Open Letter.

I sit here today on the 7th February 2013 reflecting upon all the roots that have grown from me and all the branches I want to expose to the people I know and also yet to meet. I’ve always written for the release; it is like the moment in garden state where Largeman climbs up high and just shouts at the top of his lungs. It’s like crying, it’s a cleansing, the end to a moment and the chance to start another.

I look at my journals and barely legible text and realise I’m a lot more selfish with my writing then I thought I was. All I’m doing for the majority is exercising my troubles and demons and presuming people will find the same interest and positives I do from writing it. I’ll admit that I genuinely love melancholy films and words, as I think it’s beautiful that humans; for all there progress and abilities on Earth can still be destroyed by intangible things like love, loss and longing for things they haven’t got. Being fragile is the best part of being a human. We should take nothing for granted and cherish each day as it arrives into our lives.

What I am trying to get at is people don’t need more tales of woe and disillusion; they normally have their own demon sitting on their shoulder. I want to be a truthful representation of my spine and framework. I want to be a voice and offer hope and show the beauty of having dreams. I would love to think I have the ability in me to guide people, but I need to offer more to you, my audience.

So from today I will lock the door on some of the struggles I know and instead use my words like windows and offer something fresher, something alternative for you to take in and breathe.

Kind regards

Luke Aaron

On the edge of what we love

I have issues with expression. Most days I encounter a moment where I compare how I’m feeling with the bodies I move past. For example, a postman just hurried past me. Is he questioning his role in society or place on Earth or is his only concern getting his round delivered? The guy in the local shop who has never worn a smile in the years I have lived up the road from him. Has he ever harboured ambition or happiness? Marvelled at how quickly winter woke from the golden ashes of autumn? Or is he really so placid that he can sit in there, playing on his phone, awaiting the day to end so the same thing can begin tomorrow?

There’s a set of voices that take it in turn to talk to me and carry out conversations below my surface. I can be walking the roads I’ve walked since I was a boy. Slowly acclimatising to the beginning of winter on my recently woken skin. My earphones play songs I’ve used for life support for years, but they barely register. Watching the cars speed up and slow down according to the traffic lights when I reach the main crossing.

 The houses to my side disappear. I’m faced with space and sky. The wet, poignant sun struggles with the dominating grey to be the main presence, but does enough to make my next breath the first of the day.

My earphones take affect. At this junction whenever I play music a song will be playing right at its most heightened, when the singer breaks away from any covers and bares a soul. I’ve wanted to cry on this stretch of concrete so often. Inspired by the undiluted honesty of these singers who break me and then proceed to build me back up.

I ask myself if this is normal.