Somewhere To Breathe

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I find it difficult to describe a definitive personal experience of sanctuary. Perhaps this is due to the fact that I am a young person and simply do not have enough life experience to draw upon. However I will do my best to describe the ideas I have about what sanctuary means.

In my opinion sanctuary does not necessarily have to be a place. It can be an inanimate object, another living organism, a thought, a memory, anything that gives you a sense of inner tranquility. It might just be a secluded place where you feel comfortable, such as your bedroom, or a place of worship or astonishing natural beauty in which you feel close to God or connected to nature. You might feel that God Himself is the best sanctuary of all. However I believe the most important element to sanctuary is safety. It is something that brings you a sense of acceptance, both of yourself and your circumstances. At the same time you feel as though you are being accepted, that you are not alone but are being understood and listened to. Sanctuary can be a friendly smile or a comforting shoulder to cry on, or maybe a much-loved book or poem. Music, too, is something many people (including myself) find solace in, and thus could be described as a sort of sanctuary. I think another aspect of sanctuary is that it endures and has a sense of permanence. You can turn to it any time and it will always have the same innate qualities as it did when it first gave you peace of mind, even if its surface has changed over time.

When I was younger, I might have said that my sanctuary was my imagination, because it was a softer, less troubling place than the world I was living in. When my angst got too much for me, I would withdraw to my invented Paradise and forget that I was just a lonely adolescent girl. While to some extent I still subscribe to the view that the imagination is a great source of contentment, I am aware that it can sometimes do anything but induce feelings of purity and calm. Like other sanctuaries, it may cause you to experience a kind of pleasant bewilderment, but the imagination may also be a disturbing place that leaves you disoriented and out of touch with reality, if it is not held in check or channelled in some productive way.

On the whole, sanctuary is something that allows your heart and mind to breathe. You don't have to struggle with yourself or put on any silly pretensions there, because you feel no need to. You can just be, without dwelling on past pains or agonizing over questions of what the future holds. In fact, you are so grounded in your present that the concept of time ceases to have any meaning. You almost feel you could stay in that place, or with that person or object, for an eternity.

Infatuation

The air shimmers for a moment, like heat waves in the midday sun. Time slows down. It's as though I am glimpsing an oasis in the desert; a spring flowing with the nectar of all things beautiful and fulfilling in this world. I can hardly believe my eyes. His face, oh, God! I begin to feel my cheeks burning. Sweat is breaking out on my forehead and palms. I am bombarded with a whole host of extremes. In an instant I am hysterical, joyous, sad, fearful, fearless. I am losing control of my senses, my normal boundaries are slipping away. The cold casket that bears my soul is bursting all around me in a flurry of ice splinters. And far off in the distance I can hear strains of a melody I perhaps heard in the days before I was born, a soft humming, like the sound of a slow sunrise.
I can't look at you, but nor can I look away. Your mere presence lulls me into a dreamy daze where I feel as though I actually have the courage to do the unthinkable. I see a winged steed approaching, I know its name, I can feel it in my bones: Freedom. I take the creature by the horns and we streak across the heavens in a blaze of lightning, and then return to earth in all the time it takes to touch the hem of an angel's gown and kiss his feet. As I catch my breath, I realise I am no longer myself. I have ceased to be the girl I was only a matter of seconds ago. All because of a glance, and a smile.

Longing

Days crawl by. I languish in my world of dreams, ever groaning inwardly for that which is beyond my reach. Haunted by shades, whispers of a suppressed memory, my nostrils sense fragrances long-diffused into the mists of my own history. My thirsting mouth is once again encircled by the coolness of a ghostly kiss; it falls like a snowflake on a dying fireplace. As it melts away, all I am left with is the familiar ache of melancholia that comes after the revisitation of a numbingly beautiful memory.
My body's yearning never stops; I can do nothing but weep bitter tears when I think on it.
There are such impulses in my blood as keep me awake into the small hours, my mind weaving desperate visions, as though the mere idea of a lover will take the edge off my longing. At times I really do seem to feel warm arms grasping me, and my face tilts upwards, my lips gasping for the kiss that will finally bring me to life, and my heart sighs in deep relief. And for a while my skin shivers and my head reels with the intoxication of that imagined embrace. Then all fades into black once more, as I am reminded of just how far - how impossibly far - my dreams are from reality.

A Bouquet

The wild flowers sit together in the vase, chattering to each other in their own language.
They are discussing the subject of love.

"Love is pure and noble," the cow parsley declares. "And thus it comes only to those who are pure of heart and whose intentions are noble."
"What rubbish!" scoffs the buttercup. "Surely love is for everyone. And who cares about purity anyway? Your love doesn't sound like much fun to me."
"I'll say!" laughs the purple vetch. "And you know, love is never lasting. Once the initial novelty wears off, you soon get bored. I'd rather just have a good time than get all my emotions involved."
Now the forget-me-not's turn comes, and her voice is weary with grief. "I wish love had never come into my life. Love is a foolish mistake that only brings pain and misery. Now my heart is closed, and I shall never love again."
The last voice is that of the poppy nestling in the centre of the group,  largely unnoticed until now.
"I can say this much of love. It is neither pure, nor impure; not a bodily sensation or cerebral concept. It is beyond quarrels and conflicts, beyond good and evil, beyond the planets, beyond everything we can possibly visualise in our limited minds. And yet if we only look more closely with our inner eye, we will realise it is at the very core of our being. That is the nature of love." And the poppy falls silent.
A small wild rose, whom no one at all has noticed, shakes his head. "They debate a truth that can never be spoken aloud. Love is surely closer to silence than any of their explanations," he says to himself. But he smiles and carries on listening.

Demonic Monologue

Why can't you see
that you'll never be anything
without me?
You're the only thing
holding you back,
it's you -
you are the problem,
you're lazy and sluggish
and simply won't do as I tell you.
Don't you want to improve?
Don't you think you could do so much better than this?
Have you no ambition? No sense of direction?
Just look at you.
You call this a life? For God's sake, what's wrong with you?
Is there no limit to your laziness?
Just get a grip. Get in control.
What are you eating that for? Come on, spit it out.
Is that all the exercise you can manage today? That's pretty pathetic.
Don't you dare tell me to be quiet, idiot. You can't shut me out,
I'm your friend,
your one and only.
You can't ignore me. I'm always here
for you when you're lonely.
I'm the only one who can help you shut out pain
when everything feels totally in vain.
You know I only want the best from you. If only you'd understand. I just need you
to be perfect. Is that really so much to ask?