Thursday, February 25, 2016

The end of another month is nigh and already I am closer to the spring, when the flowers break through the frosty soil and stretch towards the warm glow of the sun. Then I have to look forward to the summer months back in my homeland... Last year still feels like a dream, yet the summer is already approaching at a speed I'd forgotten. It's a wondrous prospect to go back to the Convent, doing something that I love with the friends and family that I don't get to see often enough, but it's astonishing when I think about all that has occurred since I arrived in the Far East. 

Love and loss... Well, more like love and lessons learned, something that I realise I am still in the midst of, despite my loud affirmations that I already know everything. Life and how to react and respond to other people... It seems this is not something I excel at.  I love to socialise, to be the centre of attention, and I crave acceptance from others, even if I am not as interested in giving them anything more than my judgement. I am harsh, overly-critical and not as affected by the idea of self-improvement as I should be.

Yet there is another side to me that I have been cultivating out here in the Far East, one that I haven't had the pleasure of since my time in Bohemia. I write, I draw, I paint. Yes this entry is dripping in upright, self-indulgent 'I', but I can't get myself out of my head. My mind is focused only on my emotions, my feelings, my opinions, my choices and decisions. Though I know I need to be aware of how these actions effect other people. 

I believe I know what the problem is... I am my own worst enemy. I don't look to fix myself, because that would be admitting there was a problem in the first place, and that is something I cannot bring myself to do. That is my biggest lesson, and there is more to learn that what I have discovered so far.

Love... I flit, I flee, I fly. It's an intangible emotion that cannot carry any weight, though people base their entire life decisions on a feeling. I too am one of those people, yet I know I am too scared to completely let go like I have done in the past. If I cannot be my scared, contradictory, paradoxical self, then who am I? What am I supposed to be?

Another question for another lesson.

D. S.

Sunday, February 14, 2016

Another year and another Valentine's Day. This time however, though I am somewhere in the midst of something that is remarkably like love, I cannot dwell on the feelings that I have, nor do I really want to. 

That's a lie. 

All I really want to do is talk about love, and my feelings and gush about the other person in my life. But then I can't be critical and sardonic about all the other people who do the the exact same thing... Hypocrisy is an aspect of my nature I'd like to keep disguised for as long as possible.

So instead of telling the world how happy I am that there is someone in the world who gets ME, I shall instead regale you with tales of the Orient ~ my travels have continued to broaden my horizons and I have seen so much more than I could ever imagine. 

I have witnessed women of all ages standing underneath candlelight selling their bodies with a gusto that I generally save only for the bedroom (and the beach, that one time). I have taken part in customs that are still alien to me, but watched and learned with the utmost respect as traditions have surpassed all passages of time. 

The Far East cannot be defined by one culture, everywhere I travel there are snippets of differences that cannot be explained. No one tries to understand what it is that instigates these subtle changes, and it fascinates me to know that there are more places to visit that have no similarities. 

All I can suggest darlings is to travel ~ it opens your eyes, your mind, your heart, to worlds and possibilities that you didn't even know you were searching for. That is my Valentine's message to you... Love yourself and give yourself the life you deserve.

D. S.

Wednesday, February 03, 2016

To be overtly pensive about the fickle friend that is 'Time' can haunt thoughts at every moment, but to get nostalgic and sentimental about life and the choices that we make or the ones that are thrust upon us... I believe that is less self-indulgent and more necessary so that we can allow some self-awareness to simmer near the surface of our facades that we have spent so long cultivating. 

It seems that nostalgia and creativity are intertwined as I cannot put pen to paper without reflecting on the past and musing about what is to come. 

I suppose I should explain...

I came to the Far East with the Duke of Albany hot on my heels as we discussed attempting to pursue our relationship for a third time. But the powers that be dictated otherwise and he had to return to Bohemia. We have corresponded since then, and while he was here in the Orient I did allow the notion of absolution to cross my mind, but it seems that resentment and bitterness are hard emotions to swallow. That and pride.

So I then had the chance to breathe, on my own, on the other side of the world. It was exhilarating. Is exhilarating. 

There was a gorgeous man who caught my eye and took me on a whirlwind romance that lasted far longer than I intended, but I knew that relationship would be short-lived. As wonderful as it is to be adored, living on a pedestal can be exhausting and far less satisfying than one might think. I have had liaisons and infrequent frissons with other men, but only one has stood out and has the potential to go the distance. 

I am afeared to write much more on the matter. It is far easier to find objective words about men that no longer mean anything to me, but writing about someone who has opened my eyes to who I am. Someone who has given me an insight I didn't realise I lacked?

Words are not precious enough to describe him, nor pencil marks to give him form. Nay, even oils do not do him justice as I have so much to thank him for. And it still surprises me that his heart is mine. How even? Why me? How...?

I daren't question it nor speak above a whisper in case it is all a dream. 

D. S.