Becoming Unbreakable

We are born alone

And we die alone

At our happiest and most triumphant

We are alone

And when we at our most forlorn

When we mourn

We are alone too

These moments are when we are closest

To the heart of who we really are

Either becoming

Or going



Heartfelt and excruciating

The clay being moulded

We journey through these moments

Best alone

Listening to the sound of our own heartbeat

Following that internal drum

Taking out the map

Smoothing out the wrinkles

It’s been back there in your pocket

The whole time

Time to start walking

The clay is being moulded

In the potters hands

But the pot understands

The strength of the clay determines

Whether it can easily be broken

I think when you realise that no one is coming to save you. That solace is an internal thing. That triumph is an internal thing.

At those pinnacle moments and in the depths of despair a wall seems to come up – maybe it is just a great big pair of angel wings – I’m not sure – but having been to both places a few times I know the feeling of being alone yet protected – loved – and hugged.

I call it holding my own hand – but yeah – maybe it’s a big pair of angel wings – why not? If this is the case I would also like my angel to look hot 😊😊 tall dark handsome – just saying πŸ˜‚ have a lovely day people.

Header image is again west coast of Aust down near Smiths Beach. Amazing part of the world.

15 thoughts on “Becoming Unbreakable

  1. Wow, that’s really awesome, wonderfully written mam. We have born alone and will die alone as according to our destiny. But we born with cry while people were happy and when we should die, we have to happy to happy with our deeds so that people will be crying for our death.

    • Yes of course – humans are no good without one another – I think it is just an internal thing – like when you have run a marathon and your body is broken but you are so happy and you can be surrounded by people also happy and feeling a sense of achievement and camaraderie but your particular circumstance is your own. The same with gravesides. Surrounded by other mourners – your particular form of pain is your own. -I love your comments – I can hear your accent. 🌍

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