Sunshine Cherisher

In week one at uni this year, we were instructed to go out and affect people with our small, unobtrusive pieces of art; to write and/or illustrate on little sheets of paper and colour the campus with our sentimentalities. The lecturer made it feel sneaky, encouraging us to target the science buildings, “Because I think they need more art in their lives,” she said.
I wrote a poem. As it was March I was conscious of feeling the last effects of leftover Summer. Gladly, the weather didn’t turn quite so quickly as I’d feared but now it has begun to fade, to fall, to be fickle; in true Autumn style. Already I feel the cold inhibiting me but I seek comfort in extra blankets and warm tea in china cups. I wish that the cold wouldn’t endure so well but it’s still not quite enough to make me want to move to a warmer climate — my love for Melbourne also seems steadfast to persist.

IMG_1313editWritten: March 9, 2017

Reasons For Words Written

I’ve always written better than I speak. I am particular with many things and my language is one of those things. It must be right. It must communicate my thoughts, feelings, knowledge and reasoning as succinctly as possible. And if it doesn’t, I am frustrated.
Writing is a stronger vehicle for such things. It takes time to perfect but there is much more time allowed; time for patience and a more accurate way to articulate my words.
I feel strong when I write. My own words carry me to enlightening depths where I unearth things about myself and the world, which otherwise would’ve remained ungrasped.
It may seem this is more to do with allowing oneself time to consider the situations of one’s life and less to do with noting it down in words.  However, when I think like this I know that in time, the full meaning of these epiphanies will become fragmented, lost, ephemeral. They will never be as complete as they were when I first discovered them.
If I have a pen in my hand, mind and body work as one along with the sticky ink that glues my thoughts to paper. Through a carefully constructed system of letters making words I find a piece of the spirit me and bring her onto the page. I want to write her down for future reference but the thing is, she keeps changing. It’s a good thing; it means growth. It means I refuse to stay stagnate but it also means I am never completely definable to myself. I think that’s probably a good thing as well for if I am not a mystery to myself, what on earth would I have to occupy myself as internal dialogue? If I knew all the answers to myself, I think I’d grow intensely bored because nothing I’d ever do would seem spontaneous or unpredictable. I wouldn’t have that wonderful feeling of being on the cusp of self-discovery anymore and without that, I think I’d be entirely unfulfilled.
And so, I hope that I spend my whole life never fully knowing myself and yet desperately trying to in the same instant. As I write myself out, I understand past-me better and, of course, I can’t know who future-me is at all until she’s present. Right now –and perhaps forever– present-me seems unsure. She isn’t whole. She doesn’t know how to be. She seeks comforts to fill the gap which she knows are not perennial, nor reliable.
I hope that changes. With all my heart, I try to make it change but I need to work out why it’s so in the first place. Maybe properly recognising myself as an artist for the first time in my life will help. And maybe sharing my art with the world will help to inspire me and inspire others.
We can only hope.