Mind matters



Dear Mind,

Thank you for your considerate thoughts. I do not know where to begin this letter. My thoughts are a jumbled mess, bemused at the ever turning tide that my life has become over the last 10 months. I know you do not criticise. Believe me, when I say that I hear your predicaments. Change my thoughts and my reality will follow suit. The problem is that I cannot for some absurd insanity accept that I am unable to help my family. I hear your question, even without you asking. Is this really family? But they are my family. My heart knows no other. We have been tied to each other for years, our resolves unshaken. However, we crumble into disgruntled rubble over something so unnecessary.

I hurt.

A hurt buried underneath a layer that I am unable to reach at present. It is as if my core trembles in the aftershocks of an earthquake inevitable. Surfacing from that debris, all I can hear is the sound of a loss. A loss that I thought I had recovered from. The loss of innocent youth, the loss of familial love, the loss of oneness. I do not deny anything you have said, I know that it is the truth. They cannot change and have not done so for a decade. Here, I cling, right? I wish I could close the door, walk with my head held high. Yet, this festering guilt, burdening my wakefulness. Do I simply do nothing?

I want to unite with you, I promise I really do. But first, I feel I must grieve my loss. The reality of my life doesn’t align with my perceived reality of a better world. I guess, in order to grow, I must turn away to let others find their own morality. I must return shame to its rightful owners. Somehow though, I am saddled with the ugly truth that this is in fact my biological mother, my biological sisters, my blood. I really want to hate them or be angry. Unfortunately, I cannot hate them. My being doesn’t allow for it.

With all that said, I am saddened by the ugly world I find myself in.

My soul weeps in this sadness but with every new moment it finds brightness. I will find you too. For now, my tears flood the rivers. I must let them flow.

Please be patient with me.

With love and kindness,




Racist revolving doors


I am not one for secrets, my spirited heart mischievously curious, has forever and always been open to new adventures. Its cheeky twinkle beckoned to doors unopened. One ancient rusty door, leading directly to my past which was very briefly opened but then promptly closed with firm hands definitively decisive. My colourful, vibrant memories of Pakistani lineage buried beneath dirty layers of racial stereotypes, gender disparity, religious hypocrisy and cultural repression. Yes of course, these lovely labels a cliché unfortunately rather true also. Would you believe the main perpetrators of this shameful distaste were my own biological family? Yes, you heard me correctly. My blood ties, my very own personal execution chair. JUDGE. JURY. EXECUTOR. All running through my gushing veins.

My only mistake: I fell in love. With whom? Should it matter? But, oh it certainly does to some.

My secrets undone today.

The humour behind this story, may not be amusing yet, but in time it will unfold as ludicrously hilarious. The thorns in my Romeo and Juilet-esque love story is no other than my villainous family. I would have thought, living in the United Kingdom in the 21st century would undo old historical ties to barbaric racist ideology but I was so wrong. This was no Hollywood movie where the credits would roll, then I would go on living a happy, peaceful life. Oh no. Not even in my dreams was I ready for this stormy awakening. I invite you into my vivacious world of insanity, to one day hear your thoughts. Unless, I really am the Madhatter and this isn’t reality at all.

Let’s begin with following the footprints in mud.

They will deliberately lead you to open a yellow door. Solidly strong in its silence it will stand. Amongst its breast, you will fall in love with a delightful charming garden basking proudly in mother natures beauty. Within this hidden gem mystical, you will hear the soft whispers of poetry. Undefined by the constraints of religion, culture, gender and beauty, you will meet a soul. Pure love in its heart. Open mindedness its brand unique. Laughter its secret remedy. Simplicity its message. And freedom its only one true desire. Beyond its layers of skin, its colour, its history or its memory. It is naked to its core. It hides behind no labels. It is unashamed to own its vulnerable insecurities. Unafraid of its failures as it is the only way, it knows it will learn growth. Flourishing in the knowledge that it is not defined by its historical disappointments. It can only move forward, one step each moment.

I embody this soul. I need no name.

I am not simply Pakistani.

I am not just a female.

I am not only a bloody Muslim.

I am not British alone.

I am not defined by my education, my employment, my wealth, my social standing, my material accumulations. I am NOT things that you can acquire as your property.

I am existence.

Once you see me, please take my loving embrace in altruism. I offer you only kindness and love. Nothing more. Nothing less. Beyond this honest encounter, you will find yourself standing in front of an enchanting river. The glistening coolness, inviting you with open arms. Don’t be afraid. Jump fearlessly as your journey has only begun. As you swim deep in this magical spell, you will awake to find yourself stood before a grand cherry tree. Open her bark door to grace the wind. He will greet you with a shy, smile small. His gentle nature enveloping your worries, a soothing sinking slowly into your soul. Take his warm hands, listen, breath, be still. He will guide you to light love, fall in love with his inner calmness. Dance to his heart beat, loud in the silence. He is my hero.

He is also another soul, seeking only the greater good.

He is not only Black.

He is not just American.

He is not a simple Man.

He is not a brainwashed convert.

He is not a product of his families past.

When you are fully nourished in his peaceful serenity, gather your strength. I warn you. Build your inner walls, firmly firm. Do not take down your armour as this next part of our star crossed love story is definitely not so peaceful. Hold his image in your heart and close your eyes tight. The whirlwind is coming for you. Even I do not, which door you will open. But open you will. Its just one of those moments. As the wind crashes in your deaf ears and your whole body trembles nervously, I remind you to find love in your heart. Then with a thud noisy, you will find yourself sinking in front of the watchful eyes of an aged oak door. Be quick on your feet, you cannot sink at this hurdle.

Behind this door you will find chaotic noise. It is the centuries old. This terror, stemming from long buried trauma. Trauma of poverty, born in the soil of a village in Pakistan. At the brink of war with India in 1947. Sadly, it began way before this. However, my memory unable to transcend beyond this. Trauma of slavery to the once mighty British empire. Trauma of deeply rooted religious differences. Trauma of separation from families that only forged patterns of patriarchy, power, superiority. Trauma of oppression to society, cultural binds and shameful buried secrets of violence, abuse and hatred. This is my villainous family. Behind its mask of civilities, educated post modernism, it really is an evil that lurks on the surface. All you need is to prod the sleeping beast, it will quickly ink you with its vicious claws. Its poison slowly killing you, yet you wont even know.

It is no secret, I was sexually abused as a child. Incest to be precise. I am mentally, emotionally, psychologically abused even until now. He was my biological brother. We are family. We were always Muslim. We lived in England. We are all educated professionals. Wait, you wonder where I am going with this? Well, these are the blood ties that call me to obey their demands of loyal honour. Yes, that’s my point. Behind this door are the horrors that guilt my heart into conformity. However, they don’t dare look in the mirror to see their inner guilt. An inherent hypocrisy breeding life into wounded souls. Here, we are at cross roads. My heart belongs to a beautiful soul. He is the flame burning my very own light. Then there is my blood song. My optimistic hope desires for their change but with each curve ball, my candle light is dimmed.

We are one of the same.

This is the sad reality that blind eyes fail to see. I was not born a white supremacist. But I was born into interracial racism. My light skin colour is of no significance. I am not above another. Long historical ideology of ‘whiteness’ deeming white as superior also runs in my bloodline. I choose not to ascribe to this. However, familial conformity rendering others ignorant. The serpent of hypocrisy lies dormant until its slumber is perturned by the unexpected. I poked it with my powerful, passionate love affair with a soul dipped in black ink. It wasnt deliberate, it was destined. It was the time to wake up and take ownership of our hideous truth. The polite niceities of religion falling apart the moment its cultural appropriation threatened. God no longer was gracing these paths as viciousness attacked, slandered and accused his character. Our giant mirror of lies cracking further. The earth beneath our feet dragging us closer to burning hell.

The mockery, you ask? Yes. We are stained in our own blood. Bleeding at the hands of daggers that we bury deep in each others hearts. Yet, we still find fault in others, justified with racist ideology, stereotypes fueling fear of the unknown. Choking in the cluthes of assumptions based on untruths unfounded. Drowning beneath pathetic layers of material consumption. And worst of all, living lies for the sake of cultural communal conformity, none of whom in reality give a fuck about us anyway. But you find yourself stained in this filth. The shrill enough to kill anyone. These echoes ring in my ears, even when I pray they fade.

He is not Pakistani.

How do we know if he is a true Muslim?

He does not speak our language.

He does not follow our customs.

He does not understand family.

He is not of high social standing.

He might be a murder.

He is not good enough.

Please take my hand, together we will exit this nightmare. The joke is on them. My soul loves his soul. Nothing else matters.

Let’s close this racist revolving door forever.


Farewell old family. Good day new one.



Little heart

Dear little heart,

I write this in the hope you can hear me. I have been trying unsuccessfully to cure you from your ill fated disease. The disease that you call kindness. It is killing you. I watch you die each time your compassion, kindness, consideration or the need to save the world surfaces. And truth be told it surfaces a lot. Yet, you expect me to stand by whilst you repeat the same old cycle. I’m not tired of you. I worry that this cycle cannot be broken by you alone. Change requires others to evolve. Here, no one else evolves. Unfortunately, I recognise I cannot cure your inflictions unless you willingly join me on this journey.

So, what do you prefer I do? I tell you now, I cannot play your Punch and Judy anymore. In your need to save others, you do not see that you are hurting us. And I can no longer watch slowly fading scars, to only resurface another time. Please, offer us the kindness to let this endless battle end.

Family is where love truly begins. Sadly, our loyal heart has no real family to call its own. We do not and cannot belong to this family. Again, I plead that you let them go so we can breathe as one. We will always love them regardless of their past actions. We will live in hope. But we will not die in the arms of their tiresome battles futile. I know you know this. Please don’t be blinded by the misconception of altruism as it will lead us aimlessly astray.

You are love in your each breath. We need no further validation or cure beyond that.

Your honest companion,


Love poison

IMG_0896It wasn’t as if I had this insatiable hunger for luxurious materialism. It was much simpler.

Unconditional, undeniable, infectious love. All I ever wanted. Why the bloody hell was it so hard for the world to understand this simplicity?


1979 was the glorious year, for all beginnings to begin.

Two embryonic lives nestled safely in a cocooned sheltered in oblivion. Blissfully unaware of mysteries eager to revel in their separate existences. Fates sealed behind invisible doors.

Until, one premature morning in March, under the guise of a stormy torment, a caterpillar nervous crawled from the womb of its disappointed mother. One half of a heart torn apart, beating erratically within its confines.

I am that misfated caterpillar. 

Nine months later, a surprisingly bright December morning, the gentle wings of a shy butterfly flutter to life. It’s search for his missing heart beat, a race against time ticking.

He was alive, unknowingly anchored to my rhythm. 

Waves of an ocean dividing time and space into strangers. We lived our lives, unaware of our co-existence. Determined to forge our own ways. Yet, our destiny stirring amongst sullen, unspoken memories old. Wandering, asleep in our own wakeful daydreams.

All I ever wanted was belonging. A place called home where I could sprout my wings, emerge from being a weak caterpillar to a free spirit. Loved for my existence, for my heart, for my soul. Embodied in my messy layers. However, bound by the blind chains of familial conditionality, I never shone. Unable to fully wake up. The simplicity of my heart, lost amongst years of chaotic chaos. Lost in the depths of misguided altruism, unable to truly “see” the burden ebbing at my soul.

Today, my heart bleeds in a pain unspoken. Watching itself break into fragments tiny. A shattered mirror, scarred. Behind it’s veil, it dies, every time it’s loved ones tear themselves as their savage beasts relish in its wicked delight. The mocking twinkle a stinging imprint on my soul. The greedy hunger happy to feast on distrustful anger. From behind the sidelines I wait. Life in midsummer Manchester continues at a pace abnormally normal.

Soon after my 37th birthday, my disatisfied soul, embarked on a journey that was no longer waiting in a long queue of lost and found. Desperate to explore possibilities beyond my shackles, I stumbled upon a door virtual, nevertheless a  door indeed.

“Cosmic calling. How do you reply?”

Its only indication of existence. To many surprises, someone replied. The once, small butterfly, now basking in his full magnitude, heeding my call. His long sleeping heart, finally, alive.


This is where our love story begins. It is not born here because it was in motion way before we connected on this earth. Nothing could deter us now.

Unburdened by our physical distance. Undeterred by our racial differences. Undisturbed by our histories. Unprovoked by our memories. Nothing would stand in our way. Nothing at all could forbid our hearts from uniting.

A year later, with our hands briefly interlaced as one, we pledged our unbreakable bond. Unashamed to be alive, to be free, we danced amongst the wind. Our silence stronger than our spoken words. A language we understood before our birth. The promise of unconditional love, fulfilled.

No matter what anyone says, we are not designed to live apart. Yet, still many feel compelled to pigeon hole us behind cages. Our biggest mockery, “cultural appropiateness”. I am not milk white, I am a mocha latte born into Pakistani heritage. On the other  hand, he is midnight moonlight born into Black Americanisation. Our differences, really no difference at all. We did not fail the standards of humanity. At the very core of existence, we are humanity. The several faces of my heritage, may wish to silence our unique cocktail into a box of conformity, yet we will not go quietly. We belong in no box of any kind because we are the masters of our destiny. I am no slave to my history, to my heritage, to my culture, or my language. Above all, he is not a sacrificial lamb, dancing to the tune of my families insecurities or unrealistic cultural expectations. I refuse to bend his will, unwilling.

We are wild fire staging a riot beneath the magical glow of the moonlight. We burn light into life itself. For now, I may still be a caterpillar but I am on my way to sweet freedom. We maybe temporarily apart, our hearts still one though. His wings glistening in morning dew. I wait, patiently to hear his soft tune. We will unite, if not in this lifetime, then in any other. I will always find him, no matter what.


His heart beats in my chest, until the shell of this caterpillar succumbs to its death. Even then, we will live on, in the wind, in the arms of starry midnight and in your hearts.

We are love. Unconditional.

Accidental Mishap

Experiment 1: The unpredictable soul conveyer mishap of a misfit mischievous. 

It all began, a time long gone. The witching hour eery, at 2.22 am to be preciously precise. The year, 1979. The 70’s dwindling to a close, with the uprise of the new dawn, breaking in about 9 months, a time so profound, only that no one really knew yet what lay awake in the blissful eve before. But, the truth was sealed tightly behind a mouth tiny, which, well clearly was designed to at present, wail unceremonious noise. Speech, was an alien. The irony, if only they knew. 

Unlike the other bundles, of wrapped itchy cottoned cocoons, simply put, I was alone, in an incubator, frighteningly confining, even for my deliberately small self. Occasional bleeping, yanking slumber from my bleary peep holes. Later, I was to uncover, these magnificent magical wonders were my eyes watchful. For now though, I was ridicolously blind, a joke failing miserably because all I wanted was to see. However, like a rocket ready to take off, I willingly drift into another dream unashamedly excited. 

Amongst, noises of various delicacies, unable to drown out the hungry pant of a stranger slowly becoming familiar. I wait.  

“Still 3 lbs, 0 ounces. Poor lamb, let me clean her up. With this mess, she must be uncomfortable.”

Unable to the hear the reply as I am disappointingly distracted by the rude awakening of cold biting, my naked flesh brutally stung. I let out, a mighty roar. Well, perception convinces me so. Sadly though, it’s more whimper than a fierce call of a lioness because the cooing soft, reaches a level new. I can’t recall, the ordeal ending. I do however, know that I felt joy flutter inside her. The feeling a warm, soft glow lighting a gentle flame somewhere unnamed. Again, I succumb to intoxicating sleep. 

Radio broadcast: 30th March 1979 

A rusty old voice crackles. 

A depression trickles slowly northwards across the UK, covering over 30cm of snow over the West Midlands. Further disruption causing chaos as snow hits the Northumberland and Durham. It continues to forecefully attack parts of Scotland, with an impressive 15cm falling in Fife in only four hours.

Sea surface temperatures reach their lowest level in March, whereas, the frequency of northerly and easterly winds is higher in March causing an influx of bitterly cold air. Our current run of wintry March weather is the result of cold seas and even colder air from the east.

So, we may take some comfort in the knowledge that less cold conditions are expected to return towards the end of next week.

Intently, I process all, without much awareness of its importance. My little limbs, coding the messages as I lay here alone. Unwanted, I guess. Yet, unable to detach myself from the emotional world beyond myself. My DNA, eagerly responding to the magical song of this voiceless treasure, I collect.  

“You’re a special one, little Annie. You really are. One day, you will know. Goodnight precious, until the next time.” 

Then, one day, she stops visiting. The abrupt suddenness a blatant slap. Frosty coldness bleeding into my veins. The violent ache in my heart, shattering it bit by bit. My heart breaks, over and over again. Thudding so intense, my insides burn ferociously. Waves of pain, stinging places, I not by name. I bleed out agony, without even knowing its truth. The anguish of my first heart break, choking under silent cries. I knew, she no longer would visit. It wasn’t as if she didn’t want too, she no longer was to do so. My desire to know why, soaked up in an ocean, dragging me to a weary shore. I sleep endlessly for the moments that follow. No one again, told me I was special. 

I was the unexpected soul, arriving at a time unfit for new souls. Somehow, I had broken the soul conveyer. Jumping the queue with some determination wild. My resolve undeterred. Thus, here I was. The cost, indeed pricey. My debt awaiting lustful payment. My adventure eager, keen to collect its surprising due. So it did. My soul exchanged for that of my gentle familiar stranger. The price paid without warning much. Yet, unaware of the many prices, along the way, I had to still pay. Alone in a world distrustful, I was the unwanted misfit. If only, I had understood this sooner. Unfortunately, I wasn’t one for lessons easy. So here; on this bitter icy day in England, I was hand delivered to I suppose, my parents, whose shame, stings everyday since this one. 

I shrink into my oversized prison uniform and stifle a yawn bored. 

The beginning unfolding, eventually. 

Wonderland and The Candle Man

The story of the Vanilla Poundcake

Burning bright in the arms of midnight.
The sweet scent of lovers long lost.
Moments new, springing into life.
Aromatic powerful passions lingering in air warm. 

Deliciously delicate healing beacons of light glisten. 

In the hands of time, wings wild bloom.

The birth of fragrant dreams, exploding in unseen kingdoms.

Humanity alight, in fireworks bright.

A spark burning furiously for humanity, every day and night.


The Magic house stands deceptively normal amongst all other gentrified lookalikes. No one suspects anything unusually abnormal behind its faćade of normality, however, the truth unfolds beyond ink on these pages. Mysteries, unravelling cheekily unprovoked. The Candleman crosses unsuspecting paths on a day otherwise perturbed. 

Akimbo beneath the sparkling sunlight, the Candleman unusually drowsy at midday succumbs to a slumber unwarranted. His back door, carelessly wide open as his eyes flutter into a world he never imagined possible. The grass vibrant green, crumbles under his slight weight. His snoring gentle, rudely disturbed by a buzzing insistent. The Candleman, sleepily flaps his fingers at the pest, irritating. Unsuccessful, of course, he bolts upright to confront his pesky intruder, to only be stared in the face by what he supposes is a bee with magnificent purple butterfly wings. The Candleman, convinced that he is either in a dream lucid or trapped in wicked trickery of the devil. Neither making sense much. 

Before his brown eyes, is a glorious Japanese garden. Trickling amongst the lush greenness, a stream, sparkling crystal clear carves a path exquisite. A proud bridge ancient framing the beautiful scene. Within his grasp, stands a masterpiece. A grand, cherry tree. Her all knowing wisdom an electric live wire, humming a melody historical. The crisp air, freshly clean. Singing birds chirp, faintly in the distance. The Magic house nowhere in sight. Bedazzled, the Candleman, shakes himself unable to believe his eyes in awe. He is thrust into this surreal reality by an enormous fluffy white wolf, in a crumbled yellow waistcoat and matching bow tie, rushing anxiously past him. His pocket watch pounding loudly in his giant pink paws. His sharp teeth, gleaming gloriously in the sunlight. The snow white coat, milky soft. 

“I am so very late”, he grumbles to himself. 

The Candleman, confused in his state of deliriousness, begins to follow in the footsteps of the hasty huge wolf. 

“Mr Wolf, please wait up!” Shouts the Candleman after him. 

Bewildered the wolf stops abruptly, stares and then barks rapidly. 

“It’s Sir Toto. And I am so very, very, very late. I cannot chitchat”. 

With a flash of light, he vanishes into thin air. Just like that. The Candleman’s words dying in his mouth. He coughs a little, choking on his shock as he aimlessly begins to stalks the grounds, unsure of what now. His waiting short lived as he finds himself being called by what appears to be a water fountain. However, at closer inspection, it is not an average water fountain at all. It is, well, a wax fountain. Beads of intricate wax, explodes into colourful droplets, singing quietly before they die in solid clumps. 

“Welcome, Mr Candleman. We’ve been waiting long for you.” Announces, a voice brisk brittle.  

The Candleman, clears his throat, throbbing. Hiding his amazement, he mumbles. 

“It’s good to meet you, Sir. But where am I?”

The voice crackles cooly. Then breaks into a thunderous laughter. Hiccuping, eventually, his cackling concluding. The Candleman, shifting uncomfortably on tired feet.

“You are certainly funny, Candleman. You are where you are supposed to be.” 

The Candleman, willing himself to find a quick retort before another mishap occurs. Unfortunately, his luck is out of sync today because the wax fountain already a solid statue frozen. Predictably, nothing today would fit in a neat puzzle. After some helpless exploring, the Candleman stumbles upon a rabbit hole, which he narrowly misses falling head first into. Proud of avoiding his near miss, he lets a sigh of relief. His joy short lived. From evidently nowhere, a vanilla cupcake with heavenly aroma lands in his open palm. It’s smooth cream, deliberately detailed in design. The folds of the velvet softness neatly arranged. 

“Eat me.” It whispers. 

Without thinking the Candleman pops it whole into his mouth. The precious sweetness, clinging to his greedy tongue. For what happens next, even the Candleman, did not expect. As soon as the guilty cupcake hits his insides, a cheeky laughter gurgles in his stomach. 

“Oh, you really shouldn’t have, Mr Candleman. Oh no!” Mocks a small voice inside. 

Before he can do anything to save himself, the Candleman begins to heat up internally. The burning flames scorching his bones brutally. Fortunately, the pain doesn’t last long because instead, he combusts into many little rainbow sparkles to only disappear into the raging furnace. The teasing flames licking the tiny rabbit hole. The sweet scent of vanilla hangs in the air. 

“By the way, my name is Vanilla Poundcake.” Murmurs the small voice again. 

Find out more with https://www.youmeandemilio.com/. Where humanity comes to life in velvet magic of wax artistry. Light a candle for the spirit of humanity with us. With each burning candle, we will send love, light and magic into the world. For more of The Candlemans spell binding adventure, please watch this space for his next steps. 

Love. Light. Hope. 
Burning as one collective. 


Begin your story here. 

Shadow lightening


My inner zen Buddha flaunts her arrogant mischievousness, eyes twinkling in outwardly wisdom wild. Years of emotional chaos licking my insides harshly. Wounded again. A battle other, scarring parts that recoil within to heal from toxicities unknown. I hear no more, a deaf stranger stumbling on feet, small. Hope brewing in the cup of life, steaming wickedly across oceans calm. A giant hand pulling on a cord invisible; a delicate thread of a union tied tightly around my heart fragile. I want to jump in her cool arms, float to the unknown tsunami of freedom, yet I am not able too. Simply, I do not know how.

Instead, my little Buddha plays a trick devilish, its lick a sweet, warm flame goading.

“Follow me”, she sings.

Bound by her melody, majestic- stupidly I follow. The hammering in my chest, a plea of a heart resisting. However, transfixed in this bewitchment, I only can continue. Doors many, a blurry whirlwind rainbow beneath my blind eyes. The low roar of a lioness awakening, stirring sleepily from her slumber. Her flames scorching, the soft coccoon of my womb. Agile limbs, knocking the wind from lungs crushing beneath an evil long forgotten amongst the midst of wonderful hope. In this moment, its birth, longing to  push past boundaries forged in iron shackles enchanted. Resistance no real possiblility anymore.

Warm dragons breath, igniting a spark in my veins cold otherwise. The thudding slow of a heart passive, now a steady beat of  a guitar broken. My feet stumble on their own mistapping.

“The Anger Room, welcome”, she hums in a whisper melodious. 

The clammy fingers hanging off my loose arms, tremble terribly. Pounding blood rushes to my ears, a roar deafening settling home. The erratic wheeze of my lungs, coughing inside explodes in my mouth dry. I just cannot be here. I cannot. Yet, this is where I am. A shadow eliminating in light, now burning a hole into life. The mere reality a hazy blur of many selves, co-existing as one. Fear grapples with my throat. The threat a danger beyond any reality perceived.

“You cannot hide”, she hisses. Her melancholy bleak. 

With hestitation mighty, my fingers cling to the rusty baseball bat. Sweating eyes sting, clouding my vision. The vacuum lulling.

Hit me.”

“Hit me.”

“Hit me.”

“Come on! Hit me!” Her screams wild. 

Unable to move, frozen, I suppress emotions, swimming to life in my heart. Amongst a world, simmering in rage heated, it’s heart, festering in unreleased furiousity- I am here, safe but so ridiculously afraid to let go. Whilst, versions of my non aggressive self, exploding violently in the wake of someone else dawn. However, though, my inner Buddha holds on to shreds of humanity. I will not be angry. This is not me. 

Her laugh, is a cruel jibe. I shudder. Backing away from my neatly arranged demolition site. She blocks my exit. I am trapped in a room with my own shadows. Escalating anxiety grips me forcefully as the lioness roars again. The inferno alight within somewhere unknown. I sob. She laughs. The merry dance continues for awhile eternal, before the moment without warning, she breaks free.

I am a helpless victim to her antics. Watching in horror silent, I stare at this shadow manic as it unleashes furies hidden for centuries long passed.  She is simply, uncomplicated. Her feline limbs strong, destructive and uncaring. In her awakening, she sees nothing but only her repressed agony. Without careful inhibitions, she ravishes all that dares to step in front of her claws. Her viciousness, appears unnecessarily pointless but I know it’s not. The method to her insanity, sane really. The years of being forced to hide, a toll unrelenting now. My pleas pathetic, fall upon the dead. I am not able to tame her. No one owns her, only her. Her anguished howls, tearing my ear drums. Her blood tears, bright cherry red. Blood thirsty claws, shredding innocent wooden furniture. My attempts to bring her to the light, die in my mouth as her heart bursts from her chest. Her cool words hang between us. 

“I am anger. Free me from this never ending hell.”

Without any other warning, she bursts into a bonfire magnificent. I can only stare at the ashes beneath my weary toes.

Alone, with a baseball bat, in a room clinically white, finally I breathe. I drop the bat, letting the tears flow without fear.

“Did you have a good time?” asks someone.

Blank, I nod. If only we didn’t shame our feelings, today, I wouldn’t within be fighting to release emotions I didn’t even know existed.  Whilst, the world, swallows up our inner Buddha’s behind the latent normalised anger of society, I urge you to stop. We do not need to label our feelings. They are expressions of our inner truths. We can live alongside them, without fear, guilt, shame. Behind every inner Buddha, there might be a lioness, please don’t bury her deep, beneath layers of hate. She’s only delivering you a message. You are not anger, only a moment of expression. Beyond that moment, you are light, love, joy. 

Our shadows, are our windows. They mark our beginnings and insurgence to awakenings. Please, free them safely.

Thank you to the Anger Room for a safe, organised experience.


Why not meet your shadows in a safe place?