I found my match made in heaven and burned down hell.
I used to have this problem with sharing my writing because I thought it was “too girly” and “emotional” and corny, but what is wrong with that? Why did I think it was so wrong to feel those things? Why does society look down upon a woman writing about her emotions, of how she is sad, or mad, and depressed, or upset with her life. Why does society make it seem as if it’s stupid and naive for a woman to document and express what hurts and aches?
Why did I think it was drastically weak to express my emotions? Having feelings do not make me weak. Writing about them, only makes me braver.”
– Ming D. Liu (via mingdliu)
On the importance of being lost.
so a friend of mine showed me an awesome spoken word artist and I thought I’d try it…
I haven’t changed the world. Yet. But fuck me I’ve seen it, loved it, breathed it. I haven’t seen the world. But I’ve seen my world swell to bursting and seen it contract in the depths of grief, and I survived it all. I’ve ran my fingertips over your lips in the light of a day not quite begun. I have loved with everything that I am.
Standing on the bridge as the sun went down I felt so lucky to be alive, that today like yesterday I got to live- to see yet another beautiful thing.
When we were teenagers we got drunk and I told you that I thought life was the pursuit of beauty. You spray-painted it on the steps. Every day is a gift, every day there are a thousand beautiful things happening all around you if you just stop at look. I haven’t changed the world. But I was here. And this glorious life is more than enough.
Tonight there is no place for taste at this,
stained, rusty table.
There is no place to boast, to plump our feathers
with talk of, this degree/this job/this book I’ve read
no place for pretense.
But there is a place for us and this mottled bottle.
The same one weve been sipping since 16.
There is time here, still-
You wonder why I leave my things
on her chair, when she’s not there
or by her window, where she will spot it,
glinting, as flames light up a Belfast skyline
or on the dashboard of his car
taking journeys I never will.
I do not forget. I am the girl who reads,
and yes, I’m always thinking
these things do not slip away from me.
As I slip away from you, always.
I do not lose things.
I shed them.
I think of them as the boat pulls away,
as it always does.
It is easier indeed to feel the sun without them.
You mean so damn much to me.
I wish I didn’t have to go.
I do not wish to be forgot.
years slip by, kindly- for us.
and yesterday is familiar terrain.
so it often is with true friends.
You, bruised. Still whole, sometimes.
I, accustomed to loneliness;
a small bird plumps its feathers to show it’s worth,
so it often is.
chug it straight from the bottle though,
no pretence here, only the haze.
One night, maybe.
You smell like home.
At some point along the way, ‘society’, in the form of mothers, friends, brothers- sad single women in rom com’s, taught us that love was dangerous. That it needed to be constrained, assigned to one person and no others and that it must be reciprocated in equal measure, expressed through food and money and consumed. That it came with a contract, and set rules on where it is and is not acceptable.
Love is dangerous. Not because it hurts us, hurts others; but because love, in it’s true sense, limitless love- changes the whole game. It’s a radical act of rebellion. because the truth is, the truth of it all is that when we really let go- let ourselves love people and be loved, without assumpution, without any expectation or need for reciprocation, it’s truly limitless. There is no ownership, and the magical thing about us humans, because we are magic- is that when you say fuck it all to expectations, you realise that it is not a finite resource. There is not one person for every one person on earth. There are no soulmates, no perfect person. But I can love you. I can love the way you look in the morning or the way you stumble over your words or the way you see the world like no one else. And that can be it. No expectations, no action. And tomorrow I can love someone else, and not love you any less. I can love the way they see the world, I can love the way their hair stands straight up like a little birdy when they sip tea, hungover, on a tuesday morning.
When you aren’t afraid of loving, when you aren’t constrained by the need for it to be some kind of exchange, a capitalist transaction, everything changes.
A human being is above all things, a fragile being. Easily shattered, and not easily mended.
Summer Hannah: Yeah Independence! I don’t need anyone! Look at all the articles I’ve written and look-at-me-im-so-self-relient and fuck yeah!
Winter Hannah: I want a cuddle and a dog.
I may not be your idea of beauty, but I am my own,
and it’s news to me that I’m no teenage prom queen.
I could tear myself off the sheet, paint my skin
and erase every semblance of womanhood
I could be your canvas, and you could dream me caravaggio
or dream me mother/madonna/whore
bend me and break me until I fit into the mould
Or I can be harridan, screaming banshee woman
who’s lip drip blood instead of
but then who would I be?
Under my skin my flesh forms rings like oak
and I am well aware of how to exist without the need to be desired.
I’m going home soon! It will be glorious to see Becky and Dar and my wee Mammy and Papa. It’s been a long time since I saw my brothers, my nephew, and my doggies. A lot has changed, it’s very odd to leave somewhere and somehow you feel like nothing big should happen when you are gone, nothing should change. But of course it does, that’s not how time works, and sometimes you have to come home to people who have changed, some people who aren’t there anymore to welcome you back. It’s still hard, and going home is always as emotional as it is wonderful now. But right now, in this moment- I’m just excited to step off the boat. To see my Dad pull up in the car, my big bear Papa- hug me; gruffly say ‘good to have you home’ and lift my huge suitcase into the boot like its nothing in a way that says ‘I’m always your daddy’. To hug my wee Ma, lie with my head on her lap in front of the tv, jump into bed beside her when she’s reading. Take Belle for a swim, Snuggle my wee Fyfe, play at silly monsters with him. Hug my Dar- I’ve fucking missed you more than you know, get sushi with Becksters, the beautiful becky, and maybe some beautiful buckfast. Laverys! prowling round Belfast. seeing becky’s kitty cat meow meow! Yeah. Home. It’s always that. It’s home, and I’ve missed it.
When I meet someone, and they tell me they write, paint, or make music, we always have general polite conversation about our respective creative field, and I say I’d love to see their work and they say they’d love to see mine and then, perhaps we head to a bar or part ways. But what I’m thinking, what I’m wishing I could say, is ‘I do too. I write or I paint or I make music because the world terrifies me too and it doesn’t make sense, any of it- does it? don’t worry. I’m as fucking confused as you are but the art helps- doesn’t it? some day maybe you will figure it out, or maybe I will- let’s write and paint and create until something we make becomes the spot on the picture of the world that makes everything somehow fit together. Then we will somehow feel bigger than the world inside our heads and we will know. We will understand the world and we won’t be scared anymore. We won’t need to create anymore and when we meet people at parties and they ask, ‘what do you do?’ we won’t call ourselves writers, artists, musicians. We can say ‘nothing. I do nothing. I figured it out, I’m not scared anymore.’