My latest challenge has been to take on writing more prose – more interesting topics and to embrace the creativity within this space. It has been an interesting journey and one that I am enjoying as I take on some new online courses and I continue to work on my first book. The self-criticism and fear that comes from taking on such a task some days feels insurmountable. But with small musings each day, I manage to gain more confidence with it. So from here on in, this blog shall take a turn to the challenge of more artistic and creative forms of writing at times in the absence of extensive travel, some of which I do hope to resume soon. Here is the first musing of late, one that resonates with me after considering Nanette by Hannah Gadsby on the reflection of self-deprication and what it does to one’s self. Let me know in the comments what you think!

A Self Betrayal

I can’t wash the acid taste from my mouth. Those words I said about myself – and for what? To fit in? To make you feel more comfortable in my presence about your own self-worth?

The self-deprication of a moment now lives with the constant feeling of my own deprication of self for allowing such words to flow from my mouth so effortlessly.

Of tasting and embracing the salty disdain of my own betrayal.

Of turning my meaning of myself over to those who consider nothing more than their own humour and amusement.

The blood leaks so slowly they cannot see how much I have lost. Leaving a trail of the smallest droplets that follow me around like the weight of my own heart – chained to my feet and dragged along the ground until it stops. And there is then nothing left to extract from it.

My soul, my veins – they are empty.

The fault is mine.

I didn’t take the time to cradle that heart in my arms and elevate it from the ground to my chest, to hold tightly, where it could beat the way it was meant to.

I neglected to nurture and protect it.

I let others kick it along the ground and laugh, and not one to want to be left out, I joined in the game.

But this isn’t a game, my heart.

My life.

My slow-dripping internal death.

A languid haemmorhage with every acrid word I speak, and allow to be spoken of myself.