A Journey of Unrequited Love

“Don’t look back” her heart screamed, or was it her head? At this point, she had no idea. She felt so conflicted she didn’t know which way to turn. But, fighting every fibre of her being she kept on running. Running to a destination of which she had no clue. Her black hood was up, the rain beating down on her like stones on a drum. Her senses were heightened. There was an echo in her ears with every drop of rain. It echoed the pounding of her heart. The rain streaming down her face was a mask for the tears bleeding from her eyes; the essence of her raw, pure heart. The rain may be able to mask the tears but in reality, nothing could mask the pain accompanying the love that coursed through her veins.

She’d tried many times to mask the pain that crippled her. This time would be no different surely. Even as she turned the corner it flitted through her mind the many times she had attempted to take her own life, and many times she had almost succeeded. She never learned. But maybe, this time, just this time she would but, she was a lover, a lover of souls. She couldn’t help but fall in love time and time again. Her destiny was a poetic tragedy. She didn’t see what others saw,  or what people would want her to see. She naturally, instinctively peered behind the mask, always loving others more than the measurement of love itself. So somehow every time she died, she managed to bring herself back to life: to love, just to experience it all over again. To help others experience love all over again. You would think she was an addict in need of rehab for the addiction to the bittersweet fix of healing a broken soul; the physical pain, the metaphorical death. Rather, she was just a lover of love.

When you really love, you realise the harsh truth that you don’t always get it back. It feels as though you can pour and pour and pour. But, as an authentic lover, you come to a place where you just are love, loving without expectancy, understanding the reality that you can love someone purely and even not get any love back at all sometimes, at least not in the way you gave it. And, you learn to be at peace with that. For to understand love is to know: true love when given purely rewards in itself. True love never returns void. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t come without it’s challenges as she and many of us know to be true but, the amount of pain that can come with loving another is worth the price of experiencing the most precious, incomparable gift life has to offer.



Silence is defined as the absence of sound.

Now, that is what I feel whenever you’re not around. As I put this pen to paper and speak those words on my lips, get a grip, is what my mind thinks…

Sinks, is what my heart does because of the absence of my love… 

Love, you say… As if, I’ve got enough of that anyway. But, I want you to question, is that really true?

Can anyone ever get enough of the ultimate truth? The sweet melodies of a never ending symphony, a dance of notes in perfect harmony.

The Paranoia

Silenced by fear.

Paralyzed by fear.

Immobilized by the stigma.

Please don’t judge me she cries looking in the mirror.

Looking for the person she once was and was proud to be.

Daintily, she feels her tear stained cheeks feeling for her lost identity.

The woman she sees is no longer me.

Who am I she screams “tell me”!

A Diamond Worth Everything

First of all I just want to start off by saying I’m sorry…

You see a beautiful diamond, but I see a broken dream.

What you see is reflective and refracted but it’s not necessarily me.

She’s not broke, she’s human,

and what she feels is consuming. The thought’s, the feelings,

they are so overwhelming, attempting to override the fault in her system

the guilt, the perdition, the shame in her mission of self discovery or better yet,

recovery. Recovery, from the challenges of life.

Thoughts: Existing vs. Living

I think I have just had the realisation that I have been existing rather than living. Words to better effect are probably that I have been physically living but spiritually existing. Who can relate? I have had no fire in me whatsoever. My body has been at work, my mind has been at work, but my soul… my spirit? They need work! They have been absent. Boy. To exist, in my perspective is to serve no purpose physically and/or to feel as though you serve no purpose. To not give yourself purpose e.g. recognising the difference you make at work, doing an activity or recognising the effect you have on anothers life is in my opinion just existing. If you don’t recognise there is purpose in your existence then you are like the “living dead” (not that I am particularly fond of that phrase). It is a shame that we dont recognise we all can and do have purpose. If you believe in God or are just open to this thought then we all born with purpose. The purpose of pro-creation, love or something else. It saddens me that many lives are lost for the lack of purpose and recognition of love. There’s someone who is in a mental and physical state of just existing but may be a part of someone elses living but they don’t realise their purpose in that persons life (no matter how small). To just exist as a living being (which is quite ironic) is in my mind comparable to a man-made object but even then those objects have purpose. The inanimate object doesn’t have a soul or spirit (although some may argue otherwise) but it physically exists. To me, to have a spirit means to live, to be alive inside. To have desires, to have dreams, ambitions. I lost all of those for a good while but slowly they are returning.
My mind has now led me here, to ask the following questions. What about the act of mindfulness or meditation? Does that lead you to a place of just pure existence? And then are you classed as living in that state? If you consciously make the decision to reach a state of a clear mind, is that living? I think I am going to say yes. You are living in the sense that you are breathing and your heart is beating and you’re taking the time to appreciate that but then for me living is also to mean that your spirit is hungry to savour and seize the minutes and the seconds of each and every day. Oh, and you do it. The intimate moments, the adrenaline rush, that gut wrenching laughter which has you doubled over struggling to breathe. You soak it all in. You can be a soul you see, but have no spirit. You miss all this. It’s heart wrenching to witness. It really is.

For now, however, I am going to move from the backseat of existence and get in the drivers seat of living.

(This thought process could really go on forever, I want to challenge my own thoughts and ideas as I write. Life only begins when passing fear and leaving your comfort zone is another stance to be taken and what are living and existing really? I have reached a close for now on this post though, so glad I have, it’s been interesting.)


I believe the rawest of words come out when you think the least before speaking. It’s ironic really because those very words are probably the ones based on thoughts or subjects you have pondered on for long periods of time – the broken heart, the birth of a new life, etc. Regardless of the subject, often time, the rawest words tend to be the most beautiful albeit, sometimes the deepest. 

Lost existence

She cracks deep, deep inside

Wondering who she once was,

Is there a fragment of me still there… here?

She longs.

A lost identity

My identity.


I am no longer the person I used to be.

The old me left.  A stranger, you see.


Listen for the whisper of a once familiar song,


await the dance of a beggars come up,

I wait.

I just wait.
She waits.

As we wait the question remains
Will she return?

Who will return? This figure of my imagination? The ghost that is the former me? The one who just longs to be? 


What is love?

Flesh. Flesh. Flesh. Bodies of blurs

Blurs of bodies. She stares. He stares.

They stare.


Not one breath.



Is this love?


​I find it hard to write, even when I am alone. Sometimes, I find it hard to write although I know what is written is between myself, the page and God. I enjoy it, it is a release, an art form, however writing is such an exposing activity. It is a stripping down of layers, leading to the eventual exposure of the soul. My soul is the most precious “thing” I own although, to call it a thing in itself doesn’t truly express it’s value. I think the whole concept and process of writing is beautiful but I didn’t sign up for all this, it’s scary. I didn’t ask my words to strip me bare for you to see. But, most of all for myself to see. It’s a journey.

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