You are a spirit dancing free, fire running through. You are moulded breath-dust in form of man. You are that streak of orange cloud, adding colour to the orb like moon, making the blue white sky a beauty. You are unique, you do not know this, but you are. You are wind – clogged in diaphanous jar. You do not know you are free.
All you remember of you is that you are weird; you are the one who likes to be in recluse, in that dark dingy den- arms clasped round your knees, engrossed in thoughts, heart beating fast, finger nails dug in frozen skins, eyes staring into nullity, mind racing. You are the one who wants to be around people, and then suddenly wants to be alone.
You want to think about the future, but it is foggy, looks pallid. You have no resolutions for this year; when have they ever worked? This past year brought you to your knees. It made you feel like you know nothing. You know when you have too many dreams and then time makes a fool of you.
It creeps slowly like an injured snail, but before your very eyes reaches the end of the road, then you realise you have achieved nothing, and the dreams have remained what they were – dreams. And this year, you say you’ll just flow with the tide. You’ll run where the boisterous wind asks you to. You’ll dance to the wailings of the trees, and crawl on your belly when life says so. You do not know what the future holds – in your little mind, future looks unreachable, terrifying, sharp, perilous. It sends a chill down your spine- just like the one you feel whenever you shop in terminus market.
Still, you know last year taught you some life lessons. Last year, you realised you are strong in your weakness: and though more often than not, sombre shadows stalked your moves, and you heard Voldemort speak to you, telling you it’s no good to fight, you cannot win, just surrender. You stayed strong, swaying from the pain and scars.
It was last year you made up your mind to follow your dreams. What’s the point in moving in circles?
Then you hear it – in the lonely terrain where you still are, your arms still clasped round your knees – the hair raising voice of the Nightingale, singing in a way your ears have never heard, easing your pain, the falling tears creep back into your eyes. The room stops spinning, the air becomes solid , the world holding its breath.
It is grief turned magic, magic made into song. It is echoed voices- beautifully eerie. It is hush, sprinkled on the lousiness of the silent night.
You are the future…do you not know this? You are you – moving through the storms, fighting the torrent. I know you do not believe me but you are golden, celestial – see?
You will close your eyes and your mind will sojourn, it will travel with the voice of the Nightingale. It will be in your head-you will go home, to the place where peace lays waiting- in sheer silk, soft orange- seducing, soothingly warm. You will pack your bags and walk away, from those who try to belittle you or call you stupid, because you know you are not and you’ll give them no chance to suck your remaining self esteem away.
You will walk with your head held high, realising that the world has never seen anything exactly like you before and you are a pleasant golden glow; enchanting, unearthly, breathing light.
You will realise you are the future and this year is a slate devoid of ink and you’ll write on it.
It will start from within; it will be you eradicating those nasty thoughts that make your eyes leak. You will take negative thoughts and they’ll be masticated by red flames and even when you remember your failures and flaws, you will welcome them as a steep ascent – teaching you, taking you to the top. You will let your history slip away from you, sliding into the sea , drowning in its hungry tum, because holding on to yesterday hampers tomorrow.
You will go home; it is where you ink your quill and write, the stereo softly melting the walls with music. It is where you pour out your soul, where you cry and laugh, where you work on yourself, righting your wrongs, develop your self esteem, speak to yourself, love yourself. It is a world of your own, where you’re a famous super star and fly your plane across the world, it is where you bow your head and speak with your mouth tightly shut, salty water dripping down your nose to the only One who listens, and then you stand and you believe.
You will go home. It is where your thoughts are put into actions, and your dreams bear you sons. It is the world in your palms or you realising it is indeed in your palms. It is you strutting around in jeans and t-shirt – maybe not so wealthy, but content and fulfilled.
Home is in your head. It is where ideas are birthed, where you beckon to you, where you whisper to your ears, where you are not ashamed of yourself. It is in your head, where you are naked and unabashed, in your purest form.
You will go home; as you sit in the front seat of that rickety car, smoke puffing out of its backside, as you watch the tarred roads slide beneath, houses walking past, your eyes unfocused, deep in thoughts. Home is the blessed morning dew; bringing showers for the flowers, making green leaves glow.
Home is everywhere you go, home is within you, it is where you know yourself first and know your self worth. Home is the future sitting by the verandah – patiently waiting.
Home reminds you that you are the future, are you listening to me right now? You are dreams that begat. You might not know this – that you are celestial, but won’t be celestial until you know and believe that you are. Only then will things fall into place.
I write this to you because this is what I tell myself when fear, uncertainty and anxiety speaks to me. You are beyond this world, beyond the comprehension of beings.
You are tomorrow, and tomorrow can only be a better you!
Photo Credit: Sdeva | Dreamstime.com