You are so much more than you believe yourself to be. Why do you view yourself with such distorted eyes? Why are your words meant to wound rather than mend yourself? Where did you learn to hate yourself? When did these lies become the truth you live life by?
You are kind. You are creative. You are lovely. You are passionate. You light up the lives of all the people who are blessed enough to know you. You comfort the brokenhearted. You give and give and give until your soul cracks open.
Give yourself some of that grace you hand out every day. Speak those encouraging words to the hurting person you are. Love yourself more. Be gentle with your own brokenness. Be patient with everything unsettled in you. You deserve your own love, affection, and forgiveness. You are worthy of everything you don’t believe you deserve.
Can today be the end of self-destruction and the beginning of self-compassion? May today be a day where you begin to recognize how significant, talented, lovable, and necessary you are.
Why do you keep running from the very person you desperately need? Why do you continue to belittle the only human being who has the power to free you? Why do you persist in crushing your own voice?
You are worthy of belonging, freedom, wholeness, community, love - life. Your voice should be honored rather than trampled upon. You are art. You are light. You are magic. You are treasured. You are significant. You are one of the beautiful reasons life is a beautiful symphony.
Chapters: 3/20 Fandom: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter Characters: Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter, Chiyoh, Bedelia Du Maurier, Jack Crawford, Molly Graham, Jimmy Price, Brian Zeller, Abigail Hobbs
Slowly Jack says,
“The notes are gone. Lecter burnt them, Will helped him. Before. You think it was a set up? He pushed Dolarhyde? From the start, from before?”
Molly looks at him pityingly,
“And you don’t? Christ. Hannibal Lecter is about fifteen moves ahead of you. All of us. Fuck.”
waves follow the swirls and movements of the brooding dark clouds. Only
quicker. Looking up, I follow them with my finger. Gentle, delicate cloud
formations, created by intervals of high and low pressure. It’s quite amazing, that
something so far away, can create such a turbulent voyage.
a place I call home. Staring into the flowing waves coming towards us as they
crash against the bow, spraying the salty water over the deck, I find that
there’s nothing I would want more from life. A peculiar request perhaps, to
find comfort in something with such ambiguity. The ocean carries a terrifying omnipotence:
unlimited power, impossible to stop and control. Yet, on a calm spring morning,
the waves become reminiscent of a mil-pond, or a painting in Monet’s Water Lily
Series, a calmness which brings an inner tranquillity as you look into the infinite
horizon, a feeling that is only achievable out at sea.
ring the bell as a harsh reminder to the mariners, that on days like this (far
from the tranquillity we seldom see) we place life and death in the palm of our
hands. It may seem an exaggeration, but it is not. The confidence the seamen
place into me as their captain, in charge of ensuring their safety, in addition
to their belongings, innermost secrets as their counsellor is a responsibility
that I don’t carry lightly, but a burden I place upon myself nonetheless.
is a test of character. I have a number of different jobs and functions aboard
this ship (some of which, I did not sign up for) that I have been forced into
doing. It is a shame, as the sailors bring it upon themselves to take from me,
giving very little in return. I relish an opportunity to be selfless, and show
them a love to them reserved for my family. Indeed, they are my family aboard
this ship, as the people’s feelings whom I will return to in the future, may
well have been extinguished.
up for months, sharing the same candlelit lit innards of the ship brings us
closer together. Naturally, of course. Understanding the eyes others use, to
hide their full house behind five playing cards, and the vocabulary they
discover after a few drinks. The light is reminiscent of a pub in the 1980s,
and so is the smell, reserved for stale smoke and a slight lingering of sweat
and alcohol which makes me so unusually think to myself. ‘Yes, this is a
shithole, but it’s my shithole’.
run my hands along the side of the ship, the wooden hand rail splinters me slightly
as it needs to be sanded. Having hands that have been exposed to the harshness
of the elements, I can withstand a few splinters. As I look down from the
bridge, I catch the mariners running around, scattered, disorganised, like an
orchestra without their composer, footballers without their managers, and so
on. I say nothing, and quietly observe. It’s almost funny, but brings a certain
melancholy to the voyage, how I would love to confide in somebody, and talk,
just as they talk to me about their problems, stray morals and absent emotion.
into the distance, I can see the outline of land, a similarly omnipotent
structure, submerged in darkness and shadow. Out of the darkness, comes the
light. However dark it seems, there will always be light deep in the darkness,
it will always be there to find you, and steer you in the right way. When anyone sees a
lighthouse, they stay clear. Don’t they?