Confession: Forgive me

Forgive me, for I am a collection of flaws and I can’t help but hide myself.

I love to fill notebooks – plain books, workbooks, old books and journals. My heart flutters at the sight of an empty page and my fingers itch to make marks. My mind is flooded and my imagination overflows, or searches for images, ideas or shapes. It’s a delicious feeling to finish decorating a page with inked imagination, and then turn it over and start all over again, wondering what will happen and where the pen will go.


I love opening books that I’ve already filled and then following the pages on an adventure; remembering a story or feeling. I love to fill notebooks, but that’s where their story ends.


I keep them on the bottom shelf of my little library and that’s where they stay hidden away. Some of the sketches are too odd – they’re ugly or weird or bizarre. Some of the humour should stay silent – it wouldn’t make you laugh. Some of the lines are too loose; the shapes are crooked or cut; the handwriting is abysmal and no story makes any sense. I love to fill notebooks with fractured pieces of this place that I call ‘life’, but I keep them wrapped in my shame. I’m content to fill notebooks destined to be buried.


Forgive me, for I am a collection of flaws and I can’t help but hide myself.


I feel so alive when I’m drawing/painting/mark-marking for someone else. It’s time that I never regret.


Although I love the light that appears in another’s face when they smile because of a simple page, it absolutely terrifies me (every single time) to give the finished piece to another soul.


Sometimes I even hide the things; leaving them to be discovered by the intended person at the perfect time (once I’ve disappeared in the distance).


But sometimes I never give the marked page to their inspiration; I cannot find the courage to give the picture to the person. I’m too scared and put off the moment until too much time has passed.


And when I do find the courage and pass the picture to the person, I feel an instant and overwhelming urge to flee and leave them to enjoy the light that appears on their face while they smile at a particular piece of paper.


Forgive me, for I am a collection of flaws and I can’t help but hide myself.


Most of the time I wish that I was invisible; that I could see and watch and absorb without being seen or heard. I love watching the world; visually studying the beautiful things and the stories that are written in the wind. I wish I could move in that wind; that I could follow the way that lives are lived and see how things come to be. This is as impossible as absolute invisibility.


So instead, I keep company with silence and try to fade away. You know, a smart wallflower always grows in the corner or next to a door.

Forgive me, for I am a collection of flaws and I can’t help but hide myself.


It’s a funny thing that my second name is Rose. My skin is as sensitive as a pale speckled petal, I blush with the flush of a red rose and my hair is a mild bush. Like any flower, I’ve grown from this earth and, like all living things, will return to it once again.


How else might I be like a rose? Is it because I open myself softly, slowly, shyly, silently – requiring quiet love and gentle light? Is it because I’m impossibly fragile and quickly bruised? Is it because I’m perched on a tower of thorns?


You know, to pick a rose is to be pricked and pierced – it is death. For a rose can only be yours for a time (you may call nothing ‘mine’), and the love you thought you gave is always empty, because all life is a promise to the grave.


So I suppose a rose is a funny and flawed thing – for the thorns that appear to protect the flower serve to save the fool who wished to pick the perfumed petals.


Forgive me, for I am a collection of flaws and I can’t help but hide myself.


Sometimes I feel like the ocean, and then I wonder how many people really see the sea. Not just the sparkling blues and crashing white waves that burst over blackened rocks and wrap themselves around the shore. I mean the buried currents that tear and twist at each other; the forces that carry creatures around the world and drown the weaker swimmers. How many souls see that the sea is never still; made of whispering waves and silent swells.


Are the waves kisses and is the tide a waltz between water and land? What is under the shimmering shawl? When I watch the reflection of the lonely moon I wonder what happens to the light that falls into the liquid sky. I think the shattered shells look like fallen stars. I taste the salt and wonder what inspired so many tears. How many stones and broken bones have floated to the ocean floor; what treasures lay trapped under sand?


Sometimes I watch that moving meadow of blue, green and black, and I think the colours are made of the souls that have been carried and swallowed by such a sea. Sometimes I see light falling on the water like a mermaid’s gown – floating silken seaweed. Mostly, I see the blinking beads of light and watch the breathing blues. I believe the sea feels so deeply and with such might that only ripples can show.


Sometimes I feel like the ocean, with depths disguised by a reflected sky and ripples that hide my heart.


Forgive me, for I am a collection of flaws and I can’t help but hide myself.


I have tried to tear myself open. I have poured a most secret self onto a typed page; a collection of passages and prose. With these marks, I have exposed a secret part of myself.


But even now, I can’t help but be hidden in the spaces and marks that form these silent words.


Forgive my flaws and fear.



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