Creative writing: The Innocent Boy

This is his story.

He walked towards the mirror and knealt down on the night of a full moon, it’s reflection mirrored in the glass. He stopped. His inner evaluative speech triggered his thoughts to reconcile the attachment developments he experienced as a child as he remembered all he had courageously fought through; the mirror having no idea of his hot cognition and the thoughts scraping within his frontal lobe, illogical but overwhelming in deep thinking and solitude.

His eyes were an ombré hazel with a white grey lining, luminous with a dark purple centre. His hair an eerie black, full and fine, flowing discreetly past is pale crimson forehead. His nose, a burnt shade of red, pressed against the pane creating a smear of condensated matter.

He peered more deeply.

It wasn’t a mirror or a glass – it was an icy pool of cold moods, his tears icicles of winter snow, his body a sculpture of stillness. It wasn’t a shop window he was peering into – it was a frozen lake. The lake. The lake of death as they call it. The lake that takes the minds of many suffering so quietly, so elegantly, the lake that has created blessings, the lake a pool of a thousand diamonds. Diamonds that couldn’t speak up about their feelings. Diamonds that so swiftly declined and deteriorated due to the pressures of living within a tormented mind with a soft soul. His soul a powerful reminder of his pressured self-esteem – his body so bare. 

Oh how someone would help him, but no one could be seen.

 

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What side of the brain do you use?

 

What side of the brain do you use?

The interaction between both is a game of volleyball, a confusing element within its features, a comprehensive account of our genetics and memory processes…
Skills are what motivates us. Experience is what shapes us. Atoms. That’s all we are atoms.

 

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A special moment 🖍

It took me a while to figure out what my purpose in life is. Who I should be. I was often comfortable and confused in isolation, alienated from the busy outside world when I found a love for books and writing.

I would spend some days at the British Library in London sitting with a book in solitude – having an open mind at the people who created such an imaginative world where you can escape your inner fears. I may struggle with cognition and statistics but I was not born to be a mathematician. I was born a writer. I was never accepted for who I was throughout my life but I would not subject myself or allow others to deteriorate who I was as a person. I believed in myself and I believed that one day I’d be able to do something positive for someone else.

I listened to others scrutiny. I objectively defined myself based on another’s opinion and this caused me great inner pain. I’ve let go of that inner pain and set myself on a new path – where possibilities are possible, where I can transform the darkest memories imprinted within the surface of my imagination and make something out of the criticism, out of the doubt, out of the controversial abnormality our brains have encompassed us with.

When we build we have to be willing to sacrifice. And when we sacrifice we have to ensure we are looking out for others as well as ourselves.