Thought sketches & scribbles.

A daydreamer’s notes before sleep.

01/01

The follies of fear—have I succumbed? Have I surrendered my humanity—my compassion and grief and hope? Have I let go of hope with both hands and pushed it from my heart with the last exhale, without an explanation? I must release you—I am at my limit. In order to maintain motion in this body, I must detach from this overwhelm—it flushes through me like waves of fire, crashing against me. I’d rather it crash against me—my defences—than to let its currents sweep through my soul.

My skin will return to the soil. Will my soul return to the stars? Or will my spirit remain entrenched in this earth—will my spirit decay with my body—a gradual erosion or a sudden death, a complete full stop? I’d like my spirit to be buried in the soil—to melt into the mud and be moulded by the hidden terrain and quench the thirst of the wild plants’ roots. I’ll bloom as a weed, not I but what I once was. I’ll bloom as a wildflower, alive after death. Am I blooming now?

C̶o̶m̶p̶a̶s̶s̶i̶o̶n̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶w̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶k̶e̶e̶p̶s̶ ̶m̶e̶ ̶a̶l̶i̶v̶e̶ —that’s not true. To be alive is to feel compassion—awe at life, a shared love.

The first sentences don’t resonate with me. I was just exploring a character—to embody the idea of another being. Can we be kind to those we hate? Are we allowed to say we hate—those who love and feel the pain of strangers? To hate is to take a stance of uprightness—who am I to be upright?

(to recall a note from late 19 or early 20)

Contempt

I always want to remain a little bit dirty. To have a slight taint of darkness within me so as not to forget that I am just a soul, imperfect and kind.

I will not try to rise above to a heaven, which you perceive to be better than what is here beneath. I shall not strive to reach to that loftier place. I refuse to relocate or to allocate for myself a so-called holy prize of righteousness to replace my compassion with scorn. A gross grandeur that slyly separates the 'righteous' from others, deemed lesser, unchosen and unclean.

For I love the ground. I cherish the soil from which I was born, and I proudly walk barefoot on the mud and dirt from which love grows abundantly and flows freely and indefinitely for all. For all. For all. For all.

What do I hate? How does this expose what I love? How do I love? Does this love illuminate any hidden hatred within me? Do I hate people or ideas, ideologies, or hatred itself? To hate hatred.

I hold on to hope that one day hatred won’t be necessary. Why? Is it necessary now? Why is it necessary now? You might ask. I don’t know—maybe it doesn’t have to be. But I hate the pain you cause with intent, your lack of care, and desire for others' despair. Let’s remove the you. Pain caused with intent because of lack of care or desire for despair—who could not feel repulsed by that? From the degradation of the soil, the pillaging of oceans, the crushing of an insect, the hunger of a child, the normality of cruelty—cruelty flourishing online. But hatred isn’t the answer. Not the ‘right’ response. It’s not the real emotion? Is it? What is it? Outrage. An awakening, glorious, fragile rage.

My skull splits in four different directions, electric roots reaching out to decipher connections, like antennas of compassion. An outcry. I can feel your compassion.

It’s spreading across my chest—it feels like armour, but the defence isn't against love—it is in defence of it.

Thought sketches & scribbles of an anti-staunch daydreamer. With love, R x