I am blue today, blue like the sky, blue like the ocean, blue like the encapsulating sense of freedom that horizons and clouds of puff bring. Standing on cushiony sand looking out onto the horizon, there is liberation in the heart of this castaway, chains breaking and snapping, thorns peeling and dying.

I had boarded the ship a soul weighed down by debts and loath, but lightning sent piercing down from the heavens as bullets of rain hurled down in hails have destroyed the poundage and wrecked my vessel of imprisonment. 

Now, there is light. Now, there is colour. Now, there is relief.

I tread on the shore, my toes sinking as I take every step. A crab scurries by. There is a brilliant show of reflection as the warm Eastern sun gazes down upon granules of unadulterated sodium and sand. A crash of waves, blue -- no, green! -- punctures the air in melodic ascent and my ears tingle in delight.

I originally planned to write a different post for this set of photos taken over the weekend with my mother, to whom the romantic excursion of wind-swept, sun-swept, sand-swept beach photos should be attributed, but one glance at my personal progress over the weekend and I knew a metaphorised anecdote suits better than the initial materialistic draft of scavenged maxi dresses and uncomfortable public posing.

Long story short, I have decided to forgive myself for the mistakes I have held myself accountable for, of which have spawned some of my darkest posts across the previous few months, for the past year or so. 

Confession: There is very little self-love going on in this jumbled up mind of mine. The result? Self-loath. The subsequent effect? Merciless self-condemnation, from the most severe of mistakes to the tiniest, most trivial slip up. And in came Unhappiness, settling down like the pesky little bugger it is, occupying like the perilous evolution it potentiates.

To say and be done with such a weighted statement is a dangerous fallacy. It takes time for the culture to take effect, but the ability to forgive oneself for one's mistakes is the catalyst to get things going. I've spent enough time hating myself, spent enough time wallowing, spent enough time stressing out over mistakes I've made in the past. Continuing to do so is to put a time bomb on my back and watch it count down to my inevitable destruction.

To accept that I can be forgiven though the people to which I have incurred hurt are not yet ready to forgive is the necessary step I need to take to detonate this bomb, to move on, to be hit by crashes of waves and hailstorms and to be washed up along a shoreline a castaway, renewed, relieved.

There are several factors which have provoked my thoughts and which consequently allowed me to straighten my mind to give myself room to love over the weekend. The first would be the ever controversial, ever debatable, ever discussed Essena O'Neil. The second is this wonderful post written by Zauni from Hello Zauni, timed at a curious coincidence to my acceptance of this.

The sky was bright, the oceans loud, my surroundings -- nothing short of colourful. Spending my time over the weekend away from technology with mother dearest, laughing at our awkward poses, flipping hair against the savage winds, it was the happiest I have been in ages. I didn't work, I didn't think, I didn't carry the heavy heart that has weighed me down for the past twelve months. It was bliss; bright, blue, beautiful.

How was your weekend?




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