Concrete Memories

'The Record Keepers' | 26/03/25

Weekly Artsy Post inspired by the wise spirit of dragonflies~ ~whimsicweaver

The Mirror's Role

Perhaps we owe the mirror an apology. It was made for us to reflect with ourselves not to compare or degrade ourselves. The mirror exists to reflect the truest perception that we hold of ourselves therefore creating the reality around those beliefs. If we never had the mirror, many people say we'd have an easier time accepting ourselves and that can be true…if it never existed it'd surely make for an easier time removing that attachment to a physical lens we have but that's not the higher truth…the mirror shows us what we see and tell ourselves. The mirror has probably been the easiest target for the role of a scapegoat as we don't always like to face ourselves nor our truths…so we've projected a lot of resentment, hatred, anger towards something we created with our own hands. Our own creation suffered at the hands of its creator because we couldn't bare to give up our attachment to self-loathing. It's not our fault, nor is it the mirror's but in the end we are responsible for removing that distortion and for seeing who and what we are in all our glory; the good, evil, beautiful, ugly, everything.

~Elunara W.

"As an artist...why do you create?"

I think the simple fact that there's so much to envision…there's so much ideas, stories, messages waiting on an outlet to bring them into the physical. The fact that we have an imagination and can dream about so many things and express it here in the 3D. The beautiful feeling of connection that bridges the gaps of separation when we share our creativity with others as well ~whimsicweaver

Reclaiming Impulsiveness

I, at times, gave impulsiveness a bad reputation. I've realized that on a subconscious level, I have a part of me that was convinced or encouraged to view impulsiveness as something "inherently bad or negative" and I want to reform that thought process because if we really think about it…IM PULSE…what is a pulse? A single vibration or short burst of sound, electric current, light, or other wave…impulse is really just acting from a feeling space. Sometimes consequences or reactions to a short moment of impulse could result in more heavier outcomes or even lighter outcomes. Impulsiveness isn't inherently a bad thing, it just means a person acts from the intense desire to express this 'short burst of light' from within…and that spark can either light a candle to cast a warm glow…or light a match and watch it fall to gasoline. Impulsiveness is not bad, it is how we choose to express or carry forward this short…yet precious moment of light within us.

The Consciousness of Innocence

It grows with us; I think it is never truly lost or taken away. I think it is through experiences that we truly come to understand and appreciate our innocence and purity. Life is a journey to return or rather remove the layers within oneself that deny, push or cover the higher truth of our purest form. Innocence is not the lack of corruption nor its absence, it is the experience of that innocence despite the wounds. It is the tenderness, the moments of reprieve in spite of the hardships faced. It is not naive; innocence is knowing, it is aware. It is a state of awareness and through life we learn to appreciate our innocence amongst all the difficulties. "How can we truly appreciate the warmth...without having not experienced the harsh bite of the freezing cold? Or how can we appreciate the cool...without having not experienced the sweltering heat?" ~Elunara W. Inner monologue about Innocence and the apparent "loss" of it.

Joy Sullivan, “Want", Instructions for Traveling West

The Wisps of Life

We sat, it was both of us alone in there. I asked, “Do you regret it, do you regret any of it at all?” She stared at me with an almost unreadable smile As if—as if I already knew the answers to that. As if we both knew the answer to that question.

“Not really,” she laughed with this carefree spirit. Head tilted back with uncontained mirth and all. I wondered briefly if the shadows of life had ever truly graced her, Or had the upturns of her lips tasted the weight of the world exponentially. Perhaps one too many times—one too many.

Our eyes locked and for a split second, I saw it. The intricately woven tapestry of life—threads of gold beyond the void. Clumsy fingers red and sore from the unexpected thorns and pricks. I understood it all. I smiled in return, of course she had, I’d know that more than anyone, wouldn’t I?

“Do you regret any of it at all?” there’s a knowing glint in her kind eyes. Brief memories of cold eyes, wet pillows, sleepless nights, homesickness. Suffocating silence, tearful letters, words—so many words left unsaid. Tremors of an empty stomach, deepening shadows, the complete isolation. That dreadful feeling of being too different, the unforeseen weight of generations prior.

Yet—I’ve always known something else. Something more, something warmer.

There’s a faint but steady pulse against where my hand lays on my chest. Tearful laughter, wind in my hair, dirt under my feet, chirping of birds every dawn, Clammy hands in mine, a comforting shoulder, broken facades, the gentle whisper of weary but hopeful hearts connecting, the glimmers of hope—gold amongst the dark. I breathed in, then out and suddenly as our eyes met again, I knew. I was alive.

Reaching out, cold meeting warm, our palms connected for a moment in time, “No, not really,” I echoed with a giggle, pulling away a second later. I got up, facing away, sore hands reaching out towards the cold doorknob now. As the cold surface thawed against the heat of my palms, I took one glance back. A foggy handprint, the only remnant of our brief moment shared together. ~Elunara W.

Somewhere between the weight of what’s been, the exhaustion of what is, and the fear of what might come next, remind yourself that you have survived every version of yourself before this one; and will survive this too.

“Sometimes I’ll start a sentence and I don’t even know where it’s going. I just hope I find it along the way.” - Michael G. Scott

Neural pathways of "finding words" along the way…there are stories….words waiting to be channeled…existing until we happen to stumble across them…I wonder how they feel? I wonder if they feel lost, I wonder if they feel lonely…a desolate place…or do they sound hopeful…ecstatic even at the mere thought of having you stumble upon them? Or maybe they feel everything yet nothing at all…maybe they just…are. Maybe they aren't lost and maybe they aren't searching either but neither of us can say that experiencing each other was a mistake…or a wrong turn down a pathway. There are stories, energies, messages, existing within a liminal space that aren't beckoning us nor pushing us away…yet they're willing, oh so welcoming to share their space…not only theirs…our space. They didn't call. I didn't call. Neither of us called. Yet here we are…and here is perfect and here is now…but rather, here is everything when we're together. Here is expression. Here is suppression. Here is life. Here is death. Here is love and its many faces. Here is meant to be. ~Elunara W.

Through My Mother's Eyes

tw// mentions of blood and slaughter (not graphically described) Sometimes, I look into my mother's eyes and I wonder what she truly sees? Does she see me or the sight of a little girl who once was free? A girl that soon was forced to clumsily grow up under the weight of familial expectations beyond extreme. Sometimes, I look into my mother's eyes and I wonder, I truly wonder what my mother sees when she looks at me.

Am I still her precious little girl? One created from the most delicate of flower petals, the warmth of the first rays of dawn, the patience of a familiar ordinary thing—a World's Best Mom mug. Maybe. Or does she perhaps see me as an accommodation? One I know her heart made room in a tight life; a difficult space to receive. Another burden. Maybe she sees a silly little girl handed not one, nor two, nor three…but six toddlers to take care of. Of course, still not yet counting all the other little children playing in oversized adult suits.

Sometimes, I look into my mother's eyes and I wonder what she truly sees? Perhaps I was being too soft, too idealistic with my words before. Maybe she sees me as the inconvenience I know I am to her somewhere deep down. A culmination of early regrets, a dozen of 'too soons', a handful of 'not readys', a pinch of resentment and a drink of guilt induced apologies to wash it all down.

What should I feel guilty for this time, mother? Your husband's indifference, your mother's relentless disappointment, the dreams you had to give up, the weight of the world you have been insistent on carrying? Perhaps I should apologize for being your only daughter.

What should I feel guilty for today mother? Just let me know. Because everytime I look in your eyes, I see the sweetest little girl who would serve her heart on a platter if it means another person could have one more moment to feel the comforting beating. I see a little body trembling but oh so filled with determination–to get this right; to bring everyone along even if it means pushing a boulder uphill. She wants to get this right. She needs to get this right.

But do you know mother, that when I look into your eyes I see nothing but a little girl deserving of tender love? A girl I would sacrifice my own heart for if it means she would get another moment to stay her curious and wonderful self. So what should I feel guilty for this time mother? Just let me know. Because although in your eyes, I may be a sacrificial lamb upon an altar of shame and guilt that was never yours to carry, I would still allow you to slaughter me upon that altar. Maybe the warmth of my blood would comfort you—maybe that warmth would finally reach you. Or perhaps it would touch the hands of all the women prior, who suffered the same fate as you.

To be fair, I indeed do not know; I am pondering after all. This can be full of assumptions, illusions or maybe some truths. One thing I do know is I would continuously extend my hand of unconditional love towards that little girl even in death for she deserves the world. If only you'd finally let her see it too.

~Elunara W.