i do not sleep

rainforests

I’ll never understand how writers can create without inspiration. I have all the motivation to write amazing things but when I begin nothing happens. My pen leaves behind trails of dusty words, strung together into dry, cracked sentences. I wish my pen would always gush rivers of words when connected to this paper; I want to bring life to nothingness. I yearn to colour this slate with bountiful streams, ones that give way to glorious trees that soar above my head. I would paint so much life into my words that I trip on tangled vines and fall into patches of exotic flowers – splatters of otherworldly hues across lush ground. Eyes closed I would hear brilliant bird songs and the chatter of chimps backed by ceaseless rushing water. Turning my face to the sky I would feel sprinkles of refreshing words – like droplets – on my skin, raising tiny bumps on my arms and hairs on my neck. I would feel it come to life and bring me to life simultaneously. I’d laugh gleefully. I ache to write rainforests, but all I can supply are deserts. Maybe I just need a little rain. dara

Building Blocks

I don’t want to write sad things anymore. I want to write about getting better. My life’s building blocks are towering high without wavering. I’m not worried about them tumbling around me. I built them up around me and I can stand by them—as they loom over my head—with the pride of a kindergartener who finally got it right. I finally got it right. My building blocks are tarnished beyond belief; they’ve fallen over and over again. They’ve cracked, shattered, been broken and stomped on by countless people (including myself.) They are not shiny or new; they can never be fixed, but I’ve stopped believing that they need to be. I always looked at them as if they will never be beautiful again; I always felt the need to replace them but I couldn’t. I tried to build them up again, but never wholeheartedly. I despised them for the way they looked, and how their sharp edges cut me when I attempted to fit them together. This half-hearted piecing together of my life did nothing but hurt and discourage me; I was left crying in a pile of blocks as tattered as my hopes of recovery. I knew I couldn’t try again without changing my perspective. I took my blocks and used their edges to my advantage. I created a tower for myself that I view as a work of raw art and not a mess. I pieced together a masterpiece that is stronger and more beautiful than I could ever have imagined; a masterpiece more strikingly unique than I could have made with new, untouched building blocks. Anyone can build a life for themselves with unscathed pieces; one worth appreciating requires much more than that. I cut my hands on sharp edges; I wanted to give up when I didn’t think I could make the pieces fit; I bled for days and cried for weeks. I am as scarred and torn as my building block tower life and I wouldn’t change one single thing. dara

messy mornings