So here's the scene:
11:30p.m. on New Year's Eve;
A bedroom, dimmed lights,
And me—in bright pink pyjamas
Which looked completely ridiculous
With my hair and skin.
Life tip: Gingers and bright pink?
Best avoid.
In fact; I don't know why
I was wearing it in the first place—
I don't even like bright pink.
Anyway;
Whatever.

This is not the point.

The point is me;
Sitting at my desk
And writing in my journal
About how emotionally crippling
The past year had been;
Hoping I’d wake up to a better tomorrow—
Only to find the same harsh reality,
Over and over.
And God! What a toll it took on me:
Mentally, physically and spiritually—

When it happened.

It, like a large invisible hand,
Slapping me hard across the face and shouting:

Are you done being miserable?

And maybe that was all I needed to hear.

Once I read that perhaps
You couldn't decide to be happy,
But you sure as hell could decide to be miserable.
And maybe that was one of the truest things I have ever read—
Because that was exactly what was happening.

There is only so much that medications can do,
And only so much that a person could advise,
When your mind is set on:
I don't want to get better.
I don't deserve to get better.

And that’s when I saw it:
A tiny spark,
That was always there but for some reason
I had decided not to see.
And in that moment,
It filled my eyes with blind hope
And I decided:

I am going to let it happen.

I deserve to be happy.


I went to bed that night;
A small smile on my face
And this tiny spark still glowing so bright inside of me.
And that’s when I heard it.

When all was still, except for
The air that filled my lungs,
And the beating of my heart
In synch with the rhythm of the universe:
I heard it.

It was a purpose.
My purpose.
  
It has only been a few days now,
But I know I was right.
Positive.
Because I’m doing okay.

It’s not that I have gained immunity to pain,
Or that some magic has been endowed upon me:
It’s just that I’m not afraid of hurting any more.

And that's just it—
The simple story of how I’ve come to learn,
The most important lesson I have ever learnt, to date.

i met a martyr once who told me
that gingers aren't born
they're spawned from something unholy
*oh but of course
so when these hands collapse your throat
i will sleep with no remorse

a thousand poems stronger,
write in freedom flowing,
rhyming, sashaying, gingers flying,
an exercise in 15 minute segments,
18 hours daily, easy peasy,
I’ll have my thousand in a mere
13.8888888888888 days, then
what the heck am I do with those now
superfluous 6 hours a weekly wastrels?

drink.