symbolic art
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The story written is not the only story that could be told. The same circumstances – the same childhood, the same betrayal, the same courtroom silence – can be narrated as the making of a monster or the tempering of a saint. Events are fixed; meaning is not. This is what Jung understood when he
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She was born beneath a silence, her first breath woven through with forgetting. They pressed a story into her skin, but the ink dissolved before it dried. She drank Lethe in her mother’s arms, unwitting, unknowing, learning the taste of absence as nourishment. Her lullabies were pauses, her cradle padded with omissions. Two fathers circled
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There are wounds that excuse folly. There are losses that explain frailty. But there are no wounds, no losses, no fractures that excuse betrayal disguised as virtue. The matriarch who has lived long enough to know suffering has no right to perpetuate it. She who has tasted abandonment, who has seen the chaos of divided
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I told myself I was trying. That was the word I clung to – trying. A good house, a lovely baby, and a man who worked because he loved us. But each evening I felt the walls move closer, until I was phoning the police because the dark was unbearable. Hospitals too. I wanted someone
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A curious paradox runs through the modern obsession with “boundaries.” On the one hand, the word has entered the lexicon of therapy culture like a sacrament, invoked with the reverence once reserved for virtues like patience or forgiveness. On the other hand, it has been cheapened, claimed by the woke movement as a shield against
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Every divorce spawns three stories: his, hers, and the child’s. Each is stitched together from fragments of memory, grievance, and hope. And each claims the mantle of truth. The father’s voice speaks of betrayal. He sees manipulation in every delay, every “maybe later” whispered down the line of a phone that never rings. He feels
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I thought I understood love. At least, I had mimicked the posture of it. I’d held hands, spoken vows, walked the straight line of domestic duty. I had smiled in photographs and stood still in kitchens with the weight of a thousand invisible expectations pressing against my chest. But when I met her, I realised
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There is a phenomenon as old as myth itself: the fury of the wronged woman. The Greeks knew it well; the Erinyes, or Furies, primordial goddesses of vengeance, born not of love or justice, but of violated oaths and bloodlines betrayed. They pursued with unrelenting purpose those who had disturbed the sacred order – particularly
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~ A mother’s perspective. “He was never very good with ordinary women. Too intense, too dazzling. Women like that – girls, really, don’t know what to do with men who shine too brightly. They want safety, not blaze. Stability, not confrontation. And he…he was never built for mediocrity. I saw it in him early. The
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Some boys disappear into obedience. He didn’t. He just burned. They said sit down. He stood. They said blend in. He wore fire. Applause was safer than affection. A spotlight doesn’t flinch when you get too close. He learned to read a room like a script. Smile like a threat. Charm like a blade in
Reade Saunders 