I am raw today.
My book is open and exposed.
Embedded in its thin bent spine are the ragged torn edges of missing pages.
Irreconcilable words that worried my skin like the relentless prickling of a thoughtless woolly sweater.
It dug into the hollow of my underarms. It’s fibrous hold squeezing tighter and tighter around my ribs.
No matter how much I pulled and stretched, it refused to fit.
Even as I tear the page off, its serrated rip-rip-rip accused me of cowardice, failure and defeat.
But in this book too are dog-eared pages, left by a past self, for this future me.
Reminding her to come to it again on these hard days. Knowing these times always come.
Her love notes to tell me that these loaded days too shalt pass.
Hastily scribbled in heavy uppercase, thrown out in a last bid attempt to maybe, tether me one day.
"𝘛𝘙𝘜𝘚𝘛 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘗𝘙𝘖𝘊𝘌𝘚𝘚" she whispers to me through this haze of ashen grey.
Two bold lines underlining it. Linear runes to anchor this tenuous present.
One to stay the course. One to keep the faith.
But the ink has faded.
My fingers bear the guilty inky smudges of dormant fretting. The unconscious rubbing away of all I can no longer bear.
There is no past wisdom for me to moor myself to in these moments.
Just jagged edges of a torn page that found no belonging today.
Yet.
It is this absent page that speaks volumes.
Not how wrong I have been.
But that as long as there is a blank page.
I can write my own belonging into being.
For a future self to know, she made it once before. She will make it through once more.
So, I begin.
Slowly. Falteringly.
But I write...
My book is open and exposed.
Embedded in its thin bent spine are the ragged torn edges of missing pages.
Irreconcilable words that worried my skin like the relentless prickling of a thoughtless woolly sweater.
It dug into the hollow of my underarms. It’s fibrous hold squeezing tighter and tighter around my ribs.
No matter how much I pulled and stretched, it refused to fit.
Even as I tear the page off, its serrated rip-rip-rip accused me of cowardice, failure and defeat.
But in this book too are dog-eared pages, left by a past self, for this future me.
Reminding her to come to it again on these hard days. Knowing these times always come.
Her love notes to tell me that these loaded days too shalt pass.
Hastily scribbled in heavy uppercase, thrown out in a last bid attempt to maybe, tether me one day.
"𝘛𝘙𝘜𝘚𝘛 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘗𝘙𝘖𝘊𝘌𝘚𝘚" she whispers to me through this haze of ashen grey.
Two bold lines underlining it. Linear runes to anchor this tenuous present.
One to stay the course. One to keep the faith.
But the ink has faded.
My fingers bear the guilty inky smudges of dormant fretting. The unconscious rubbing away of all I can no longer bear.
There is no past wisdom for me to moor myself to in these moments.
Just jagged edges of a torn page that found no belonging today.
Yet.
It is this absent page that speaks volumes.
Not how wrong I have been.
But that as long as there is a blank page.
I can write my own belonging into being.
For a future self to know, she made it once before. She will make it through once more.
So, I begin.
Slowly. Falteringly.
But I write...
[Excerpts from my book "Soliloquy of a Fine Art Photographer" by Magdalene Marx]
Stay in touch?
If you'll like to reach me or discuss a collaboration, write to me via the contact form on this site, or directly by email or phone. I share more stories on my blog and portfolio, as well as recommendations on the books, podcasts, music etc. that have been so dear to me. You can also keep in touch with me via my newsletter where I send my long form essays. Tender stories to be indulged with a cup of tea on those long slow rainy days. To learn of new release dates and pre-sales, please subscribe to my newsletter or contact me at maddy@abohemialfe.com
Leave a comment