meeting our mind

An unruled fist grabs a tired marker. Tired of being used to unload the anxieties of a conscious mind growing within the structures of an unconscious world. The body connects with the mind for the first time in the day. The sun has long been asleep, and the moon has brought tranquillity but also doubt. The hand, governed by the subconscious and delimited by a state of despair, tries to show the mind the infinite possibilities of a creative soul. For that, nothing like a cup of tea and the warm silence of a snoozing city.

If you remain silent you can hear. Shhhh. Listen.

There is ‘jazz’ coming out of the room, yet it is not coming from the sax of John Coltrane, nor from the hypnotising trumpet of Louis Armstrong. The jazz spreads through the air as mind and body craft together like a jazz band in an underground basement in some small bar in a foggy corner of the city. Orchestrated movements that have not been practised before. A single line that starts where the hand unilaterally decreed. A first dot, or better, a first full stop to an overwhelming week. The mind and the white paper could be one, or the same, they are now in the same place. The marker now leads the way.

One first movement and the eyes are now doing all the thinking. Processing, and predicting. Watching the past and imagining the future. The ink will never be erased. The hand does not stop but the mind does. There is no way back and what is happening cannot be stopped by any doubt. Nor any anxiety.

Breath becomes fresh air.

The flow of the hand mirrors the flow of emotions in the galaxy inside our head. The black line rises firmly like the beginning of the week. Then, suddenly, it twists and becomes a loop. There was some downing news. Life’s twists. We keep on going because we cannot stop. We push through the spiral that seems to hold us back. We get to the other side returning to our path but a bit heavier weighted. The ink is denser now, such are the pupils in our eyes. The pupils cannot be distinguished from the mind. It is just the marker, the paper, and I.

A global pandemic that takes the world by surprise, relationships that make us feel alive. Desires of being alone most of the time, and the inexplicable feeling of not knowing where I am. Family, friends, and strangers that are alike, were left thousands of kilometres behind. An aching feeling of knowing some that are doing worse, and the claustrophobic realisation that I can only express myself in my verse. A body pushing through the everyday, going places that make no sense. No sense with what I want, no sense with what I love. The body is tired, and so is the mind, but we have grown capable, we are one of a kind.

The uplifting feeling of sensing what is coming, like driving through a small road within a tall forest, inhaling the menthol scent of eucalyptus’ pores. The final destination is closer than before. The freshness in the air grows strong. Yet we know it can be the end of the road, or maybe, just a turning point. That is it, a turning point.

The hand reflects our thoughts, the eyes predict knowing where we have come from. On the paper, some twisted lines show the face of an old friend. It is our young self, hugging us in return. We have not forgotten ourselves; we have not forgotten our true sense. The young kid extends a gift with two hands. It seems to extend a valuable gift, and we know the craft is not complete. Because, indeed, we are not yet complete. A reminder from precious people that cross our path, a single line does not fill all the gaps. We need others to gift us a different view, of what is reality and what is true. Of ourselves, but of the rest as well, remembering the mistakes and looking forward to more ‘oh, that’s what I learnt’. The hand and the mind know we make mistakes, but there is no daunting feeling because things could be worse. There is not overwhelming emptiness because there is so much we can learn.

The unruled fist is now more relaxed. It has been hours since the mind went missing and now the body breathes alleviated. The right hand converses with the left, and together decide to wake up our instinct. Together they realise, it is a present for a person we love, and to this craft some flowers we need to add. Scissors, not designed for left-handed people, nervously cut through paper, as a sculptor creates by removing. The hidden place inside the rectangular shape. Flowers, light, and colours, make up the final touch. It has been a good week someone could unknowingly judge. In reality, it has been a good time to help the mind untwist itself to create from a place where the heart still beats love. Slowly, smoothly, the jazz starts to fade out. Soon the morning will come waiting happily for the crafty night.