Being Marica

She cried for help. She screamed but was hushed in by the estate's security.  The neighbours needed her to be abused inside the mansion instead of disturbing a "rich" mans leafy suburb.  A suburb where dogs are treated better than humans and some human's feel kicked and abused like strays. So what is rich? She managed to escape hours of torture to safety where many could have smirked at her but hadn't and her driver wasn't that but instead her friend. Where doctors thanked them for their support and she thank doctors for saving her. The violence was long before his actual. He corroded her mentally and emotionally. Her. A wall which behind her eyes like mystic pools wailed.  How do you wrong someone flawed but wanting right? Raised voices, expectations, hands and hopes. How do you women raise your son. To raise voices, demands and their hands to their women? Afflicted and heartfelt she stood the wall of living embrace.

I am not someone who ever wants to see myself in a hospital unless God forbid, there's an emergency.  A belief I think most of us share. For me the idea alone of being confined to a space where people are unwell makes me sick.  So having to spend time in a bed knowing so many people are ill is more distressing. But how does one perfect the balance needed to be medically treated and to be out of a space that leaves little room for inspiration. And what about the people tasked to daily help others recover? Virtually answers a lot and medicine is seeing much in the space of online consultation and developments in AI led medical treatments, which is said to have a greater percentage of accuracy. However taking away the human element found in doctors and which we all need when we are vulnerable doesn't make any robot better without a human, humane medical representative. Private medical treatment facilities gives patients the liberty to ask for what they need and when. Delays in see

Writing is two things for me. A natural expression when I find I must, or an art I cannot bring myself to naturally as a result of anything unnaturally consuming. Writing is the grey matter I find myself between. When my mind as an over stimulus really wants to have me speak itself through words and between stuff, or simply when so much is happening that I just cannot bring myself to a single word - because of stuff. My Twenty Twenty One new year canvas was slightly unprepared for and arrived in a way I’ll never be used to. Still, here I find you through grey matter. Through expressed words – naturally even in unnatural times. I truly wish us all a year different to the last. Some of the people I respect most are those not tucked neatly in conventional days, ways or lives. In standing up for my own definition of what it means to be living and while it may have cost me conventionally, is one I am ok to be held to with words, no no infact labels, both good and bad alike. May the work you