Stemming from the eloquence of her feedback, we asked -A, a young participant in The Creative Wellbeing Project to contribute a weekly piece of writing on the evolving theme of finding your voice. – A’s stream of conscious narrative and rich visual imagery asks the reader to let go and journey; creating a metaphor of content (finding, searching, exploring) that is paralleled within the style. -A’s second piece on ‘rules’ is language made visceral, something plucked that continues to reverberate. Enjoy.
TV static is my voice echoed and dissipated immediately it didn’t linger for more than one second I wondered how others could hold their space for so long, how could I feel present how can I create my own presence? ivory keyboard keys ached for connection so I could reply with a sound, but one note wasn’t serving me anymore. I had opinions and i wanted to compose them. I long for a time that my voice could be mine Chinese whispers through and through I’m not sure which part of me is true? In writing and art exercises I discovered that prompts helped Delve to my personal memories and experiences to tap into the details of my own story helped take me back to my truth. Daydreaming in corners my foggy eco, somedays a honey haze somedays rough, that’s OK to stop waiting for it to clear I’m whole today. my grandma’s wall of reassurance that measured The grandchildren’s Heights hiding and seeking in cabinets of curiosities. Warmth and freedom felt good. I Couldn’t create my own physical space I could create my own inner space a retreat on paper I had found my flow this place was mine Mark making to the sound of my own emotions of the day- creating my palette. Ignoring all the noise around and focusing on my rhythm. Mark making lines was the path followed, it was the tool for release – activating my expression. Watercolour paints of pomegranate tea stains engulfed and held my body with its soft presence. Space feels like cartwheeling on wet grass, Forests that go on for infinity, cats stretched to their full capacity space is a hearing ear. space is realising the possibility what could be rather than what cannot space is me, unstuck from tip-toe-ing in shadows.
The lopsided letterbox lacks self-belief and it invites in uncertainty. A scent of cauliflower cheese meets my nose luring me into the trap. The eyes of lamps on either side dimming over time, now their eyes are unseen scrunched up like two dark prunes. when I’m here I feel Unraveled back into the spell that was cast on me. unmoving with you.
Neat Rows of motionless ornaments not interrupting anyone. wooden elephants and shiny pure angels have grimacing grins concealed beneath hollow existence. They are waiting for use. But remember! Staying safe on the mantelpiece are the family rules .
on a backdrop behind heavy purple paint layers of wallpaper of disguise. anxiety replaces the cement in the walls. This is the foundation. trapped are the echoes of your unspoken words nail picking and peeling away the wallpaper of you fingernail skin. I always lived like moss- a shadow of you, flower. but I chopped down the fairy tree at the back of the garden. It was rooted in fairytales and scripts we are meant to read to learn to forget our own voices . communicating through inspirational quotes and throwing sweet positive – popcorn in my direction without looking . Bin bags live under my eyes, eat my greens, exercise your limbs you advise tells me the same story you rehearsed to the postman and your best friend.
In my body zone I feel less alone. living in grey I feel balance. Too grey to dance your tango. Changing the steps. finding out the mechanics of me. picture frames stacked low against the bottom of walls you can’t keep me down there for long, I wait backstage to rise, to be seen . My home longs for songs of ease to sweep through the cracks in the doors warm and loving combating the small breeze. To remove the over cast of your lingering silhouette. I speak with Feeling you hear a sound but no words register, your battle is too loud. I am just another passing sound in the fairground game. I will come back to soothe for now until the clutter grows and grows into a furious cycle.
That fire in my head rages like a shed crammed to the roof with paint tins spilling out once opened. I Close the door to colour the shed of my retreat to decorate my walls with my patterns as they exist in their own . Joy in the indulgence as my handwriting melts on paper houses the book roof never shuts on me. The bits you cut out of you in life are kept hidden in the rhythms of the everyday but here my absence belongs. After I sing I move like water. unrooted from your trap.