rose and concrete

How do we anticipate roses to grow from concrete? We do not, but it happens anyways.
Perseverance. The art of never giving up.
Uninhibited behaviour of trying. Every damn day. 
The hope that some day we will get away from here,
that the concrete doesn't have to weigh us down.
That although our flowers don't bloom just yet,
every day our roots are being grounded deeper and deeper.
Every book we read, every song we listen to,
knowledge, conversation,
the people who love us, the people who leave us,
the people who teach us,
make our roots reach out, like veins across our body.
Our blood stays warm although our skin is cold, and that's okay.
because eventually it will crack and the light can come in.
And we can get out.
Like a rose that grows from concrete.

"That's the thing about pain, it demands to be felt."

It's 7am, I take my freshly brewed cup of tea and sit by the end of my bed, embracing my cup closer to my chest and taking in all the warmth through my fingers. As I slowly drift into my melancholic state of mind I look up to see the time as if I was running out of it and as if I was running away from it. Taking a few gulps of my warm beverage I make my way into my closet and prepare to get ready to somehow "seize" the day. 

It's 5pm, I take off my coat and boots and waltz through the kitchen, turn on the coffee machine and swing a cup into place. I take my cup of coffee, turn to the TV that I've switched on to keep me company and settle on the sofa that keeps me comfy.

It comes clear to me that mornings are the worst, the quiet sound of the day beginning is a daily reminder of all the thoughts that I can hear so loud.  Although a new day gives me a new slate for new memories and new ideas to be written, they drain me by dusk and I'm left every breaking of dawn with a glimpse of the life I lived and the days that have passed.
Every breaking dawn I sit by the end of my bed, reminiscing of better days, realising how and why life has turned out the way it has. I feel like the earth has somehow opened up and swallowed me inside, my life goes on but I am not living. The world revolves around a star and seasons change but I still find myself unable to move forward from my warm mugs and solitude. I have not become numb to it all, I have simply succumbed to the truth that there is no change. 

This monotonous routine of something called life drags me down and gravity is heavier than ever. 

Taming the body, controlling the mind.

Flushed with embarrassment, she eases out of the club, clinging onto her friend in a failing attempt to hide herself. From what? She turned scarlet and was disgusted, but she knew it was amazing. Beyond amazing. In the dimmed, urine soaked toilets she found perfect paradise. It ignited every living cell within her, leaving her electric and alive, followed by ashamed and mortified. Her feet gracefully made it's way on the uneven ground and to the taxi ahead. Her hands secretly pulled her dress down, trying to cover her bare skin. Lipstick vanished, mascara smudged.
She turns to her friend and tilts her head to the side, leaning on her shoulder, showing a sign of gratitude before she slowly drifted into her thoughts.
The human body and the human mind are two different elements, tangled but not connected. Synchronised but never together. How could our body want something our mind won't allow? How can our mind want something our body can't handle? Two powerful poles at constant battle with each other. Our whole lives we wander in this insane state, at war with our selves. Taming the body, controlling the mind. That fine line that distinguishes us from other species. The ability to express but the capacity to limit.
Freeing the soul, losing life, barely living, nearly killed.