A Simple Pen and Paper
Writing managed to draw out a string of hope during a time of despair, confusion, and masked emotions. It brought me to a field where I was powerful rather than powerless.
At first the marmalade seemed just like a little dot of orange in the sky. A dot I was so dismissive of that I didn’t realize how much the orange shine has dimmed over time. It was just a flash to me and after every flash there’s complete darkness where nothing is visible.
I only came to realize that this marmalade, this flash, was merely my way of guidance within absolute nothingness.
I could still reminisce the days when the marmalade greeted me, its mellow radiance always seemed to captivate me. It was always there, bright and lively. But at the time I found that being followed around by this brightness was annoying or an oddity for my well being.
In the world where there are so few moments of heart to heart, it was always there to illuminate the opportunity.
Whenever I opened my heart to others it glimmered, and glowed when I trusted those around me. But that shine soon faded when my trust was tarnished.
To spill your heart to another is hard work. A delicate, but strenuous work few are capable of. You can only hope that once you do spill your heart to someone, they would treat your heart with the same care and admiration as you do.
My mother once said to never place all your eggs in one basket, since you would be risking all you have to something you aren’t fully aware of. This saying always echoed in my mind and made me ruminate at times. But the presence of the marmalade, its enchanting gleam, made me believe that there was hope. Hope that I could take a leap of faith without getting hurt, as I knew that I could trust those around me. It was something almost like a pact, loyalty. It was a trust that kept me warm at cold lonely moments and was there when there were none. Basically something I could rely on for all, and reciprocate towards.
That something was a community. My very own sanctuary.
During that time there again was the marmalade glistening in the distance from each person I’ve met. To every moment of heartfelt exchange with someone. But, the delicate shine and benevolent sensation of the marmalade grew strong, too strong to a point that I wasn’t aware of how bright it was. Bright enough to be visible to everyone. I continued to embrace that sensation by going through so many heart to hearts with different people that I didn’t realize how much of my vision was gone. So many exchanges that I was only able to see the rays of marmalade and only the marmalade.
I wasn’t able to spot the mistakes I’d made until I exchanged hearts once more, committing the fateful act my mother lectured me to avoid. The mistake swooped in like a wrecking ball and left behind only a disfigurement of my heart. I simply slipped and was misguided to nothingness.
A blissful thrill I believed to be euphoria was in reality just a game of gamble. A play.
I wake up the next day to see nothing but darkness. That same shine I used to call annoying just disappeared in the midst of my misfortune. From there the same marmalade that greeted me every morning and was illuminating a path of what I believed was trust, disappeared and vanished. I was simply lost in the midst of a great void I was left to deal with for years.
The absence of the marmalade and its enchanting glow, left me to regret the times I’ve called it annoying.
To awaken from the same warming sensation from my bed to see only a thing that wasn’t you was too much to bear. It brewed like pressure in an aging pipe, and finally blew open. And, what came at me with haste was the Pandemic.
This came over like a heavy gust of wind, giving air to my cuts to fly around, like the white bristles of a dandelion after a gentle gust of wind. And there was the pandemic, dropping me into a box to deal with the scars and mistakes.
The solitary state reminded me of the emptiness my mistake gave birth to, where me and only me were there to comprehend our deep scars. As if there was only a cacophony of only my voice. Stressful, painfull, and tearful.
The unwanted tune and untasteful music selection. My voice was like a droplet of water crashing against a stalactite in a cave, echoing forever in the distance of my temple.
In that time, I wrapped myself in the care only I could provide to my bleeding heart. The gentle white cloth it was wrapped in suddenly changed colors from white to burgundy to deep mahogany.
But yet again, the solitary feeling was merely a moment of healing and getting to know the cuts without the marmalade.
Marmalade, oh how life was never the same without it. The craving was still there, always peaking over the covers, to find that elixir, that sensation, that feeling I had around the presence of the marmalade. It was the only anodyne to heal the broken heart I earned. This journey I chose to embark on was a treacherous one, but my desperation to find the pieces to make me feel again, took me over like a tsunami. And, I was left in a wave of mystery, and the burning crave for self-rediscovery.
It was like the reverse effect of becoming a phoenix, I was left to deal with the scars that continued to bleed. And a mask over my face, that I use not to protect myself from containing a sickness, but to hide away my affection from others, in fear that my heart will be tarnished entirely.
The Search for Marmalade
During the moment of solitude I lived a good portion of my life in search of that elixir to remedy my scars, something that would simulate the candescence that the marmalade would usually bring over my head. A place to allow myself to unravel like a flower and bloom without the marmalade I would usually bloom under.
After a long time of trial and tribulation I’ve managed to make a spark.
In reality, being placed in the moment of solitude really allowed me to reminisce about the sensation of bonding with others and knowing people. The beauty in speaking with others is truly indescribable. The exchange of hearts and mending of thoughts, helps create vines that would intertwine together. Uniting us. At once I thought this search was merely a spark in a dark cave, but it was essentially a path of rekindling. And tending to the damaged wings I’ve opened up to others before. This path exposed me to many faces, many hearts and personalities. It was both joyful and emotionally thrilling. But the challenge was how to overcome the huge border I’ve constructed between me and others getting to know each other. The scars were still alive and the pain was still felt long after the moment my trust was betrayed. It was fear of losing my heart that kept that border present, the skepticism that others will not reciprocate or not equally treat you as well and basically play you.
The journey to bring down those borders was agonizing. I was peeling back the bandages that heal my wounds. Reliving the traumatizing moments, unraveling the layers the each border was built on. It was like watering down hardened clay. It took a long time. I basically returned to the same box I was in during Covid. Me, myself, and I, listening to that same cacophony and tune that I disliked.
But then I learned that a person expressing the same face all the time won't bond at all, but be only remembered for having that same face. People change and new emotions bloom, and that feature of life allows you to appeal to others. It makes you unique and humane. In order for those emotions to appeal you must adapt to the pain. Simply speaking. And sure, the healing process may take long, but the sensation of that pain reminds you that not everyone's the same, it helps you distinguish between those that will hurt and those that will accept you.
Basically, it means you have to learn the hard way.
Tearing Down Years Worth of Barriers
Honestly speaking, these barriers were getting old and I definitely needed a new look. I didn’t want to be remembered for being quiet all the time. There was more to who I was and it would be rude to not be honest with those that had been honest with me for so long. But it was the truth telling that was difficult. I cannot simply just go out in the hallway and yell my truth, that would be crazy. So I spilled my truth through journalism. A spill that started at Kelly’s Preaching ground, in other words: The Python Post.
Entering that room was like staring into a kaleidoscope. It was filled with a variety of emotions, personalities, and conversations. A diverse set of voices and stories to tell. A freedom, an untamed nature, unfiltered speech. It was a place I could trust for my thoughts to roam freely without judgment. A sanctuary where my opinions could be heard and potentially resonated. This freedom allowed me to tend towards my bleeding wound once again, but not allow it to bleed uncontrollably, but rather on paper. The paper was merely my canvas and my blood my paint. I splashed however I wanted and whenever. I had my say in controversial topics and drew prominence to ideas that were deemed just to society.
But it wasn’t only the writing that attracted me to The Python Post, it was also the freedom us students have to talk upon whatever thought flew by our heads. It was conversation, the community that was built within a community that mattered to me.
I could remember always walking into the room to see the same people at my table (Jeremiah, Laila, Adyel, and Emile. Then the rest of the Post that would pass by our table to interview me and just chat.
The Python Post was the anodyne to my pain, energizing me with strength to tear down the old barrier I kept up for years. It gave me certainty to spread my wings once more to those I could actually trust. Through the work I’ve published I’ve managed to trust more and more people thoughtfully. Through my trust and writings I’ve managed to finally rekindle a glimmer of the marmalade. Just a glimmer was enough to make me reminisce about its presence and its meaning to me.
From being a person who used to hold my thoughts to myself and use a mask to silence myself. Writing managed to draw out a string of hope during a time of despair, confusion, and masked emotions. It brought me to a field where I was powerful rather than powerless. It graced me with a realm where the outside eye wasn’t meant to scold, but rather listen to honest weapings from a wounded heart. Giving it a shelter to heal upon the emotional storm.
Writing in the Post exposes you to a tremendous wave of realization. Waves that allow you to contemplate upon your existence and think about how you will make a simple pen and paper connect the hearts of those you know nothing about.
You learn to value honesty and authenticity rather than the neck breaking topics people would typically use.
You learn to bleed onto your canvas in a controlled manner, and rekindle the little hope left in people's hearts.
You feel this wave of realization from simply thinking of a convincing topic to write about amidst the cacophony of other voices who seek the same desire as you. While thinking you f
I learned how to rebel by writing “Can You Handle the Pressure.” I learned how to speak from writing “The Facade That Speaks For Us.” I learned how to bleed through writing “Uneased Tension.” Each article I released allowed me to morph as a person, drowning me in emotions that used to be difficult to handle, but became easier from every time I bled on that canvas for the people to see.
Like a glimmer from a shooting star in the cool winds of night, there again was the marmalade. Now small, but alive. It was like a roundabout of my life experience. It taught me that easily giving away your trust is like gambling your chances at finding the one to betray your trust. Placing you in a wave of hurt. The strong rays I once found annoying was merely a calling, a warning to what was approaching from giving away my trust so easily. Now with the marmalade being only a glimmer shows that my decisions are just. They're thoughtful and reasonably good. Though it will take time to heal these cuts and scars, now that I have at least the essence and proper understanding of the marmalade. I could have a quicker recovery, since I now have others I could rely on for care, and not the cacophony of my voice.
Trust at that moment was merely a rose. Its vines and petals were beautiful and attractive but its thorns helped define who it was. Permeable to those trustworthy and shut to those deemed untrustworthy. It was then that I learned that my trust should represent that of a rose. Pulchritudinous both close and afar, but open to those whose intentions do not scar its beauty.