Issara Simone Edwards's Blog, page 18

Childish Fears

Friday 1st of February 2019

I drop the hatchet to the floor, light shines through from the other side. The hole I’ve made isn’t very big, it’s more of a jagged crack, but it’s something.

Let’s be honest. Let’s be more honest that I’ve ever been. As a child I was terrified, and I mean TERRIFIED of aliens. I was convinced, no, I knew that they were looking for me because they needed to take me back. Yes, I knew what that meant, that I was probably one of them, that I didn’t belong here. I also knew that I didn’t want to leave. Just to give you some context, I was about five when this started.

At night I would have to sleep completely under the covers. I couldn’t even have a finger or toe out, because if part of me was exposed, they’d know I was there and take me.

I would shiver under the duvet, holding as still as possible, feeling the, walking around the room, observing everything, waiting for me to move, reveal my position and grab me.

This fear didn’t end for a very long time, like fourteen, fifteen, but it didn’t last as long as my fear of shadows. Yes, I was literally scared of my own shadow.

Let me explain. I suspected I wasn’t real, maybe I was an alien, or maybe a facsimile of some kind, a robot wearing a human skin. (We’ll get back to this.) So, it made sense to me that if I wasn’t real, my shadow probably wasn’t either.

I theorised that maybe my species didn’t have shadows, so in order to blend in with humans, a fake, artificial shadow was made.

As a result, I couldn’t look at my shadow in case there was a glitch and I saw it, that would confirm my worse fear. What if my shadow moved without me? What if it kept moving when I stopped? This led to a fear of all shadows, a mistrust of them. What if they weren’t really shadows? What if they were pretending? What if they were monsters waiting for me to lower my guard and consume me, shallow me whole? This fear lasted way too long as well; I was in my twenties before I could trust a shadow.

Now we get to the good stuff. To this day, I’m scared of high/tall buildings. I’m not scared of heights, once I’m up there I’m fine; I’m scared of the physical building.

When I was six, I made the mistake of staring directly up at the Castle Mead building as me and my mum were walking passed it. It towered over me and I could see the sky moving behind it, which made the building look like it was moving, falling towards me.

To this day I can’t walk passed it, or any of it’s cousins, without having an anxiety attack. Sometimes I can’t get near them at all. There are certain places I can just not go.

I’ve also developed a fear of moss, which is a relatively new fear compared to the others, it started around fifteen. It’s the fact that it can grow anywhere and on anything that freaks me out, and the shapes it grows into… If something mossy or mouldy touches my skin, I scrub until my skin is raw. Even then, I’ll still feel it, creeping in.

Now, I said, I’d get back to the skin thing, but it isn’t really a fear, just a curiosity.

There’s still a huge part of me that doubts my existence, because, sometimes my skin doesn’t feel real. It feels like a fabric, a synthetic covering designed to mimic human skin, but it’s lacking something. This doesn’t scare me like it used to. If aliens came to me now and said, “We’re taking you home.” I’d be like “Yes, finally, this place is a hostile mess.” I’m not scared of unknown anymore, I’m not scared of leaving, in fact, I’d be glad to. I’d be around people who are like me, I won’t be alone anymore, I’d be home.

And finally, yes, I hear voices. But not in the way, you’re probably thinking. It’s been there my whole life, this white noise, like a thousand people speaking all at once, but in the next room. Every now and again, one voice will break through, stand out, become intelligible. It’ll be a word, a sentence, something disjointed from reality.

Recently though, this has started to change. A word or a sentence will shout through and become clear, and I’ll realise it was a response to some thought or question. These responses, these replies, don’t feel like me, they feel separate. But that’s what a crazy person would say isn’t it?

I’ve had different theories about the noise over the years, including that I might be psychic. But I know it doesn’t really matter. I’m used to it, I’m used to the constant murmur, I’m used to the light pressure in my head. It’s just what is.

It’s 12:30 am and it’s snowing here in Bristol, and I love it. Snow cleans the world, just for a bit, just for a bit.

Does snow make the air smell sweet or is it just me?

Have you read ‘The Murder of Miss O’ yet?

Illusions.

Thursday 31st of January 2019

Print available at https://society6.com/issara_simone

I’m not a good person, in case you were under that illusion. But it’s okay, I’m not sure I am a person.

I’ve made bad decisions that have hurt people. I’ve pushed people away so that they don’t abandon me, a contradiction I’m sure will make sense one day…

It’s early morning, I’m not sleeping very well. I have this cold that crept up on me out of nowhere and I’m aggressively unhappy about it. You know what? Maybe I am a person, I recently discovered this:

[‘Person’ – origin – Middle English, from Old French ‘persone’ and Latin ‘persona’ meaning ‘actors mask or character in a play’.]

I’m not even sure good and bad truly exist as more that just concepts either.

[‘Good’ – origin – Old English ‘g~od’, from German/Dutch ‘goed’ meaning ‘gut’]

Okay.

[‘Bad’ – origin – Middle English/Old English – ‘baeddel’ meaning ‘hermaphrodite’ or ‘womanish man’]

Interesting. Or we can go:

[‘Evil’ – origin – Old English ‘yfel’, from German/Dutch ‘euvel/ubel’ meaning ‘evil’]

Which isn’t an explanation, that’s a circle. Let’s try that again, let’s look deeper.

[Old English ‘yfel’, Kentish ‘evel’, from Proto-Germanic ‘ubilaz’ and Old Saxon ‘ubil, blah, blah, blah… the Anglo-Saxon word for bad, (which we know now means ‘womanish man’) meaning ‘unskillful’, ‘defective’, ‘misfortune’, ‘disease’, ‘crime’]

I suppose that’s a little more comprehensive. My favourites are ‘unskillful’ and ‘defective’.

Lack of sleep leads to strange morning activities. I should probably have some breakfast now.

P.S. I see depression as the great eye-opener, it allows me to see things without the filter, the veneer of desire. I heard depression described once as realisation, it’s seeing the world and situations as they really are. It’s why depression can’t be argued with, negotiated with. Once you see what’s in front of you, you can’t un-see.

I love life more when I’m learning.

Print available for sale at https://society6.com/issara_simone

“Ever killed a friend of yours?”

“People do it all the time. It’s called moving on.” – Urban Gothic (2000-2001)

Print available for sale at https://society6.com/issara_simone

“She said “I’ll throw myself away, they’re just photos after all…” – ‘Go with the Flow-, Queens of the Stone Age.

I’ll just throw myself away, they’re just pieces after all, they’re just fragments waiting to be scattered…

‘The Murder of Miss O’ available now…

“Dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before…” – Edgar Allan Poe, ‘The Raven’.

Thursday 24th of January 2019

I love that line, and I do complete things. A few years back, maybe four, maybe six… time’s so hard to keep track of here. Anyway, I completed a small volume of work which I called ‘The Emet’. It was a collection of thoughts, ideas, revelations and insights, gleaned whilst being both awake and dreaming.

These revelations would feel like information was being directly downloaded into my brain, and would often be accompanied by these crushing headaches that would only stop when I picked up a pen and wrote. Once the volume was completed, the headaches mostly stopped, and nothing like that has happened since.

I mention this now because last night, this morning, I had this dream that seemed as though it would fit perfectly in ‘The Emet’.

In the dream there was a world just before this one, a training world where we train to be reborn into this one. In this world I was female and I was really disappointed by this. Even there I felt genderless and I was being forced into a gender.

Anyway. In this training ground there were people I know now, people I have known, training with me. Also people I’ve never met or at least, haven’t met yet. There was also one other person. This person was very similar to me, almost me, but not. We were both competing to be born, auditioning for the same role.

It came down to a game, beer pong. I won, obviously. I got to be born. I felt sad about this, it wasn’t what I wanted but it was necessary. I had to be reborn, I wasn’t finished.

Just to keep things in perspective, I also dreamt I was a leopard dreaming I was human. To dream this dream, this reality, where I was human, only used the right side of my brain. So, these scientists were poking and prodding my brain trying to figure out why it only required the right side and what would happen if I used the left.

Perspective.

‘The Murder of Miss O’ available now…

Deathless Death.

Wednesday 30th of January 2019

Close the curtains, shut the door, I’m feeling… unstable. If I let go, if I close my eyes and let go, every fibre of my being, every cell will splinter apart and scatter across the universe, across time. I feel like I already have, but a part of me is still here, holding onto body, holding onto form.

I don’t know why I’m holding onto this body that doesn’t really feel like mine, that I don’t really care for anyway? When I look in the mirror, I don’t recognise me. This isn’t really me. I’m a multi-dimensional being that can exist in multiple forms, in multiple places, all at once. At least, that’s what it feels like.

Creating worlds in my head to exist in, I’m formless and timeless. Time slips and slides away. Memories play out of order, people vanish for mere seconds and return older, different, they’ve lived, I’ve stayed the same.

If I write ‘me’ down, can I fix ‘me’? Pin ‘me’ in place so that I don’t fly away, so that I have a concrete idea of who I am, what I am, what my purpose here is? But this is an illusion.

Diary, do you think you’re the first? I throw diaries away like sanitary towels. Did you think you were unique? Did you think you mattered?

Maybe I’m missing a piece, maybe that’s why I can’t… stabilise, root into this world. Maybe I’m a helium balloon, I need a hand to hold me, a string at least.

I dreamt about death again last night. Death was a large barren tree. Twisted, knotted branches like a bare blackberry bush. Spindly and sharp, thick dense, black from branch to root.

I died, for a second, and was flung into its branches, not impaled but caught, it’s sharp pincers holding me. There were two others with me, the freshly dead, unsure of what happened, of what to do. They hung motionless in the branches, bewilderment in their eyes. I knew the realisation would come to them eventually, that they had died, but I didn’t want to wait around for that. I was a seasoned pro, I knew what to do. I wrestled myself free from the branches, let myself fall, ready to move on to the next place… but I woke up instead. Just a dream, right?

P.S. I want to separate myself from this, that’s what I do. It’s the only way to protect the people who don’t like getting hurt as much as I do. Those people who don’t love pain like I do. Who don’t revel in it, make it their own and make it sing.

Anyway. No, not anyway. Maybe. Maybe this is more about me because everything always is. Maybe I don’t want to get hurt again, hurt again by a version of the truth that isn’t mine.

You see, my family are all about distance, but I’m not, I crave closeness. But it took me a while, too long, to figure out that what I want in life is the opposite of their distance. So, logical conclusion to its end, they don’t like to be told that they’re distant. It hurts them. And when they’re hurt, they hurt back, like animals. I do the same, it’s just instinct. So, on the off chance that they read this, what if it hurts?

So, what if I create distance, separate myself from this? It’s what I’ve always done before. I create characters to tell my stories, then they’re not mine, and no one can take anything personally. It’s not mine and these words aren’t crazy. I’m not crazy. I’ve already come up with a whole plan. This is the diary of Kennedy Ness. They’re already so much stronger than me. They wear suits and walk around with a pocket knife, just in case, you can never be too careful these days.

Or, I can be brave and sign my name for once, be heard, for once, not silenced, not told I’m wrong, damaged, worthless, pathetic, ungrateful, stupid. Abuse isn’t always physical is it? I’m starting to see that too now.

‘The Murder of Miss O’ available now…

‘Compulsions.’

Wednesday 23rd of January 2019

It turns out that if I go a while without writing I start to go mad, at least, I feel like I’m going mad.

So, here I am, releasing the pressure valve and writing for the sake of writing. But this does bring up an interesting point. If writing is a compulsion, why is it so hard to finish things? I should have finished everything I’ve ever started by now. But maybe I’m forgetting.

In secondary school I wrote everyday, I had nine folders worth of completed works by the time I graduated. Then I started sending things to publishers. Then the rejection letters started coming in. Then the writing slowed down. Then it stopped. Then I gave up.

I decided to concentrate on art. I went to college, then uni, where I was encouraged to get back into writing.

So, I started again, but slowly, tentatively, cautiously.

Now, years later, I’m published, but not successful. I’ve written a book, that no one’s heard of. I still don’t believe I’m good enough, and that’s what’s missing.

All those completed volumes from school are gone now, pretty much. I lost faith that they were any good. I had more confidence as an insecure teenager than I do now. I see that self, that child, as naive and stupid for ever thinking, believing, that they were talented. I see all the encouragement they took to heart as people being kind. I see my published book as a fluke, a one off, an everyone has at least one book in them. Maybe that was mine.

Writing is a compulsion but that doesn’t mean I’m not wasting my time, getting lost in a childish fantasy instead of growing up and getting a real job, making real money… but this is all negative thinking. I should be writing what I want from life as though I already have it. I should be pretending until my dreams become reality, right?

Whatever. I just need to write. I stopped two weeks ago. About five days ago my brain exploded onto two sheets of A4, mostly nonsense, but maybe something I can use. I don’t remember much from before the explosion, but I recall feeling like I needed to be held down, like, pinned into this reality so that I wouldn’t spiral off into another. Then, three nights ago I couldn’t sleep. I felt like my whole body was vibrating, as though my frequency had been turned up so high. But my heart felt slow, too slow. These events might not be unrelated, but they feel similar. So writing, here and now, is a preempted strike.

I’m dehydrated. I’ve had two glasses of water and a hot chocolate today. Also unrelated. Or not.

I wish finishing things was a compulsion. I mean, other than TV shows.

‘The Murder of Miss O’ available now… https://www.amazon.co.uk/Murder-Miss-Novella-Project/dp/1910688207

Pick up the phone.

Wednesday 16th of January 2019

I’ve been walking around with the hatchet in my hand. Planning my escape. Examining four walls. I’m breathless. I’m nervous.

The hatchet is heavy, it wants my arm to fall, to give in. It’s not a helpful cutting tool at all, it’s a prison guard. I hold it tightly anyway, what choice do I have? It’s my only way out, right?

I put it down. I’m not ready. Give me a week. Give me two. Two at the most. I’ll be ready, or at least readier. I’ll be ready. Or will I have another excuse then?

I pick up the hatchet. I swing.

[Depression is serious. If you need to hear this. Reach out. Get help. Pick up the phone.]

[image error] ‘The Murder of Miss O’ available now.

A Muse in Luna-Rose

Tuesday 15th of January 2019

I must only be compelled to write when things are bad. Are sadness and despair the only things that matter to me? True revelation is found in these moments, and I do love truth, apart from the times when I don’t.

            Last night, because these things only happen at night, I suddenly realised that I’m better off alone and unloved because who could possible love a strange bird like me. Putting myself out there would just be embarrassing myself. The revelations didn’t end there, my muse came to me. Wait, back story.

            Last week, maybe two weeks ago now, I don’t know, isolation and time don’t go well together. I know that time passes, but that’s pretty much it now. So, at some point before this point, I was having trouble writing. I felt as though I’d lost something. I’d lost confidence in my writing and had been thinking, for almost two years, that maybe I only ever had one book in me. If that were the case, I felt as though I’d wasted so much of my life thinking I was a writer.

I expressed this problem to one of my characters, he’s recurring but reasonably new, his name’s Nate. His solution was to get a new muse. So, I created one.

A new muse was created out of nothing but thought and will, to join her nine sisters, she is the muse of amateur creation and her name is Luna-Rose.

            So, last night Luna-Rose came to me, she’s fleshed herself out with far more story than I had given her, but her story was relatable because her story was mine. (With a few twists and turns for dramatic effect.)

            She’d left her home in the middle of the night and had no desire to return. There was no one there who understood her, she was alone. So, we talked…

            “There’s this adage you hear all the time in Wicca and manifestation, ‘if you want something but you’re not getting it, think what mental blocks might be stopping you from getting it.’ So, considering the subject of love and being loved. I don’t know if my mother has ever been in love. I just don’t know, and I realised, I’m terrified of love, I’ve seen what love turns into, what it takes.”

            “For me, love is my grandmother,” Luna-Rose begins “Love is a woman who let her husband physically and mentally abuse her children because she loved him so much and didn’t want to live without him. He could do whatever he wanted as long as he didn’t leave her. Love is defending him, covering for him, taking his side, standing by him, abandoning your children as a result. Love terrifies me.

            “Love is my aunty who fell so head over heels for a married man, she deliberately got pregnant in an attempt to lure him away from his wife and children. Love is my sister who stays in an abusive relationship because she can’t stop loving him no matter how hard she tries. She lives for those rare moments of kindness and tenderness. Love is my cousin who stays with her cheating husband, forgiving each ‘indiscretion’ because being without him is harder than being with him. This is what love is, not TV love, not romance movie love. Love is sacrifice. Love is being consumed until you’re nothing and have nothing else but that love.”

            “I don’t want real love, I want movie love, fairy-tale love, the kind of love that doesn’t seem to exist.”

            “I’ve always been drawn to the stories of Persephone and Psyche. Psyche, the mind, soul, consciousness, was consumed by Eros, love. And Persephone, the innocent, earth maiden, youth, was taken by Hades, by darkness, by death. They’re the two things I fear in equal amount, love and death. Both things are hungry, savage. The only difference is one’s a choice, the other’s inevitable.

“Both of them were consumed by something greater than themselves and were lost within it. Even though I’m terrified I still long to be consumed with something greater than myself, to give myself up to it so that I don’t have to be anymore. There’s freedom in that, it’s like the love of God. In a way, that’s a safe love, a chaste love, a love where you’re never sure if you’re loved back. There’s no real danger in being lost in a love like that.”

‘Psyche and the Shadow’

“I’ve always been drawn to the story of Persephone. I’ve always been drawn to the bad guys, to the villains. The bad guys always made so much more sense to me that the ‘good guys’. The villains are the victims, the abandoned and rejected, the ones in so much pain they can’t take it anymore, the ones with nothing left to lose.

“The good guys are fake, they follow the rules because they have to, because it makes them look good to do so, it’s not really what’s inside them. The bad guys are honest about who they are and what they want. They’re living their truth and don’t care what anyone else thinks. They’re free.

“I understood Hades. His brother got to rule the heavens and Earth, to be the king of Gods, whilst he was stuck in the underworld, abandoned, rejected and feared. So, he takes Persephone, Zeus’ daughter, the only piece of his brother’s paradise he could reach, to let his brother know what it was like to lose something, to be without.

“And Persephone. I never really saw her as the helpless victim, her path was always choice. She was taken from the world above, a place where she had to follow the rules and be good, and arrived in a place where none of it mattered. Without the constant watch of her family, her friends, she was free to be herself, she was liberated. She became queen of the Underworld, and in some versions she became Hecate, the goddess of witchcraft and strange things. I read that somewhere, ‘strange things’.

‘Persephone Opens’

“Psyche was the same. She was just a normal human until Eros, then she was transformed into a goddess. No longer subject to human rules, human concepts. She could be herself, she could be god-like.

“The two paths to freedom, death and love, ones a choice and the other’s inevitable. So, which do we choose?”

The revelations ended here, I went to sleep. I woke up at four in the morning. Yeah, I’m tired. I’m really tired.

P.S. I should probably explain a little more about Luna. Since her creation and subsequent employment as my full time muse, I feel like I have found whatever it is that I lost. I’ve started to enjoy writing again, whether what I’m writing is good enough remains to be seen. But her quiet presence,  her inspiring movement, have definitely helped.

P.P.S. The next entry will be happier, it will be I went to the zoo and saw a Llama or something. It will be upbeat and positive, but who am I kidding.

[image error]

‘The Murder of Miss O’ available now… https://www.amazon.co.uk/Murder-Miss-Issara-Simone-Edwards-ebook/dp/B01LYKO5UO

Dear Diary.

 Saturday 12th of January 2019

Perhaps I should keep a diary.

Perhaps.

And perhaps this diary should move with me wherever I go.

Yes, perhaps.

Such a misshaped word. Perhaps.

And perhaps if such a diary had been with me last night it would have recorded… whatever it is to be called.

            It would have recorded tear-stained words of forgiveness and hurt, understanding and fear. It would have recorded my laugh at finding my first grey pubic hair, the regret at pulling it out, and the tears that followed that.

            You see, on Christmas Day I had this realisation, all the people who have been shunned from my family, all the times that I have been, have one thing in common. Basically, anyone who mentions the abuse is immediately disowned. And it is so insidious that I hadn’t even realised it was abuse. Physical abuse is so easy to spot, but mental, emotional abuse, it is so much harder. You don’t even notice it when its being done to you, you’re bullied into not noticing it. And all the times, all the apologies, all the crawling back on my knees, because I was the one in the wrong, I was the rude one, the ungrateful one, the disrespectful one… all the times that I went back for more, because being alone was harder. Why can’t we see emotional abuse the same way we see physical abuse?

            But I traded it anyway, without fully seeing it, I traded abuse for loneliness, because I didn’t just save myself, I isolated myself. I barricaded myself inside a beautiful palace, of which I can only explore the lobby of. I shut myself in and now I’m safe, no one can get in to hurt me or abandon me again, but no one can get in… and I’m too scared to pick up the hatchet at my feet and bash my way out.

            So, last night, when I recognised the prison, triggered in part by the revelations of Christmas, there was nothing but grief, then laughter when I found the pubic hair, then grief again when I realised what it meant. I’m not just alone now, I’m old and alone. Old and untouched. Safe inside but alone. Too scared, too weak, pathetic really.

            So, today, with the grey hair gone and another one probably fighting its way through, I’ve had no life in me, the dead things seem to have won. I let a whole day pass just feeling the weight of my mistakes. I lost my family with honesty, truths of themselves they can’t and won’t see. I became the villain for speaking and that was okay, I’d always knew that was my role anyway. But the pain of their rejection built walls so thick and high, no wonder I’m too scared to climb out. And I’ve wasted my life here, I’m wasting. But there’s a truth to it, a what more do I have to lose philosophy. So, why don’t I climb, or pick up the hatchet? Because history repeats and I can’t go through it again.

            So, I stare down at the hatchet by my feet, stare up at the impossibly high walls, and I grieve my life. But there’s scratching… there’s scratching at the door…

[image error]‘The Murder of Miss O’ available now… https://www.amazon.co.uk/Murder-Miss-Issara-Simone-Edwards-ebook/dp/B01LYKO5UO

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The Hatchet Explains it All: An Introduction.

“It’s the god that heroin prays to…” – ‘To Be Alone’, Hozier.

A hatchet is a small axe with a short handle, designed for one-handed use.

The term: ‘bury the hatchet’, derives from the Native American custom of putting away weapons during peace talks and means, ‘to cease hostilities’.

The Hatchet is a pub in Bristol, England.

The reason I have chosen this as the title? A hatchet is both a cutting tool and a weapon, what a beautiful metaphor for what we are about to do.

            … I’m so tired of all of it, every question, every answer. I thought I’d find truth here, or at least myself. Shall I tell you what I found instead? I’ve been here for years, exploring myself and the teachings of others, and all there is, all there really is, is an absolute vacation from reality.

            When I was younger, fifteen, sixteen, my dad bought me a pair of orange pyjamas for Christmas. I hated them. Not just because he bought them for me, but I’m sure that was in there somewhere. It was because they represented everything I wasn’t. They were at least four sizes too big, so hung off me like a sack. They were lined with something, some fabric designed to keep you warm, but it just bunched up and irritated my skin. Lastly, the thing that irked me the most, they were orange!

I could look at these pyjamas three ways:

a.         he really didn’t know the first thing about me, 

b.         these pyjamas represented what he saw in me, these pyjamas are what he bought for that person, 

c.         the pyjamas represented who he wanted me to be.

            This wasn’t the first time he had made a mistake like this. When I was seven, and again when I was eight, he bought me a doll for Christmas, despite my seven- and eight-year history of never playing with dolls. My sister played with dolls, but I had never been interested. This brings up the same three points, had he not paid enough attention to me to know I wouldn’t like the dolls, was he trying to make me more like my sister by giving me dolls, or, in his reality, did he see me as someone who played with dolls?

               Let’s go back to the pyjamas, as itchy and uncomfortable as they are. I was about to go to bed one night, I went to the living room to say goodnight. My uncle was visiting, he was in the living room chatting with my mum. He watched me walk in, a smile spread across his face, and he said:

    “Here she comes, lady in red.” This confused me, before I realised, he was talking about the pyjamas.

    “They’re not red, they’re orange.” I said back.

This started a ten-minute row which I then lost, even my mum agreed with him, my sister agreed with him, they were red pyjamas. So, who was right? Were they the colour-blind ones, or was I? Majority rules, so that made me the one who was wrong. What else was I wrong about? What else was I seeing differently to everyone else?

        … I’ve been here for years, exploring myself and the teachings of others, and what have I learnt? There’s a fault in reality, in the fact that there is none. There is no reality if everyone sees and experiences something different. Reality is nothing more than a set of ideas that a group of individuals have all agreed on. What happens when you don’t agree? You’re labelled as the anomaly, as the strange fruit, as insane. There is more to this universe then we can see; and those who see it? There are pills for that, there’s therapy, there’s a padded room with a bed.

            Reality is just a set of ideas that a group of individuals have agreed on, and majority rules. Accept this. Now that we know this, how are we supposed to live in this world, knowing that we’re not really seeing any of it? All of this is just our interpretation of reality. What we see is just the brains interpretation of light waves, what we hear is just the brains interpretation of sound waves. It’s the brains best guess. Those pyjamas weren’t red, but they weren’t orange either, they could have been blue for all I really know. We can’t even scratch the surface of what our reality truly is, or can we?

            Did you know the sun is green?  Our eyes interpret the light as white, and the sun itself as a glowing yellow ball. The sun is green, you can see it by looking at plants, it has something to do with photosynthesis, plants taking energy from the sun. If the sun was truly yellow, plants would be too. Don’t believe me? Look it up, scientist know far more than I do, I just read their work.

The sky looks blue because of light passing through nitrogen particles.  Our oceans look blue because of the absorption of longer wavelengths of light, and I should have played with dolls because I was born with a vagina and not a penis. Yeah, I’m still stuck on that.

            Abstract art is the ultimate definition of the lack of reality, you can see whatever you want in it. I should have spent my years here studying abstract art instead of trying to find reality. Then again, how would I have reached this realisation without wasting all this time? How do we live in this world knowing this isn’t really it?

            Scientists have discovered that the universe is beige.  They thought it was green but apparently, it’s beige. Not black, like you’ve probably imagined, the vacuum of space and all that, but beige. That sounds right to me, that’s sounds true. The universe is the most boring colour imaginable, next to magnolia. I would have said grey, at least grey is a mixture of black and white which gives it some points.

            I’ve been here for years, and what have I learnt? That I don’t want to live in a world knowing that I’m not seeing any of it. What we express to others is our interpretation of reality. What others express to us is theirs.

            Whenever someone brings up ‘God’, I cringe a little inside. I feel their point might well be valid, but why bring ‘God’ into it? My interpretation of ‘God’ is not the same as other’s interpretations. Most interpretations of ‘God’ make me nauseous. Religion is an interpretation of reality. You choose which one to follow, or one is chosen for you. If you make the wrong choice, others will try to convert you to their choice. It seems a wild waste of energy, time and cognitive power, the sun is green, and the universe is beige after all. What’s true for one, is not true for all, what’s ‘real’, isn’t real.

            I’ve been here for years, studying, learning, meditating, exploring. Searching. I’ve walked strange paths and tasted new foods, I’m not ready to leave this place yet, there’s still so much more. If you could leave this reality, where would you go? If you could create your own reality, what would you create? If you could make others see reality the way you see it, what would you make them see first? Is it red or is it orange? Does it even matter?

[image error]‘The Murder of Miss O’ available now… https://www.amazon.co.uk/Murder-Miss-Issara-Simone-Edwards-ebook/dp/B01LYKO5UO

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