Lock to unlock
”I’m fine..I’m ok” said Sua as he climbed out of the rubble. His hair full of dust; the fallen remains of the bits of rock, only minutes earlier he had been climbing. It wasn’t his fault. The way the world stood today, catching glimpses of what was to come was the only way anyone could survive. You needed to be aware. To be ready. It was you against the world. It was the kind of scenario that until now only existed in the movies. Everything was bare. Everything was barren. The only thing people shared now was the unified thought that they would do anything to survive. The rock Sua had been climbing stood just slightly off the edge of an unfulfilled road. Where once was a highway, now only showed 2 roads standing with a huge gap in between. A hole the size of the one that had grown in peoples hearts. As he gathered himself together, and the strength to get back on his feet, Sua couldn’t help but think about the events that had brought him to where he was today. The sound of the television the day everything changed. That announcement on the news, informing people that from here on out there was no such thing as politics. There was no longer any government to tell people what to do. No president, no royal family on any land. No borders separating any country. After the endless complaints and impending wars, every world leader had decided in unison to let the world just do what it wants. To go back to the tribal times. It was the kind of news that people at first rejoiced about but then immediately regretted. While some took advantage of the situation, grasping it with both hands to finally let their inner demons have what they had always wanted, others, such as Sua, wanted nothing more than to have their life back. Society had never been kind to Sua, but kindness never came free anyways. There was always something in it for someone. So why be unhappy about being saved from such a loss. That was the way Sua thought. However now, he had reached a point where everyday felt like a loss. Since there were no more regulations or rules, travelling was the thing most people turned to. That was where Sua was now. Since childhood he had kept a journal. On the very first page was a list of places he had always wished to go to. A list he made just to satisfy the longing hopefulness within his teenage self. Never once did he think the opportunity to go to any of them, would present itself. All of the places were within the uk, scattered on the outskirts. The city life had never been for Sua. Everything about it just screamed that it wasn’t for him. Sua had always kept to himself. He was social, but only enough to get by. Inside, he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Maybe that’s why the only place he ever envisioned himself living in was the countryside. Some land in the middle of a field, a small cottage style house, surrounded by nature. That was all, and he was so close to reaching it! The only hurdle between him and the first stop on his list was this broken road. Even at the sight of the rubble, his hope stood alive. The way he saw it, roads held such positive connotations.
The Subconscious Storymaker
I always knew I was different. Whether it was characteristics outlined by others or those I saw internally within myself - the parts of me that were individualistic to me were always openly on show for the world to see. However there was one piece that until recently was something only I knew about myself - my ability to create. Empathy was something I always felt. The ability to put myself in others shoes - feel what they were feeling as if their story or life experiences were a part of my own. Even if it was only for a few minutes, those short conversations I shared with strangers about their lives held the power to reconstruct the way I viewed life for the rest of that day, week or even month. I guess that is the power of words you never know what might move you. At first, that ability came with a lot of weight, often too much and that heavily impacted my mood during the day. At any given point the metaphorical graph representing the strength of my soul could dip. The only thing that came with that though was the immeasurable sense of humanity. Something which I witnessed being lost every day in the world. Having this weird relationship with people, with stories - when times got tough, provided the perfect distraction, allowing me to temporarily detach myself from my issues and view the situation as if it was just another story falling upon my ears. The entire time repeating to myself “this would make a great story someday”. Now older, the path before me has never been clearer. They say you have two options: either make the thing you love your work, or work to earn and keep the thing you love as your hobby, and do it everyday so you never fall out of love with it. For me, putting the stories I conjured for many years finally onto paper in the form of stories is that love. The thought that all my expericences can become a learning, stepping stone for others, the lessons that were never thought and can only be learnt through the hardest of experiences. All the conversations of the mind that I weren’t able to speak out loud and probably never will. what I would like to be followed for is my perspective. An embodiment of the quote “nobody is me and that is my power”. Based on the thought that what I have to say, the words I will utilise will be different to any way others may put it because my eyes are my own and thus my thoughts are something only I can have. While people may think alike, where those thoughts come from come from, the context behind them, the lessons and experiences pushing these opinion will always be different. It is for that reason that my passion lies in writing. To create a body of work that not only illustrates my life, all I have been through in the short time I have lived but also conveys it in such a way that puts forth a hope evoking story based on love, optimism and perseverance. To collect all the scenarios and stories I have made up in my mind and create a novel that ties them together, providing the perfect seal for me to put it all behind me, on the corner of some back shelf in my mind - only to be visited for the sake of seeing my growth. When I think of my ideal outcome, the only image that comes to mind is a small cottage in the middle of no where, surrounded by countryside, maybe a small town nearby where everybody knows everybody, a proper community - where I could just peacefully write and find new ways to fall in love with life everyday.
An Unfinished Soul Book
For someone like me whose mind speaks louder than the rest of the world; Sometimes too loud, to the point where no matter what strings the outside world pulls to show me there’s better things out there, I am almost always drawn back to the comfort of my room and the other world I have created within it. The graphic of me sitting on my bedroom floor or on the bed, with the door locked - my mind in some other world. In the midst of all these mental battles I fight daily, some from the present and some from the past, the only way I can grasp some sense of normality is through the process of journaling. A small book I crafted, whose existence is only known by me, lies secretly stored among all my other collected books. Lost in the flock of fictional stories and novels which from the outside seem pretty standard for any book lover, that one book holds all the conversations of my mind which cannot be spoken out loud. Every letter written on the fine black lines; each word too loud for anyone say no matter the strength within their throat. The weight too heavy like a ton of bricks ready to fall. These words are the secret to my life. Words that daily inspire me to reminisce, to keep going, to reconsider, to evaluate, to persevere, to question. No matter what situation I may be going through, I made this journal with the intention to fill this book with everything that moves my soul and heart, so I never think of giving up ever again. The idea that when days get tough, and my inner voice no longer has the words to provide the strength I need, I will always have this book to turn to, and someday I hope I can give it to the person who means the most to me, so they also have a source of condolence to turn to, which is what this book has become for me.
Little Black Book
It was a dark, dusty, disgusting day. The sky was pitch black and shadowy. The climate was shrinking to a minus degree. The fog was slowly expanding. In such a weather that screamed the imperativeness of staying inside, I bravely stepped outside the front door of my haven and headed down the street. It had been months since I had visited the outside, and I knew if I failed to push myself to go out today, I did not know when I next would. The comfort of the bubble I had created for myself at home was starting to engulf my complete existence. However, if there was one place that came close to that feeling of assurance, it was the small high street library that bravely stood a few streets away. For as far back as my memory serves me, I had been visiting that library. Whether it be the early trips I took with my grandad at the age of 5, or the weekend visits I made with my sister at age 11 as part of our walks; that place had always been the place to go for when I needed an escape. So much so, that I was certain I had read every book in the fiction section at least twice. However today was the day that confidence was going to be doubted for the very first time. The journey to the library was usually around a fifteen-minute walk. With my eyes on the road, my mind in the clouds, and my eardrums dancing to the sound of the kpop music blasting through my earphones, I headed on my way.