The Voices In My Head.

The true harvest of my daily life is somewhat as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening. It is a little star-dust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched. 
From Walden, or Life in the Woods. Henry David Thoreau, an American philosopher and writer, 1854
A Single Tear on an Ox-eye Daisy

When the voices in my head take over I have to step back and reassess my thoughts and actions. I’m not really any good at dealing with the actions of others. Neither, am I any good at holding my tongue, or dealing with the reactions voicing my thoughts might have bought on in others, so I normally walk away. Nature has always been my escape route and the only way I can deal with the conflict that rages in my head. Walking among Mother Nature’s beauty calms my trouble soul. As a child I would be out of the house and across the fields while my family slept. My mother said, she never needed to worry about me.

Cornflower

Writing helps me deal with a lot of my unresolved issues. My characters can deal with any problems I’m not dealing with well myself. My main problem is a desperate need to be an individual. To find my own identity and not follow the crowds, to carve out my own niche. This stems from the simple fact that there’s not quite two years difference between my sister and myself. For years, we were dressed as twins. My mother having lost twin babies may have enjoyed the fact my sister and I looked alike. People often asked her if we were twins. She would smile and nod, her own moment of fame that filled her need to stand out from the crowd.

Even at school, I was often mistaken for my sister. Without going into too much details my sister had her own issues and was a bit of a wild child. (I found out later that my mother was the same when she was young) At the age of thirteen, my sister ran away from home. This didn’t mean I was at last free to be myself. One day while minding my own business, I was walking home when a police car screeched to a halt beside me and two police officers jumped out. It was unnerving. They questioned me in the street, asking if I was her. They radioed in to check that what I had told them was true, I was indeed her older sister. I found it embarrassing. It happened on other occasions to until she was located in London, and taken to a children’s home close to where we lived.

It’s funny while writing this as it brings to mind the expression, “nature via nurture” which describes how much a person’s characteristics are formed by either nature, or how they are raised i.e. nurtured.

Nothing more beautiful than a English Dog Rose.

Which category do I sit most comfortable in?

I’m not sure, unless I can say I was raised by Mother Nature.

As a creative, whether you are a painter, storyteller, poet or playwright, we all stride to make our individual mark, to find our own voice. I crave this so completely. To be one’s self is difficult in a world where you have to conform to certain standards. The internet has allowed like-minded people to find their kindred spirit and to feel less alone in the world. I wish it has been around when I was young. Yes, it has its downside, but the creativity I see on YouTube is amazing. The art, poetry, mini films and storytelling allows individuals like me to have a platform to let it all out, if we are brave enough. I hope one day I will be able to join them and read my work aloud with more confidence.

I enjoy my own company, and books have always been my place of safety. Books give you friendship without expectations. It’s a one-sided affair. A book has a voice, but you choose the time and place to listen to what it has to say. Writing gives someone like me the opportunity to act out all the scenes in my head down on paper. To answers the voices once and for all in whichever way I want without repercussion.

Now I must get back to Granny Wenlock. She’s been calling to me.

Have a great day.

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