Angry Slave

I was born to be free but because of you I've never known what true freedom feels like.
From the moment I was born, you claimed me.  Took my name and recorded it in your books.  Gave me a number, gave me vaccinations and left me alone for a while.

Then when I was old enough, you made me go to school.  Taught me things I didn't want to learn. Made me stay indoors when I wanted to be outside, in the sunshine, with bare feet on the grass.  Taught me that war was right and just, and "just the way things are" when in my heart I always knew, always felt that war could never be right.  You taught me about the glory of war when all I could see was suffering and pain.

You taught me that animals were just creatures of instinct; pets to be owned or farmed, when in my heart I knew they had feelings. I could see it in their eyes.  I could feel it.

You made me feel like there was something wrong with me. Like all the things I felt were wrong.  Like there was something wrong with me? It was your ways that didn't make sense.

A justice system that was too expensive for ordinary folk.  Wars carried out in my name that I did not, would not, ever support.  Medicine that harmed instead of healed.  Politicians who cried 'democracy' and then did what the hell they liked once in power.  Freedom of speech but only if I say what you want me too.  Sex turned from a beautiful act into something seedy and nasty.  Women turned from goddesses into worthless trash on magazine covers.

And then you threw me to work.  So that I could spend my days going round and round in circles just so that I could pay your bills.  I didn't ask for bills but you gave them to me.  This planet was given to us freely but you built fences and charged me rent, for something you stole.  And then, when I get tired, when I can't pay your bills you harrass me and fill me with guilt and shame and hark on about 'credit ratings'.  I know what you can do with your credit ratings, you can stick them up your...Ask me why I'm angry?

Because you have lied to me, for all of my life.  You have tied me down with work and bills and obligations.  You have told me I am wrong to have dreams and believe in them.  You have controlled my mind, you have fed it with misinformation.  Everywhere I go I see tvs, popping up in railstations, buses and your magazines and newspapers, full of misinformation.  You only print what you want us to believe.  Everything else gets hidden.

And when I was a Mother, you still made me work.  You hounded me to get in to work on time when you knew the difficulties I had.  You pressured me to come in when my children were sick, when you knew how much I needed to be with them.  You took my days and made me miss their first crawl.  And yet this still wasn't enough.

When my family were sick in hospital, I still had to work.  And when they passed away you allowed me a week off to mourn.  And then you claimed me back again.

You took the religions and twisted them.  Taught that salvation would come in another lifetime, that it was noble to suffer in this one.  Yes, that was clever of you.  How we all bowed down like meek lambs and didn't challenge you.  And you taught never to question religion because that would make God angry.  Just believe it, you said, even if it doesn't make any sense.  Even if there are great big holes missing in the stories, the bits you cut out.  The bits that said your divinity lies within you.  The bits that said you are more powerful than you ever dreamed possible.

For I am a being of love.  Yet you taught me fear and hate.  Love is for cissies.  Forgiveness is for fools.
Yes I am angry.  I was born free but you have enslaved me, taken my days and nights from me and who for?  Why have I worked for so many years with so little to show for it?  Because that's exactly how you planned it to be!

But you don't enslave me with chains on my body.  Your slavery is an invisible thing.  Your slavery is a slavery of the mind.

Something not quite right

There's something not quite right about this world. You've known it all your life. Yet everytime you raised your voice, you were told 'shush'.
You learned to keep quiet. You were told to keep quiet and accept that these things were 'just the way things are'. You felt all alone, with your 'crazy' thoughts. You didn't know that others also had 'crazy' thoughts because they too, had been told to keep quiet.
And so, you held it all inside. Afraid to speak out because you had been taught to believe that your ideas were 'crazy'. And you stood in a room full of people, and talked about trivial things whilst all the while you were aching to speak the truth inside of you.
But you didn't know that they felt the same way too. And they didn't know that you felt the same way. Because you had all been taught to keep quiet.
How comes there are so many people that feel this way? Is that just a coincidence? How comes there are so many people that feel this way and yet don't speak their truth? Is it fear? Fear of being called 'crazy' or fear of what will happen if they speak out.
Imagine the craziness of it all. A room full of people, believing the same thing, hiding the same thing, none brave enough to share what they feel inside. That's what the system does; teaches you to deny your inner most voice. Teaches you to trust the authority of the outside world, not the authority within.
No wonder there is so much unhappiness. People internally banning themselves all the time. People disconnected from themselves, who they really are and for what? To feed a system, that is never ever satisfied.

Boy

Boy by Oushka Duncan

His small uncertain feet,
Seeking a direction,
He pauses for a moment,
Lost in introspection.

He's frozen in a moment,
A tiny slice of time,
Seeing his reflection,
Shine back from pavement grime.

His Mother holds his hand now,
But soon she will release,
His life to be his own then,
His dependence soon to cease.

Then he'll take his own steps,
Walk amongst the world so large,
But will he be a follower,
Or will he be in charge?

He has so many choices,
Of what and who to be,
Each step he makes, will take him,
Towards his destiny.

He dreams of being a dancer,
Of dancing on the stage,
He leaps and spins so freely,
His passion so engaged.

He lifts his head to skyward,
His dream, it is so clear,
He chooses to believe it,
And hold the vision dear.

His Mother tugs his hand now,
She wants to rush to school,
He walks along beside her,
Sees words upon a wall.

Painted in huge letters,
The message loud and clear,
"This world, it is your playground,"
It's been there since last year.

He thinks he understands it,
He grins and squints his eyes,
He looks just like a small boy,
But his soul is in disguise.

Soon, he'll walk with man's steps,
Strong and firm upon the ground,
He seems to understand now,
But he doesn't make a sound.

The school gates have been opened,
He walks upon the grass,
And waves goodbye to Mother,
And makes his way to class.

Step into a bigger me

Step into a bigger me,
Discard this one called fear,
Step into a larger life,
Embrace and make it clear,
Step into a vision sweet,
Flowers are in bloom,
Step into this plan so grand,
And fill the bloomin' room,
Step into the rhythm,
That beats in time with mine,
Step into the energy,
That makes my eyes to shine,
Step into the sunshine,
That greets me every day,
Step into the wonder that,
Shows my heart the way.

Like a Tree

Like a tree,
I stand strong,
I am centred,
I connect with the world,
I communicate,
But always, my knowing, my wisdom,
Is from within,
My roots are strong,
So that I may sway and bend,
But always be connected,
With who I truly am.
My truth, my power, my knowledge, my strength,
Always has and always will be,
From that place of peace and joy within.

Hope Notes

She carefully placed the note on the bench, making sure no-one saw her. As she walked away, the note was blown by the wind and taken where it was meant to go.
On the bus, she carefully left another note on a seat, before descending into Oxford Street.
In McDonalds, she left another note on a table, one in the toilet and another in the children's play area.
The next stop was Top Shop on Oxford Circus. She decided the best place to leave a note was in the changing rooms. She left one in each cubicle.
Then she took a walk towards Marble Arch, randomly placing more notes in places she knew they would be found. Always making sure she was not seen.
The idea had come to her a few years ago. It just seemed to her that there wasn't enough love in the world. She had pondered over the idea of 'low self-esteem'. Was it really low self-esteem that was the problem, or was it simply that people had forgotten the act of simply being kind to one another? Did low self-esteem stem from a lack of friendliness and compassion in the world? Maybe if people were just a little bit kinder to one another, there wouldn't be so many books flying off the bookshelves about how to "Boost Your Self-Esteem in Six Easy Steps".
It was a crazy kind of idea, but she liked it. She liked to think that it would do some good. She wished she could be one of the people that found a note. She just wanted to spread some happiness.
The notes were simple things. Simple messages of hope and love, sent out to strangers that she would never meet and probably never know. And yet she felt a connection to them and trusted that whoever found a note, would find exactly the words they needed to hear.

Beautiful Moon

Beautiful moon.
You are so beautiful.
Sometimes I stop and stare at you,
Glowing in the night,
You are magical and mystical,
Serenely enchanting,
You call to me,
I am captivated.
I know you are powerful,
You pull the tides across our planet,
You pull our moods, up and down,
You are the rhythm of menstrual cycles,
The rhythm behind natural cycles.
You are ever present.
A friend to our planet,
A companion and protector,
A beacon of hope on a dark night.
Life would not be the same without you.

Silence is Golden

Silence is golden because...
...in silence you can hear your own voice, the quiet voice inside you, the one that tells you who you really are...
...turn off the tv, turn off the music, throw away the newspapers, turn off the phone, close the books, turn off the computer, find some place alone, close your eyes...
...and just be with the silence of yourself...
...and listen...
...who are you?...
...what do you believe?  what do you fear?  what do you love?  what are your dreams?  what really matters to you? what can you place aside?...
...who are YOU?...
...when you sit in silence with yourself...and set aside the opinions, the thoughts, the influences, the pressures, the demands, the pace of the world outside...
...who are you inside?

Ashaira

She knew some would see her as a colour and nothing more. But she had no time for such people. She was on a mission to paint this town and those types were not even on her radar. She was going to paint it, in the colours she chose.
She had so much life, so much energy. You could almost feel it radiating from her. Pulsating. Her eyes were wide and open, taking in the scene, shaping it how she wanted it to be. She was here to make a difference.
Dressed in colours of the earth, she was sublime and serene. A vision of loveliness. How could anyone not love her? She was always smiling, always kind, but her mind was sharp like a pencil; ready to draw her world exactly how she planned it. And the world simply moved out of her way.
There was something about her; something you wanted to be near. Like a welcome breeze on a hot stuffy day, her presence seemed to cleanse the air and make it fresh again.
She had no time for fools and no time for gossip. Her focus was always on people; encouraging them to be their best and she did this well. Anyone that met Ashaira, spent time with her, was blessed indeed.

Gone

A short story I wrote, to remind us to appreciate the people we love in our lives and cherish every moment.  To love and be loved is a blessing so pure.
Gone:

The room was still, no electricity, only the light from the street outside and a single burning candle. The rain lashed against the window, keeping the sounds of the traffic outside away, protecting her bleeding broken heart. It hurt so much; the pain made it hard to breathe; pain and melancholy in every movement; longing pulling down into her stomach.
She sat huddled in the corner, her face softened with tears that would not cease. She missed him. She could smell him. His clothes, all around her, in chaos like her world. Nothing left, but his clothes. She buried her face, taking comfort from his smell and closed her eyes, imagining he was still there with her. She never wanted to open her eyes again.
She didn't want to; she didn't want to see the world again. She just wanted to be with him and see his smile and feel the warmth of his body. The world outside could fuck off! It didn't care about her; he was the only one that cared, the only one that ever understood her. His love was the only light in the darkness of her life. Without him, she was lost.
The clock ticked into the silence. It didn't know he was gone, it didn't even mind. It just kept on ticking, and ticking...haunting her, eating into the silence of the room. She wanted it to stop, she wanted time to stop, to take her back to yesterday and stay there with him, forever. But he was gone, yesterday was melting and slipping through her fingers and there was nothing she could do. Despair poured from her heart, cutting through the silent air. A lonely wail of sorrow, that could not be eased. Pain escaped from her soul with nowhere to go except into the silence of his absence. The clock kept on ticking, ticking, quietly, relentlessly, pulling her away from the man she loved.

Fat Horse Farting

When my daughter was very little,
She went riding on a horse,
The horse was very flatulent,
It farted round the course.

She was quite embarrassed,
And I was in a fit,
The horse continued farting,
And then it did a sh*t.

This wasn't how she pictured it,
Her little pony dream,
The horse continued farting,
It was bloated to the seams.

It farted when it trotted,
It farted when it jumped,
It farted round the obstacles,
And she just got the hump :)

I was in her bad books,
For laughing long and loud,
But I will always love her,
Of my daughter, I'm so proud.

Monday Morning Blues

The minute the door opens, she is hit by the repression in the air. A stagnant kind of silence. Everyone in their own little boxes, sitting at their desks, preparing themselves to face yet another day of drudgery. It's Monday morning again.
She wants to walk out, the minute she walks in the door. She's just returned from holiday and she knew she'd feel like this again. It always hits her, like a grey dark cloud. She always vows to herself that this time, it won't get her down again but it always does. She just gets sucked up into it after the first day or two. The bounce in her step after two weeks of freedom, quickly gets replaced by tired feet unwilling to take her to that place.
She loves music but music is banned. She loves laughing but laughing is frowned upon. She likes thinking but she's always too busy and the phones and the emails just take over her mind. She likes art but the office is functional. She loves her family but personal calls are banned. It seems that just as she hangs up her coat on the way in the door, she also hangs up her personality.
Everything that she is, has to be put aside for eight hours and picked up again at 5pm as she makes her way out the door. The trouble is that those eight hours are long and as each day passes it becomes harder and harder to remember who she really is. The pace of the office has taken over her own body rhythm. The concerns of the day have become those of the 'company'. Her mind is tired, her body fatigued from sitting at the desk, hunched over the computer. She feels like a robot.
The fresh air hits her face, pleasantly cold after the stuffiness of the office. She tries to pick up on her thoughts before she went in but they've all gone now, pulled away by the stream of the day. She feels empty inside. The sparkle of her soul too quiet, yet it felt so alive on holiday. She had felt herself under the glorious blue sky. Her body had felt relaxed and now that all too familiar tension had returned to her back and shoulders.
Her massage teacher had told her that tense neck muscles come from saying, 'No' to situations or people. God yes! She said, "No" again and again in her mind to that place. She hated it. She hated what it did to people. What it did to her and yet she couldn't see an escape. How would she ever pay the bills if she left? Her body tensed as fear rushed through her body. The thought of those horrible demand letters flashed back, changing her body chemistry violently. She didn't even have those bloody letters and yet the memory could still affect her like that!
The evening had drawn in, only 5pm and yet the sky was black. She felt depressed. Miserably miserably depressed. What happened? Yesterday she was fine. She was having the time of her life and now she felt almost suicidal. Is this how life is really meant to be?
Her head dropped and she stared down at the pavement and made her way home.

Tuesday morning. The alarm clock rings for the fifth time on snooze. She doesn't want to get up and go to that place again. It's warm in bed, it's cold outside and the thought of spending another day there, wearing her facade is not appealing. She doesn't want to go to work, she doesn't want to get dressed, she doesn't even want to get out of bed. A depression has fallen over her that she cannot shake off, no matter how positive she tries to be.

She's read all the books about positive thinking and the 'art' of being happy, but nothing seems to last for more than five minutes in that place. Nothing. It has bad air and a bad vibe. On the wall of her desk she has a print out about protecting herself from negativity. It describes visualising a protective balloon to block out negative people and situations. But it's hard to visualise bubbles when the telephone rings out full volume and must be answered immediately, when the emails coming in are never ending, when the list of things to accomplish can never be met with all the distractions.
She's running out of choices now. She basically has two; stay there and be swallowed up by the depression that follows her around, or leave. She knows which choice she'd like to make; she'd like to leave that place and never return again. Assign it to her memory file, labelled firmly 'the past'. Yet she hesitates and a month goes past. She hesitates and a year has gone. She knows if she continues hesitating, she'll be drawing her pension and her life will have been given to a company that she has no love for and that has no love for her. She knows she is just an employee. Now matter how hard she works, no matter how 'efficient' she is, how organised, she'll easily be replaced by another worker. Another slave.
She doesn't think she can take much more. The depression that is around her is too heavy, too dense and it seems to be getting thicker each day. She needs to escape, she needs to breathe and feel free again. If she doesn't take action, the machine will swallow her up whole and that is unthinkable; she knows she is worth more than that. Somewhere along the line, she had come to consider herself as a special, unique, spiritual human being. She had gotten lost in the Matrix but now she was desperately praying for a way out of the grid.
Everyone told her not to leave her job until she had another one. But that was the problem, she didn't want another one; it would be like swapping one farmer for another. Different farm but same scenario. She didn't want to do this anymore; be just another slave bound to a soul-less existence, she wanted to find herself again. Discover who she was as a human being, as a soul, and not just merely a company slave, an expendable company slave.
With heavy feet, she trundled her way to work. Every step an effort. Resistance in every stride. She arrived and pushed the buzzer to enter. The same stifled scene met her as it had on every morning, since she had joined there. "I have to leave. I have to leave," said the voice in her head, "I really can't do this anymore." Then just as quickly, another voice piped up: "But if you leave you won't be able to pay your bills. You're are being very silly. Just stick it out. You know you have to work." "But I can't stand it anymore," screamed the voice of freedom inside her. "I really cannot stand it".
She pulled out the chair and sat at her desk. It was an uncomfortable chair and it gave her back ache. She was so tired of having an aching back. The phones began to ring, as they always did. It was difficult to sound friendly and professional with the whirl of thoughts and conflicting emotions surging through her mind. "Shall I stay or shall I leave? I don't know what to do," wailed the voice in her head. Desperate.
She recalled other times in her life, when she had been faced with similar emotions. Times when her 'gut instinct' had battled with her 'logical/play it safe' mind. And in the past she'd always found that her gut instinct was right. No matter how crazy it might sound at the time, it had always led her in the right direction. She knew she could trust it, even if trusting it made her feel a little scared. Even if trusting it petrified her!
How had she gotten to be so frightened, so full of fear? How had that happened? She used to be so free, so fearless. Fear had come to dominate her mind. It was ruling her. Her whole life had shrunken down to avoid it. Everything she had been doing lately was in avoidance of fear. She had to do something. She had to believe there was a better way because if she didn't, the fear would take over her completely.
There was only one thing she could do. She had to leave. She had to trust that she was worth more than this existence. She had to believe that something better would come along. She had to, because if she didn't she risked losing herself completely.

Mirror Love

Hello you,
Don't you know that I love you,
I do,
Why you haven't washed yet,
And your hair is a mess,
And you look tired today,
But you're okay.
I hope you know that,
That I love you,
Yes, I love you,
I love the me I see in the mirror,
It's easy,
Just a choice today,
To say "I'm okay".
And good enough today,
In each and every way,
I can walk tall,
Look in wonder at it all,
And know that I'm okay,
Just being me.

Money Woes

We work at jobs that we don't really like,
Put ourselves into boxes that are really too tight,
We wake in the morning,
Tired and yawning,
Pull ourselves out the door,
A new day is dawning.

Another new day,
Of this slavery,
Where is my life?
Where is me?
We do what we're told,
Just to get paid,
But the bills they keep on rising,
Whilst wages stay the same.

Our jobs never really pay us enough,
But if we talk to the boss he'll just say, "Times are tough,"
So we scrimp and we worry,
Keep our heads above water,
For the sake of our families,
Our sons and our daughters.

And if we seek escape from this misery,
The adverts will tell us:
Buy a car, some new clothes,
And set yourself free!
Don't worry yourself,
About getting in debt,
We'll make extra money,
When you forget,
To meet the next payment,
Maybe you're struggling a bit,
But don't worry,
We'll charge you extra,
For getting in sh*t.

And then we feel bad,
Drop our heads in shame,
Because we've missed,
A payment again.
But the system, the system,
Just wants us in debt,
So we'll be slaves eternal,
So that we will forget,
What it's really like,
To feel happy and free,
What it's really like,
To be you and me.

Permission

I give myself permission to be me - just me.
To like myself. To love myself.
To allow myself to be who I am.
To speak my truth when I need to,
To keep quiet when I don't.
I give myself permission to approve of myself,
Even when others don't.
Even when others don't understand,
Or don't want to understand,
I give myself permission to be me.
I give myself authority,
To be wisdom in my mind,
In my life,
To make up my own mind on things,
And not be swayed by pressure,
But to listen to what 'feels right' to me.
I give myself permission.
I give myself permission,
To walk my path,
Even when others say they know an easier way,
I know the lessons I need to learn.
I give myself permission.
I give myself time,
To step off from the world when I need to,
To settle back in my own skin,
To get to know myself again.
I give  myself permission.
I give myself permission,
To quieten my fearful mind,
To rise out and above the box it seeks to contain me in,
I give myself permission.

Red Coat Walking

I'm wearing a red coat and they're wearing grey coats and I'm walking through the matrix.
But I'm not part of it anymore.  I'm not sure when it was exactly, that I left.  When I extracted my mind.  I think I'd always been working up to that moment.  None of it made sense to me.  I never wanted to be part of it.  But I didn't know back then that I had a choice.
I look out through my eyes and see people that are still locked in - their eyes look dead and vacant.  Their faces tipped towards the floor, their foreheads creased - it's almost as if I can see the worries crossing through their minds.  I know where they are - I've been there: squashed.  So full of worries and pressures.  So busy.  So everything but their true and fullest selves.
I know I can't heal the world.  There are ways out of the forest but you have to look for them to find them.  Everyone has to make their own choices.  Some choose to stay in the trees.  Some choose to look for better adventures.  Maybe that's the difference.  Some settle and others just can't.
It used to bother me, it used to make me feel sad but you can't force a horse to drink water.  You can only offer it.  I switch on the music and the world becomes a film scene.  People whizz by me.  Busy people bump into me.  I keep walking.  Sometimes eyes awake catch mine - rare but brilliant.  I smile and keep walking.  The music is putting fire in my feet.  I'm bouncing.  Still there in the matrix but only skimming through - not really there at all. Red coat amongst grey coats.

Colours

His name was Glen.  Not a bad name for a musician really.  There was Glen Miller, for a start -famous for those uplifting war-time songs.  Yes, Glen suited him.  He was music incarnate.  To see him on stage - why it was like music was pulsing through his veins.  He could play the guitar, the piano, he could sing and play the drums.  You could see it - he and the music just merged, became a symphony, right there in front of your eyes.  It was magic to behold.  And he always looked like he was having so much fun - you just had to smile.  Glen had that effect on you.
So many people loved him.  He'd helped so many people out - he'd started a project for the kids in the area.  Got them all together and started a big band.  Actually, it was more like an orchestra.  The parents loved him.  They knew their children always had a great time on a Saturday and they were relieved that it kept them out of trouble; unlike some of the kids in town, roaming around at a lost end.  With the little he had in terms of resources, Glen was making a difference to the small town he lived in, that was for sure.  Everyone knew his name.  But the trouble was, some people only saw his colour.  They saw him walking about town, saw the colour of his skin and made judgements about him.  Why they didn't even know him and yet they assumed they knew everything, all based upon the colour of his skin and the clothes he wore.

His name was Eric and oh my goodness, he was the most amazing actor.  So alive, so animated, so charismatic and so funny!  If you ever saw a performance by Eric, you'd remember it - that's for sure.  And off-stage too, he was a character.  Long hair, way past his shoulders, swinging in time with his laughter.  He could draw a crowd allright.  He always seemed to have a group of people around him, worshipping him and listening to his wisdom.  Just sitting a table away, you could hear the outbursts of laughter and merriment from his crowd.  He was just one of those men that people admired and respected.   We were friends for a while too and I can honestly say he changed me.  He made me think about things in a new way -  he opened my eyes.  But the trouble was, some people only saw his colour.  They saw him walking about town, saw the colour of his skin and made judgements about him.  Why they didn't even know him and yet they assumed they knew everything, all based upon the colour of his skin and the clothes he wore.

Tony was something else.  He had done so well for himself.  He was the first person in his family to get a degree and then he got another qualification, and then another, and he kept on going until he became a Professor, no less.  His family was so proud.  But he was also the nicest person you could ever hope to meet.  Always polite, always friendly, always courteous - despite his obvious academic success he was as down to earth as you could get.  He had no qualms about making friends with the cleaners or the road sweepers - everyone was the same to him, and he showed them all equal respect.  Hard-working yes, intelligent yes, but never ever stuffy.  And the way he laughed was infectious - Tony made you grin.  And grin so hard you forgot all about him being a Professor - he was just the same Tony that he had always been.  But the trouble was, some people only saw his colour.  They saw him walking about town, saw the colour of his skin and made judgements about him.  Why they didn't even know him and yet they assumed they knew everything, all based upon the colour of his skin and the clothes he wore.

Paul was almost a healer - he worked with disadvantaged youths.  Listened to them, and helped get them back on the right track again.  Often helping young youth offenders, he worked tirelessly with them - finding out what they enjoyed and then getting them signed up onto courses so that they could steer their life in a more positive direction.  He seemed to have a knack of understanding them, and making them feel valued and respected.  Whilst others shouted and moaned, Tony listened and gave them the time they needed to move forwards in life.  If you ever walked out on the street with Tony, you'd always be stopped.  A young man or girl would call out his name and say, "Remember me?  You helped me so much back then - thank you!"  It was as if the town was littered with all the people he had helped in his life.  His job title was Youth Worker but he was a healer allright.  But the trouble was, some people only saw his colour.  They saw him walking about town, saw the colour of his skin and made judgements about him.  Why they didn't even know him and yet they assumed they knew everything, all based upon the colour of his skin and the clothes he wore.

Tom was superbly gifted.  He could paint the most amazing picture in ten minutes flat.  Just like that!  A vision of splendidness, created, there, then and wow!  But it wasn't his artistic talent that made him stand out.  It was the way he was friends with everyone; old, young, white, asian, black, european, girl, boy, fat, thin - he didn't care, he'd be your friend.  And although he was incredibly talented himself, he always seemed to want to bring out the best in other people.  He was always encouraging them and inviting them to get involved in projects.  For one so young, he had a LOT of vision and if he crossed your path you would be inspired.  Just as if he'd sprinkled fairy dust - he brought hope into the darkest of days.  But the trouble was, some people only saw his colour.  They saw him walking about town, saw the colour of his skin and made judgements about him.  Why they didn't even know him and yet they assumed they knew everything, all based upon the colour of his skin and the clothes he wore.

Blocking the Good

She sat head in hands.  She'd had enough now.  Enough really was enough.  Her life just wasn't working.
She'd hated every job she'd had.  She'd fallen out with her family.  She was always struggling for money.  Her children did not respect her.  Her love life had been one long trail of cheating men.
"Why?" she shouted at the empty room.  "Please will someone tell me why?"
She knew she was a nice person, a good person.  She tried her best to be good and kind.  And yet life had not been kind to her.
"Why?" she cried in despair, "Why, why, why, why, why?"
Her hope had dwindled gradually over the years.  Bit by drizzling bit, she'd watched it wash away down the drain.  But she'd kept on going.  Picking herself up, dusting herself down after each and every knock.
"Things have to get better," she reassured herself.  But they didn't and now she was lost.  How long could she keep telling herself the same line?  It was lie.  It was hopeless.  Her life was hopeless.
With her head in her hands, she stared out of the window, finally admitting defeat.
"It's so unfair!"  She opened the cupboards and saw a couple of tins that had been there for years. Stuffed away at the back - for a reason.  No food to eat.  The cupboard was mocking her.  Rage rose in her heart.
"Fuck it!" she screamed.  "I hate fucking life.  I fucking hate it!"  She grabbed the tin in front of her.  Mushy peas!
"I don't even like mushy peas!" She threw the tin across the room.  And then another, and another.  Rage, disappointment, hurt, anger - all released in the roar.

An hour later, she crumbled onto the kitchen floor.  Chaos around her.  Tins, broken jars, beetroots, jam, cups, plates - all unleashed in fury at the wall.  Carnage strewn about her.  The devastation of her life.  And she cried.
Tears of defeat poured down her face, tears of emptiness caressed her cheeks, tears of loneliness dripped down onto her clothes.  And then, finally, bitter sweet tears of acceptance.
On the table in the living room, lay a book she'd been reading recently.  She didn't like it much.  It said that she was responsible for her life and that every good and every bad thing that had happened was in some way down to her.  She did not want to hear that.  She did not want to believe that.  Yet, she knew it was true.  In a lot of ways it was true.  In a lot of ways she was responsible, and that was what hurt the most.  That she had inflicted this pain on herself.  She didn't like that truth at all.
No-one was home.  Her children had grown up and left the house and she'd kicked out her boyfriend last week.  He'd come home and told her that he'd made another woman pregnant.  She didn't have the heart to forgive him again.  She'd asked him to leave - and he did.  So there was no-one to cook for and no-one to complain about the state of the kitchen.  The glass could stay there.  She'd clean it up when she felt like it and that wasn't now.  Now, she needed time to think.

She moved into the living room and grabbed the blanket on the couch.  It's warmth gave her comfort.  Her cold sweet coffee flowed down her throat, cold but welcome.  She needed the boost.
She felt flat and she felt empty.  Gone was the rage now.  Like a storm that had blown away, she had released her fury until there was nothing left inside.  And she sat peacefully drained on the softness of the couch.  Staring out into the room.
Her job.  Her supervisor was always bitching about her, but it was her fault because she had never stood up to her.  She had allowed it to continue.
Her partner.  He'd flirted for years and she'd never stood up to him - too scared of losing him.  Funny that!  She smiled wryly to herself, now I'm glad he's gone.
Her finances.  She'd never had much money.  Yet whenever an opportunity had arisen, she rejected it because she didn't believe she was worthy.  And she'd never applied for a job with a decent wage - she didn't think she'd get it so she didn't apply.
Her children.  She hadn't disciplined them enough.  That's why they run rings around her and swore at her.  She'd never taught them to respect her.  So it was her fault.  They'd only learnt what she'd taught them.
"Oh my God!"  Realisation dawned her.  "They only learnt what I taught them!  They only learnt what I taught them!"  She had been the one that had taught them not to respect her.  She was the one that had allowed it and thought that it was okay.  They didn't respect her because she didn't respect herself.
Her eyes opened.  She held the coffee cup to her lips, snug in both hands.  "Oh my glorious God!  It was me all along.  It's all my fault - everything"
The room was silent.  The clock ticked loyally in the background.  And she stared and stared.  Moments of her life flashing in her mind, being scanned by her analysis.
She must have sat there for at least another hour, examining her life.  Examing it in minute detail.  Every error she had made.  She placed the cup on the table and walked back towards the kitchen.  She put the kettle on to boil.  This was going to be a long night.

She awoke the next morning, disturbed by the phone.
"Hello."
"It's me babe.  I want to come home.  I miss you.  I never realised how much I loved you until now."
She hung up the phone.  If he loved her that much, he could wait.  This time was for her.  This time was for her.  She nodded her head in approval.  The kitchen was in a mess.  She needed to tidy it up just like the wreckage that had become her life.
She felt stronger now.  Purged.  She knew that she had to make some major changes before her life could be as she wanted it.  She had to start loving and respecting herself.  And she had to start believing that she deserved the good things from life.
It would be an effort, she knew, but this was what she had to do - she knew it.  How could anyone else respect her or love her if she didn't love herself first?  She thought about calling him back and then decided not to - he would call back, if he loved her and if he didn't, then she didn't need him in her life anymore.  From now on, she was getting picky!
She smiled.  A smile she hadn't smiled for years.  She had started to like herself again.  More than that, she had started to respect herself again.

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Welcome to my collection of spiritual stories.