a storage filled with dreams

and a pocket full of magic

originally posted on Substack

There are very few things that I’ve kept from my childhood. I don’t have a childhood home, a museum of a life lived. I am the living fossil of experiences, an archive of destinations. A database with missing files, a catalog with torn pages, a gallery with missing prints, an ancient site that requires interpretation to understand.

I've had to contain my creativity for survival growing up, trying to manage the mess of discovery. This last year was agonizing because I became aware of the sorrow that lurked beneath coupled with the fact that I decided to face it. A cycle of grief I’m now walking away from. I wasn’t powerless as a child, I was vulnerable. A distinction I’ve only recently processed.

a duvet cover that i loved which i no longer own.

As of right now, most of my things are in storage. I have personal items as well as equipment in there. I’m creating a studio even if I don’t currently have the space for it. This used to deter me but impossible doesn’t exist in infinity. If I’m in alignment, then I need to show up in trust as much as I’m asking for it.

I was gifted dreams and the courage to be consistent. I’ve been persistent in my pursuit of becoming, not giving into depression. Expressing myself despite insecurities. I refuse to become a circumstance of my environment. I refuse to give up on my creativity.

I refuse to give up on me.

I was worried about what the people around me thought because I was doing it differently. My way of life too ‘radical’ of a concept. My theories and reflections were out there. Not everyone thinks like you. A steady layer of tension, my integrity too expansive.

I was being honest with everyone but myself.

My actions tend to precede my knowing. Same with my words, I’m always catching up to myself. A strange feeling that one can call intuition but feels like deja-vu, a memory as premonition. It’s a constant surrender, a reminder of the trust that I’m building.

No one can take the journey away from you. That work that you put in, that’s yours. The unwavering faith you’ve displayed, the devotion.

I’m putting everything into everything because I am everything. I’ve decided to stop holding back, letting myself soar despite the warnings. I can’t stop this trust, it’s spread throughout my aura. I see past the illusions, flying right through, no need for unwanted detours.

Choice is my sword, a warrior built for anything. Energy flows wherever my focus is. These challenging times require patience. A deep understanding that stillness is progress, a time to gather information. Every action is an investment. With intention, each one becomes potent.

A storage filled with dreams and a pocket full of magic.

I used to not think it was enough until I gained the strength to transmute it. I’m turning time into space, dedicated to the vision. I’m the only one who can see it, it’s practically my destiny.

This isn’t the first time I’ve had things in storage. Growing up, there were times where we lived with others. Our life stored away while I floated in uncertainty. Left with pieces of a home, as fragmented as my memory. The personal items that I’ve held onto feel like a time capsule. A reminder that I was always alive even if I don’t remember. That who I was still lives within me, protected by the person I’ve become. I’m who I needed then, a transformation so deep, I’ve created a whole new persona.

It’s an honor to have a deep understanding of myself. There are those with sharp memories who feel lost and incomplete. To create is to become, another layer added to your story. I write because writing was all I had. I write because writing saved my life. I write because I have a story to tell.

I often write with this lingering sadness. My despair gave birth to a freedom I wouldn’t know without it. Sweetness follows, always present and willing to nurture me back to safety. A dragonfly with striped wings, two squirrels chasing each other. Rivers with tiny fish, frogs popping out in curiosity. Clouds that are bright and fluffy, little lizards pausing in observation.

“and what a mystical world we’ve conjured up.

to experience ourselves.”

I want to create what I imagine. A safe space for creativity to express freely, resources for those hidden in poverty. I’m translating my existence into writing, documenting my becoming on tape. I like to search for forgotten treasures, marvel at their creation and fulfill their purpose, adding another layer to its life as well as my own. Our timelines merge, a time traveler disguised as an object. How magical to have survived, living lives I will never fully know. Marks of past lives revealing merely pieces of its story.

My magic works best with broken things, reminding them of their potential. Creating movement where stagnation once lived, focusing on the essentials. Nurturing inspiration in fractured connections requires a skilled vision. One that’s open and decisive, going with the flow through purpose.

I’ve accepted who I was a long time ago, the rest has been discovering the details. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to move my dreams aside to survive. But it will be the last time my dreams are ever placed on hold, no storage unit big enough to house it. It’s miraculous what belief can do, magic at its core, acted on possibility, a fairy tale in the making. I’m the focus and the audience, a performance receiving a standing ovation.

Why wait when you can create?

m.c.