We are set to publish our first book of photos and tales soon.
It’s a very exciting development at TPJ. Here are some pages of writing and photography x
Her hands resemble the most picture perfect image of what a women hands should be, to me personally. call me biased call me selective.
These hands are the hands of my own mother.
It’s wondrous how much I can say about her hands
My hands…my hands will never look like hers. My skin color differs, and my nails are coarse, un-lady like, with scars and scabs…My mothers hands could never look that bad.
A broken household yet there are no cracks in the ceiling walls. Spiders whisper about the misfortune and mistakes that drape the curtains. Their webs hang from the most exquisite embroidery shipped all the way from Kansas City.
No one would ever guess that behind these closed doors lies a mess. Emotions crumble, and tears seep beneath slammed doors…but when the guests step in, the drinks begin to pour.
The celebrations roll on accompanied by silvery trays. The forced laughs are the sourest, the pressure to enjoy the night is apparative,
And in their silent eyes the pain is the loudest.
The night is over, Spiders whisper misery. The walls recognise the familiar silence, and loneliness reigns.
A broken household, yet the bricks are firmly intact. No cracks in the ceiling walls. No smudges on the paint. Echos of the happiness that once existed, flow quietly…
A melodic medley that everyone once knew, but the effort to remember exceeds their memory, so acceptance is key.
Blame, shame, and hidden agendas. The children are asleep, but their conscience resonates, they can hear truth through cemented walls.
One of them listens harder, she cares to know lovingly.
Taking sides becomes a choice, and she chooses unwillingly. She regrets her choice, but she doesn’t know better. Together they leave, her and her heart, this broken household to another newly empty space.
Separation makes her cold. Hateful words gape through her innocent lips, assumptions make her hair greyer than her age.
A broken household, yet there are no cracks in the ceiling walls. They have been mended with the years, his guilty bones give him nothing better to do, but fix the house that once had life.
By Faria, 11th December 2015
He still managed to smell the roses, through the concrete cracks. Imprisoned was his body, but his senses still intact.
He still managed to see the horizon, from behind the isolating walls, he may have been a dreamer, but he was an optimist above all.
He still managed to feel the warmth of his dear mothers affection, as he lay his head on the cold steel bars…it takes disconnection from reality to experience delusional sanity.And yet he still managed to hear his children’s laughter, regardless of the echoing silence, its wondrous how memories survive, and channelling them is timeless.And when it was time for food, he could taste the scrumptious fish of the vast red sea, for prison food was not food for an innocent man like he.By Faria, 6th December 2015
Please do not look for happiness underneath the layers I wear, Underneath the skin I was born into, Or underneath my Thick Curly hair. Not because I will not strive to make you happy, but because I cannot fathom what you will do when I am not there.
I want you to be happy first…without me, then, when I am by your side. I want you to be able to see the light in day, not through my eyes…but through your own, because you have the ability to… but you rely on me, before you rely on you.
I want to know, that when I have to go… you will not hide away, that you will not allow your beautiful soul to decay, Due to the lack of motivation, and the lack of reason, because life makes no sense when you have nothing to believe in…. I understand your pain. I feel it too. But the truth is, soon I will have to leave and I will no longer physically be with you.
I will not be there when you come home after a long cruel day, I will not be there when you just want to wrap yourself around me, because the warmth of my hugs and the tenderness of my kisses, remind you that no matter how tough it is out there, you can still find peace…within my presence.
But I will be there mentally, I will be there on the other end of the phone, I will be there behind a screen, Staring straight at you, Promising I will try my best, to once again be with you.
But you need to promise me this…That I will not be your only source of happiness. As uplifting and flattering as that is, I cannot bare the thought of it. I want you to be happy first, without me, then happy with me. I want you to see the light of day past me, and not through me.
I shall let him adorn me…Let his fingertips paint me, mould me, shape me and create me…Form me into this beautiful depiction stemming from the fragments of his mind.I shall allow him entry, with no hesitation for I am a wandering entity.I shall embrace this fact and sprinkle it with confidence to overcome my fears and self-consciousness.I shall lay still and quiet; yet with eyes open wide…Wide with curious thoughts trembling inside. He is in front of me, I can feel his bare chest. For this is the moment I must forget about the rest.I shall allow myself to react, I shall allow my body to feel.I shall create from this intimate moment, a memory so surreal.I want to overcome my fear of never being able to take it back,The fear of letting go of what I proudly own, and the innocence I soon will lack.This fear instilled within me from my own concept and beliefs,Suddenly it’s all over and…I feel nothing but relief.It was beautiful, it was calm, it was everything he said it would be.No need for this fear I carried around, I now realise subsequently.However, in my imagination this tune will reside,saved for the day this scenario comes to life.Until then I can only speak with a creative tongue, for the truth is:I am not ready yet; therefore these notes will be kept unsung