On the Other Side of Consciousness

Art by: Pride Nyasha 

I wanted to not write happy things. To not grow or move on or wish for anything. I wanted to lay down in a field and let the blue and purple flowers overcome me. To let their tender, fragrant petals push gently through muscle and vein as though I were a giving patch of Earth like any other.

I did not want to be great or good. I did not wish to face my past, to rise to the future or to even seize the moment. I wanted nothing to do with any kind of time-keeping. I wanted to rip out all my connections to the world and stuff all the ports, the cable access points with pale blue flowers. I wanted to turn off the gravity switch for all the thoughts orbiting around my head. I wanted to run away from destiny, to erase all the lines carved in my palms and all the scars I had earned. I would not have hesitated to slice any red thread that dangled from my finger with the same scissors still gleaming with strands of my hair. I wanted to not chase truths or mysteries. To not be bound to anything but my heartbeats, my breaths.

All I wanted was to lie down. To be, in the simplest form. I needed time to be with myself. Myself, not the voices. Not the part claimed by rising smoke. Nor the one filled with emptiness. When that happens, when I am with myself, when our silences align, there is nothing left. No plans, no voices. Not even poetry or music. Only the Earth, the flowers and I travelling around the sun.

Only the flowers blooming through my lungs remain, only the petals intertwined with my lashes, blossoming in my breath. Distantly, my fingers ran through the softness of the earth the way hands sift through a loved one’s hair. And when I held it, felt it in my palms, it was rich and consistent and true.

I wanted to paint myself the colour of Earth, but realising I already was, I dipped the paintbrush in wintry blues and pale purples, watching gardens slowly grow on my skin.

Summertime Freedom

The most wonderful thing about this photo? No filter.

I am living to the rhythm of lazy days, long days that stretch and stretch along the horizon line. Warm days lost on the world, bereft of meaning and yet ridiculously indispensable.

But really, what could be more important than watching algae swish to-and-fro with the tide? Or finding out just how long I can hold my breath?  To be honest, I am vaguely aware of some ‘important’ matter I am meant to overthink about—something, something about finding out what to do with the rest of my life. Yeah, that. The waves shrug off the thought though, they send it rolling far away from the shoreline and deep into dark blue waters.

Lost somewhere in between the ever-shifting currents and the black rocks, a small shell met my path on that warm summer day

The horizon line isn’t even straight, somewhat as though Earth had tilted on its axis, just a little

The kind of view that steals your breath away and makes you forget about needing to breathe altogether

View outside my car window. Imagine the same sentence, but without the word ‘car’

Fisherman. Kept throwing his line even as the ocean roared

This was taken in a moving car and all I had time to think was: “Boats!!!”

‘Important’ does not mean what it used to mean anymore. Now, smiling is important. Unstoppable laughter is important. Comparing the size of our hands, marveling at the length of our hair or how sun-kissed and sandy-toed we are is important. Or perhaps none of it is and that is what is delightful. Everything is optional; I am free from consequences, free even from the restraints my dark thoughts set around my heart.

You know, maybe the sound of freedom is not the sound of the sea after all, but rather the sound of this heart going: “Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub” so calm and unbothered that it sounds vaguely, vaguely like: “Free-dom, free-dom, free-dom”.