. Trapped into wanting that new dress or that new TV. Yet my eyes are open and tears spill, for I am sad.
As I cook, I am sad as I wash up the plastic waste that I hopefully put into the recycling and pray to some unknown being that it is in fact recycled. I am sad as I walk up the street and pollution spills into my lungs. I am sad about the litter, about the sewage, about the condition we kept farm animals. For when it hurt nature, it hurts me.
And what good are my tears for my Old Gods? They need my hands and my brain. They need all our hands. But what use our hands when we have lost so much knowledge. I could not survive without the system that pains me. A system that has destroyed so much nature. I once was nature.
But I am no longer native to my own lands. My hands do not know the soil and my eyes do not know the plants. And the land is cut up and divided. None of it ours.Â
The life I long for I cannot have. It does not exist and maybe it never did. Nostalgia is dangerous. Longing for a forgotten life is another trap. This is the world and these are my cards.
Time washes us forward, and I cannot not resist. And so I must ask myself. What can I do? What good can I do?
We did not evolve for how this world is now. We didnât evolve to live in buildings that block the sun, in cities that scream night and day. We didnât evolve to stare at screens, to sit all day wishing we were anywhere but now. Your hands evolved to be used, to fish, to farm, to hug. They remember the soil, and still they yearn.
We evolved in simpler times when the world was green and wild. Threats were immediate and dangerous. Donât be fooled. It was not easy. Life, herself, is not easy. We lost loved ones, but our souls sang in tune. Listen now, hear how the gears jam.
Look at us all. We are lonely, anxious, depressed. This culture has taken from us what we know is truth. The earth, the sky, the trees. Going. Going⊠almost gone. In return, it has given us untruths. Things that masquerade as real. Social media will never stop you being lonely. Money will never make your heart rich. Material items will never fill the hole in your soul.
So, no wonder you cry. No wonder you long for something else. You are out of time. You were not born for now. Come now, close your tired eyes. It is okay. You are not wrong. The world is.
I see your need, your desire. It spills out of you. Word after word. I want to stick my fingers in my ears and shout La La La La, while I watch your lips form words that will never reach me.
How privileged. How selfish.
But I do not, rather, I absorb them like a sponge. Swelling and swelling until I become saturated with sadness. Morning for a world that I did not make or build or want. I cry for it. I cry for me, for you, for everyone.
With tears in my eye, I realise there is nothing I can do. And this is worse. It makes me morally grey, at best. I have no energy, no time and I canât be bothered to help make this world a better place. That just living in this system makes you close your eyes to survive, shut your ears to find peace and be empty to feel whole.
I sit and sulk. You do not seem to understand my sudden sadness. How a person so happy and content can, without warming, simply curl up and hide. You bite your tongue as if you have spoken poison. As if your words and not my eager ignorance are to blame.
I wonder how you live with those words on your tongue and those thoughts in your head. I wonder how you get up every day and exist. You must be stronger than me, my only defence is to wring out all your words and re-find my ignorance and become hollow again.
And once I am hollow, think to myself at least.
At least the sun shines.
At least the trees are green.
At least the cat purrs.
At least you.
Her eyes fluttered open. A dim blue light shone into them. She ignored it and closed her eyes; she was not ready for wakefulness. Just a few more weeks, she thought. And with that thought, her dreams twisted around her, and the light was forgotten.
A month later, her eyes opened fully. They were swirling gold, ever-changing like flames.
The light was brighter now, and it annoyed her. Silently she cursed it, then yawned, closed her eyes and return to sleep. As she did, prayers of far off people entered her mind. They were asking for spring, for change, for her. She pushed them away and thought once more; spring could wait. She did not want the colour or warmth of spring.
Grief still wrapped its all-encompassing arms around her. What she wanted was blissful sleep. In sleep, she could forget that her lover had grown old and left this realm. In sleep, she could see her again, young and smiling. But in sleep, peopleâs prayers infected her dreams. Farmers begging, pleading for spring. Mothers asking for food to feed their children. Children desperate for warmth.
She saw them as they prayed, and she padded between them, looking carefully at their thin, weather-beaten faces, pausing at each one. She stopped and stared longer at an old woman. Her round face was covered in wrinkles, and her hair hung white around her shoulders, but she was smiling. Her gaze looked past Artio at some unseen thing. She reminded Artio of someone. Â
âIt must be strange to get old.â The old woman turned to her, and their eyes connected, and the old womanâs eye burnt into her. Something deep inside her remembered something, and she longed for something, for someone, but the scene shifted.
A man she knew appeared. His mouth opened, and he spoke slowly, âArtio, you need to wake up.â She looked at him. He stood tall and shimmered. On top of his head were antlers with green plants wrapped around them. Was she Artio?
She replied anyway, âSpring will come when I decide.â The man disappeared, and the dreams turned back to snowy villages and dwindling people praying. She saw scarifies of lambs, offerings of bread and milk and promises of worship. But still, spring did not wake.
Her golden eyes opened again; light glared in this time. She squinted. It was too much to ignore. A familiar voice called inside her mind, âArtio, you need to get up.â She snarled. Her muscles sluggishly responded, and she stretched, much like a cat would after a nap. There was just enough space in the den. She reached her big paws in front of her as much as she could. Then she flopped back on her side and curled her head into her hind leg, and closed her eyes. Â
âArtio, donât make me come get you.â
What fool would wake a sleeping bear, Artio thought, let alone a sleeping God. She heard the voice chuckle, and the light flashed in again, right in her eyes as if someone was aiming. The voice came from outside this time and sang, âArtio, lazy bear, you need to get up.â She growled at the sing-song voice. It did not stopâŠ
Yes!!! A million times yes. I take too many selfies, I spend too long in front of a mirror and a little too much on clothes. I love my (now) hairy belly and my healing scars. I love the ways my eyes twinkle when I smile and I love broad chest. I love the way is sound when I laugh and I could listen to my voice forever.
I LOVE the way I look. But it was not always like this. Mirrors used to taunt me. My eyes glistened with tears. My chest hidden as much as possible. I hated my body. I hated my face, my chest, my voice and myself. Everyday was a struggle, a struggle be kind to my body. To look after it. To not drown it in intoxiacting substance. To no obsess over every single detail of my face.
It was hard. Almost impossible. But here I am smiling. So yes I will take vain selfies and look to long in the mirrow because it never used to be like this.
Boys like me were called girls in playgrounds,
Laughed at for not fitting in.
Later they found us in the wrong toilet,
Begging our reflections to change.Â
Boys like me seem soft, in oversized fluffy hoodies,
With baby faces, we wish to grow old.
We carry too many notebooks, so full of emotion.
But you donât know we cry ourselves to sleep.
Boys like me try so, hard to smile,
But too many hate themselves and
Hate how the world makes them feel.Â
That want to disappear.Â
Boys like me are not wrong.Â
We are not misguided or messed-up.
We will not fade out and become invisible,Â
Instead, we will shine like the full moon.
Boys like me are patient, waiting for the sun.Â
Once we have jumped through all your hoops.
We learn we are brave, strong and valid.Â
We learn we are men.Â
Men like me are kind to those who need it,
and we must be kind to ourselves.
We push through our own pains,
and learn to smile again.Â
Men like me hold our scars close to our hearts,Â
and our hearts on our sleeves.
As we learn to stand tall,Â
As we learn to stand proud.Â
Men like me donât want your glaring judgement,Â
Don't require your pseudo permission,Â
Don't need your vile views,Â
On boys like me. Â
I pretend not to hurt,
As I walk away.
They donât know better,
They donât know Iâm gay.
I hold back the tears,
As I hide in shame.
Shame of myself,
Shame of my shame.
I let the pillow speak,
As it hits the wall.
It knows no pain,
But I know it all.
Romantic evenings, candles aglow. Scattering of rose petals and a bottle of bubbles. Slow dancing and laughing. Telling stories and laughing. Dreaming and laughing. The summer sun sets so slowly, and we grow weary of the day. But I promised the stars to you. So we wait. Cold fingers, cold toes but warm hearts. Let our noses touch as we embrace under a candle lit sky. The light travelled so far, for so long, just to light up our night. So to hold me tight and I will give you the stars.Â
Yellow streaks upon her face,Â
Lica there as well,
She is a beautiful painting, my dear.
My dear a beautiful painting.
Burn umber for her luscious locks,
And vandyke for her eyes.
A beautiful painting, she is, my dear.
A beautiful painting, thatâs all.Â
On paper a master piece.
On paper a view.
In real life, my dear,
Real life my dear, I would always choose you!
It was the most wondrous of weeks and I sit here nostalgically, as play it over and over in my mind. Trying to hold on to every scene, every smell and every sensation. I want it back. I want it all back.The way you held my hand. The way you kissed.The romantic gleams in our eyes. It was a storybook romance.
And I was the prince whom danced with his princess under the moonlight. Whom she held close and loved. And as he knelt before her, he confessed his truest love for her. He left his dreams and hopes exposed before her and in return she unveiled her own. And as they sat in their dream castle the world outside faded away.
It was just us in the day dream. No one else mattered. Nothing else mattered but you. I let go of normality and soared between pink clouds at sunset, towards you. We spoke from our minds. We loved from our hearts. And we dreamt from our souls.
I rub my eyes as if I was just woken from the most beautiful of dreams. As the blaring noise screeches. I search for one last taste of the nights kiss. But I find the drizzle of the mundane life instead and the cold embraces me.
Its not long before the warmth of your voice fills my soul. And I remember that this dream has not ended. Excitement spreads though my body. Reaching every last crevice. The story will continue, love will not fade. Romance will not bloom and then fall to rot. It will last a life time like the star-y sky above.
I know now what we spoke about meant forever. It meant you and I forever stuck in this reality of wet mornings and stressful jobs. It meant holding each other tight in the storms. It meant dancing and crying. It meant laughing and loving. It meant making this reality into the most wondrous of dreams.
So this was just a fun little poem I wrote after the rise of âalt rightâ in the world.
There was a little house,
Upon a little hill,
With silly little flowers on the window sill.
Inside the little house,
Upon the little hill,
There was a little man, named Will.Â
That little man,
Whose name is Will,
Is a FUCKING NAZI, who someone should probably killÂ
punch in the face...Â
August, they had called him August. A small baby boy, crying out into world unknown. The sun rose, as it does every day but this was his first. He looked up with his wondering blue eye at his parents and his parents dreamt and hoped for him and built him up in their minds. A strong boy, a handsome boy and most of all a man.
August did not remember the first time his father yelled, when he was found playing with is sisters toys. But the next hundred times he did and he never forgot. âBoys donât like pink.â âBoys play with cars.â âBoys fight other boys.â âBoys donât cry.â But August cried and cried, until he became a man.
August had blond hair. August had blue eyes. August had scars that he always had to hide. He learnt to stand tall and proud. To punch and fight and shout. Pretend to like sport, girls and cars. He lied and lied and lied. He buried that soft boy. But no longer did he cry. Oh August how to be a man?
August punch the brown haired boy. âFag, you fucking sick fag.â Jealousy did not suit him. How he wished to be free. The boy begged him to change but August could only kissed the boy after dark and punched in the day. It shouldnât have surprised him when the brown haired boy went away, yet he cried like a man.
August could never be free from his lonely, loveless, life. To the knife he took and cut and cut. Just where his father couldnât see. The pain pieced his hard exterior, and that little soft boy felt, for a second and took a desperate gasp of air before being buried deep down so August could be a man.
August never like heights. They had always made him sick, but the breeze in his hair helped. He stared out into the night. He stared down at the ground but didnât reconsider as he swayed. He counted⊠one⊠two... three⊠He fell like a rock, yet soared free like a bird. August never to grow to a man.
August, they had called him August. His grave said it too. His mother cried and finally his father fell silent as he put pink flowers on his grave. Seventeen year of mistakes he thought, as a tear ran down his cheek. He should have been better, he should have loved harder, he should have been softer and then maybe August could be a man.
I am used to things being easy to explain. To things being logical. I can tell you why the leaves turn orange or why it rains. I could talk forever about chemical reactions and how our senses react to invisible electromagnetic waves in the air. But this, this I canât explain. Yet somehow I know it is true.
You canât see someone elseâs love, you canât feel the warmth in their chest when their eyes spy their lovers. But they can and they know it, all though out their body that it is love. But you still canât feel it, is it truly there?
No, it is not love that i feel. It is a deep pain inside, that something is wrong. Like I have been multiplying 2 and 3 and getting 5. I could do the rest of the maths problem and end up with a wrong answer. Maybe that answer looks right, looks beautiful. Maybe it seemed happy and content. Yet it would still be wrong.Â
And when those eyes stare for a second too long in the street or I hear those words I dread each day, fully knowing they are coming. And when I look in the mirror each night, I feel like the wrong answer and I wish I could change the sum.Â
He has never felt anger like this.
He has become the raw emotion.
His soul is being torn apart.
âIt should be easy,â he whispers, but no listens.
No one cares.Â
The world he lives in doesnât give him a first glance,
Let alone a second.
Invisible.
Even if he screamed at the top of his lungs no one would hear.
His soul tears a little more.Â
He tries to fight it, not let it take over him,
But anger pulse through him.
It seeps to his skin like poison, ready to kill.
He could go red and explode,
But instead his soul rips.Â
He isnât angry anymore, he is furious.
Raging with pure hatred.
It is not pretty. Does it make him ugly?
Does it burden his pretty face,
No just his soul.Â
He tears at his ribs, digging for a heart in pain.
If only he could cut it out,
If only he could stop feeling.
But he feels it all to much and
His soul shatters.
A system of turning cogs.
Faceless. Emotionless. Soulless.Â
He knees before it, face stained and hands reached out.
Pleading for mercy.
Surrounded by fragments that were his soul.
What a narcissist I must be, to believe no others could have the same love we have. That no other could feel so deeply and purely. Yet, I surely do believe. Love for you spills out of my roughly drawn edges. It consumes my whole self and guides me through my blind path that one could mistake for life. Â I would like to believe that i am independent of you, that i am not reliant on love. But as I hold your hand, or kiss your lips. I know a life without you would destroy me and I would never be able to love again.
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