Categories
Life

Freud

I’m about to sit down and snuggle with one of my Christmas presents. It is a book by Sigmund Freud called ‘The Interpretation of Dreams.’ I’d imagine it will hand me another key to my perception of reality, which I’m so looking forward to.

I love that sort of thing. Pondering the universe and the nature of reality. A lovely friend of mine calls me a ‘contemplative mystic’, and I quite like that term, actually, when it comes to the parts of me that like to wonder.

I have been wondering all my life. It’s a beautifully rich way to be, and I know it’s where I truly belong in the world. Swimming the deepest oceans, stirring up the kelp and sand.

When I contemplate, when I analyse people, I tend to analyse them energetically more than anything. Most people likely look at a person and wonder who they are. I look at a person, and tend to know who they are already, to a degree. They feel a certain way to me. Some people feel safe.

Some people feel unsafe.

I tend to think those must have been the ones among us who haven’t had the nicest lives.

I’m a big believer in the theory of a unified field of energy connecting us all. That we are this field. All of us. Energy at the core, connected simply because there is nothing to seperate massive clouds of energy, when you really think about it. Quantum physics, and this unified field theory explains, for instance, why so many of us ‘resonate’ so deeply with the exact same ideas in life.

It’s all really fascinating to me, especially as a creative who feels the energy of my creativity move within my body as I create.

Fascinating. Wondrous. Magic.

Can’t wait to read this. xx

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Categories
Peaches In The Darling Sun

The River Home

The dancing girl, her sister, her brother, her father and I will be home tomorrow. As usual I’m experiencing mixed feelings about the end of our lovely little holiday, but for the most part I’m wishing the trip would never end.

It is truly lovely to forget the world. To live in a reality that skims over the top of the real world. In this reality there are no responsibilities and no worries. Nowhere to go, no deadlines to meet, not really.The museum wouldn’t have missed us. The beach front wouldn’t have missed our morning stroll.

I will miss this ocean and yet it is the very act of missing it that is needed in order to guide me through life on a more aligned path. The loving, the missing: they are clues as to my greatest loves. They whisper softly, ‘Brooke, it is here you are most at home. Among the trees where there is water, where there is peace. Where there is peace.

Ah, yes. I’m glad for the leaving as much as I am for the staying.

The magical river of life has flowed me this way.

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Day 18. There’s no place like home.

Categories
Poetry

Feel

Some days,

I can’t be here for you.

Some days

I need you,

to hold my softness

and let me fall.

It is a beautiful drift of snow

that feathers the earth of me.

A gentle spring breeze

beyond the strength I’ve tried so hard to be.

And I lay me down to feel it all.

I lay me down to feel it all.

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Categories
Poetry

Call Me Shakespeare

Oh!

Has this truth been truly seen!

But a glimpse into a floating sea

of strange reality,

but a knowing truer than true can be!

Who is Shakespeare?

That terrible, desperate soul,

falling,

falling,

landing evermore in the stories

of aching romance and tragedy?

I am Shakespeare.

I am the writer.

I am the lover.

And so are you, love.

So are you,

lover of passionate life

and love.

Categories
Life

Myself.

I have seen myself in the world around me.

In the people, things and places I love.

In the people, things and places I hate.

In the people, things and places I care only slightly for.

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I block myself from myself when I am afraid.

When love is too much, too broken or not enough.

When dreams meet reality and reality must win, for the greater good.

I block myself from myself because I don’t know who I am.

And I think I should.

Because others do.

I should, too.

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And so it is I unzip my skin and let it all fall down around me.

The aching of lost dreams.

The stinging hope for dreams to come.

They eat my soul, I hold them close.

I am meeting myself.

I am losing (and missing) myself at the very same time.

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Categories
Healing

Escaping

I never did stop escaping. A sensitive little girl, a face and a voice unkind: I escaped. I never did stop escaping.

*

I am safe and loved in this place in the sky. I am safe. And I am loved, so loved, without a thought, without a care. I am me, and this is the sky. We are here. We are here.

*

I never did stop escaping. All around the children played. They showed me their world, and I made it what I needed it to be. I made it magic and I made it kind. They didn’t know their world was magic and kind. I did. I knew.

*

This is where my real friends live, where my heart lives. I can make the world what I wish it to be, here. The unkind of the outside feels like ice on my skin. I wish only for sun. I ask only for sun.

*

I never did stop escaping. They called me names, they spat on me, and for those moments I was there. But I never did stop escaping. I never did stop escaping.

*

This is where I am. This is me, so beautifully. The deepest ocean, the saddest stream. This is where I am.

*

I never did stop escaping.

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Categories
Poetry

Fly Away

Here I am, now.

Me.

And I fly and I fly

and I fly away, now.

Still me.

Flying, flying away.

They tell me not to fly away.

They tell me not to fly away.

Categories
Poetry

This Quiet Storm

I am me.

Just me.

Not who you think I am.

Not who you wish I would be.

Just who I am.

This quiet storm.

Me.

Categories
Poetry

I Am Loved

There you are

behind a soft, uncertain smile,

surprised that you are loved.

You are loved.

It is your expectation

that has made it seem not so.

You see the world and ask it to hold you

as you wish to be held,

and yet this is not the way life works.

Life will hold you as it holds you

so that you may learn

and grow

and be.

Love is born in the quiet room

between expectation and reality.

Hold yourself in your quiet

and you will finally say:

I am loved.

I am loved.

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Categories
Poetry

Muddy Waters

Muddy waters are pure

beneath the mud.

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