• Jessica James

I don’t know why words need to be written, songs sung and art made...



Write from the heart. From the heart. An interesting concept considering the words inside that caffeine driven thump box sound like a cool, still mountain tarn. It’s almost like asking a rabbit to comment on the results of a recent election. These words that come forth seem unlike this world and yet if you find a small loose thread and start to follow it, you’ll realise that it actually did have a purpose in amongst that large tapestry. It happened to be the very string holding the whole darn thing together. It was everything.


Dive with me for a moment, I wish to tell you a story. It’s about a little boy and he was just like every other little boy. In fact he was so ordinary that even when he was extraordinary we didn’t even notice. For he was simply marvellous in every way. You see he had this knack for playing the triangle that mesmerised every ear drum that attuned to his sound. He struck the steel perfectly every single time. It was never him that played for he had no thought and no memory of his music. Sinking low and deep into his heart, something else took over.


Something which was utter genius. The illusive and softly spoken genius gently stretched out his limbs. Meeting finger to finger and heart to heart. My dear this is everything. If you stop playing, he would gently whisper, you will die. But that is your choice.


Forever we could tell the archetypal story of the creative who needed to overcome economic reasoning and continue to pursue her hearts calling. If every I knew this pattern, would the journey not break so many in two? For the calling is beyond that which we can not always articulate and yet to bend ourselves into service providers feels like contorting limbs beyond nature. Ask me and I will but know that something is packed away the first time, and every other time after that. We pack something away and away and away and further and further. But in each removal, something steps in to replace it. Yes. For it would be too obvious to see the broken legged boys and girls and so they exchange these for our expectations of phone hands and computer eyes. Logic and reason. Get into the system my dear, it’s safe in there. We are dying.


I’m sorry you had to suffer so much. I’m sorry that I have the choice of happiness and I’m taking it. I’m sorry that I still have doubts and you hear them. I’m sorry that my courage is often that of the tin man and when I ask you to hold me and you cry too. I’m sorry there is a river that fills up with words and rages through the core of our beings and asks to be heard. I don’t know why words need to be written, songs sung and art made. None of us know that paths need to be taken. But some days an elephant collapses onto my chest and refuses to leave until he hears a story. I need to tell a story. It won’t be very good and it might be eighty percent there but just misses the mark. Maybe no one will every pay me to tell them because they don’t make any sense because we didn’t have the dedication to stick with a system to teach us how.


Because we live in a different world that praises flow and runs screaming and naked from walls. I can’t ask you to support that. Who would? Can I say that it is the most magical place to live and I can’t explain it but there is no where I feel safer than fully emerged in the work. In the very work that doesn’t have any sense. The one that will take hours and hours and hours and my dear I only have the space to imagine one world. This world and the beautiful magical stories and beings who live in it. I am so greatly fond of you but your face morphed between the man I am trying to stick it to and the very net which will stop me from falling to my death.

You ask me to walk towards that wall and I say no. I say no with every fibre I can muster and it hurts. It hurts so badly because yes the world needs every single one of us to be contributing something good. Something worthwhile, something that we are proud of. I don’t want to suggest that there is any side door that is taking me to utopia and not you. Because we are all one and please believe me when I say, where I go you come too. Believe me when I say that letting go of my imagination will stop my heart from beating and I refuse to live in a world that rewards silence and obedience. If you stay still you will fall backward but do not walk forwards in fear. There is another way.


Allow me time to dream. Allow me time to create worlds. Yes I am a writer who writes. Yes I am an artist who makes art. Yes I travel across seas and people are paying for it. There are stories inside of me which are waiting to spread across pages and be understood. Ask me to walk towards the walls and my heart will stop beating. But give me a field of freedom, exactly the meal I ordered, and watch as my eyes grow wide and feet stop still. We don’t realise what we ask for, when we believe it is true, will indeed be so. What then? We begin to ask a new question. When our creations are birthed and we have everything always, then what? Then why? It’s your responsibility then and who are you to see a field of time bombs through your left eye and daisies through your right.

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©2020 by Jessica James.