A Tribute

Earlier in the year, she had introduced me to ‘my artist within’, a memory so familiar I could almost reach out and touch it.

And now; an opportunity to introduce myself to the world but; I wasn’t an artist. Artists expressed their individuality with such confidence and grace.

‘I’ struggled to make my bed in the morning.

I rhymed off all the artists before me, as I bathed in their greatness and pondered why we never listened– did they really have to die before people started listening. Did we always have to make our own mistakes?

We seemed to stand upon their words with such ignorance to the pain and mental anguish they had experienced just to speak their truth. I couldn’t help wonder what our world would look like if only we had listened.

The second hand ticked loud in my head as I was dragged back to the moment:

‘Can you turn water to wine?’

‘What?’ I stared blankly at the small crack in the wall, as my reality crashed down around me and I wondered how I’d gotten here.

The path had seemed so clear.

The ward was silently busy, as people scuttled past the frosted window; I regained my focus.

‘I could if ‘you’ taught me?’

I left the meeting knowing she hadn’t heard me and if I carried on speaking the way I did….well we all know how that story ends.

I felt lost in time as I struggled to grab the threads of my existence and formulate them into a linear story to make it easier to understand. But time isn’t linear.

You see I wasn’t confused; I understood the importance of the stories we tell ourselves and these were mine. As I listened, I could feel my pain; the metaphorical stories that at one point in my life had brought me such security and comfort but what was left of them. How did I get here?

I remembered being born with an innate knowledge; I just "knew' things.

I came from a long line of "know it all’s" and my mother was personal friends with ‘they’ so there wasn’t much I didn’t just ‘know’.

Life had seemed so easy but people made it so complicated. Blinded by their ‘feelings’ - fighting to be understood.

As I watched adults destroy each other with their words I made a promise that I wouldn’t be one of ‘those people’. I would use my words to heal.

But as you get older you start to lose what you ‘know’ and people replace it with things ‘they’ think you should know. With every conflict, I felt myself lose a little bit more of myself until I was completely lost.

You see I had a dream. A dream that had made the healing of humanity seem so clear, so easy – but what did that make me? What was the cost? My life?

Well, that’s what had brought me here after all; the grandiose idea that I could save everyone’s soul if only I dared to take my own.

It seems ridiculous now, but in the moment it seemed so real.

It seemed like the only option. And I certainly didn’t want anyone to “pay” for my words, that were spoken with such ignorance.

I remembered it all like a vivid dream, you know those ones that when you wake up it feels as though it’s on the tip of your tongue.

It was so clear but the words escaped me as my emotions continued to erupt inside me.

So what was my point? Why was I so afraid?

I had to trust my intuition; I had to believe.

I rummaged through all of the unused books, planners and diaries - the ones I had bought with such certainty that this would be the one. The one I was going to start that ‘project’ in. The one that was going to be the start of me finally organising my life; and reaching all those goals I dreamed about.

All of the ones that now lay stagnant. A stark reminder of all the times I’d failed.

I wouldn’t let that deter me; not this time.

At the bottom of the pile, I found it; the little black book. My little black book.

I thumbed open the first few pages; it was used. I paused. I needed a fresh start.

My perfectionism had me throwing it to the side but something inside stopped me. It was almost reflective of me – I was used, I wasn’t perfect. I found such compassion for this little book, that I could only hope I would find for myself.

I sat down and stared at the blank pages but as the pen rattled around in my head; I felt the fear grip me.

They say ‘the pen is mightier than the sword’ and those words had never seemed so profound. The pen had cost more lives than the sword ever did, and as I contemplated what I would write I couldn’t help worry what the cost would be.

I couldn’t let my fear win…….so I wrote – I wrote it all.

Everything that life had taught me.

The words exploded in my head like colours on a canvas as I contemplated; the chaos that was the creation of our universe; the vulnerability and delicate balance between feminine and masculine; the singularity that binds us together and the inevitable repercussions of the decisions we make every day.

I left the ward with a renewed sense of self, my future laid out before me I just had to take those first steps forward.

I dared to dream again.

You see in that little book – I found “it” – my creativity – all the answers I was looking for.

I found myself.

I later entered that same story into a competition for $20,000 – an amount of money I could only dream of – But what I had already won was worth so much more.

It was the beginning…..

Sure it wasn’t going to save humanity but I had saved myself.…..and if I could inspire 7 people to find themselves, and those 7 people inspired 7 people then maybe just maybe, we could make this world a little brighter with a simple story .

And that simple story went further than I could ever imagine, it divided households; it questioned the reality of our existence as we knew it.

You see this is not the greatest story in the world……this is just a tribute.

For all we are is stardust and stars can’t shine without darkness; so if you ever feel lost, never forget to look up. ⭐

Let our creativity be our saviour.