Archive for Being a Human Being

Don’t Give Up – #MentalHealthAwarenessWeek 2017: Blog #1

Posted in Non-fiction, Uncategorized with tags , , on May 8, 2017 by becciseaborne

Ironically, the point at which you feel like utter shit, when you most want to give up, is the point at which you should be most proud and defiant. When it feels that bad, it’s not because you’re a failure, as you believe, but because you’re working your very hardest despite all the obstacles. It is precisely the time not to give up, because you’re just about to win this particular battle. 


Posted in Poetry with tags , , on January 9, 2017 by becciseaborne


Take me away from the world

And feed me love

Let me bathe in understanding

And drink down a sense of myself

Pour into me a joy for my own soul

And a peace with my battered heart


Take me to a place where

I can breathe in equanimity

And exhale the churning tide within

Let me walk in self-kindness

Give to me the self I am

And let me celebrate her


I want to swim in a sense of purpose

And dive straight for the tiller of me

Make my own wake

Show me how to float on self-esteem

Become the buoyancy surrounding me


I want to learn my shape, to feel the space I occupy

Push back against my flesh…just enough

Help me find the right consistency of air

To know and be known

To meet its pressure, just so, just there


Or else let me settle 

Here in still, silent numbness

To watch the stars go out



Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on December 7, 2016 by becciseaborne



Standing in sun-dusted fields of lavender

Soul scorched by umbilical tears

Wind-thrown hair whipping primal salt

To bring the wounds again


Heart beats convict’s rhythm

Locking you within me

Spectre’s twin of my own self

Tangle-twisting our entities


Absorbing a wonder I long to witness

From by your side

I glimpse a shadow of us walking together

In the distant hinterland


Transcendent beauty perpetually provokes

This bittersweet ghost

Your eyes rooting me to this Earth

And everything beyond


So far from home, yet there she is still

Unwanted heart tracing your beat

Emotion’s futile friction

Drags scalding heat through my veins


Gratitude for finding you wages war

With bitterness for losing you

In these ripe fields with eternal tears

And transformative light

Losing a Ghost

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on October 22, 2016 by becciseaborne


Nothing has changed…

Still I wake coldly alone

Visit friends on my own

Sign cards from me only


Nothing has changed…

Still I cook for one

Share my space with no other

Discuss my bad day with thin air


Nothing has changed…

So why has everything changed?

Why is everything empty?

My phone newly redundant?


Why is my day so thin?

My world so bare?

My life so diminished?

The man who wasn’t there…


Image: Vanishing Point by United Visual Artists



The Choice

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized with tags , , , , on July 6, 2016 by becciseaborne


I’ve had a falling out with my heart
She brought me to a dangerous yet beautiful place
I came willingly, open-eyed
But now I need to return, I find she won’t allow it
We are stuck here
So my choice is to stay with her, and the pain
Or to leave without her
She is wayward and wild, my heart
Stubborn and cruel to me
Yet she is wise and true
I’ve always trusted her
Wherever she takes me
She’s taken me to joy, pain and grief
To beauty,darkness and love
Never to peace, though
She has never taken me to peace
Perhaps it is time for peace
Perhaps we should part ways now
My heart
And me


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on October 3, 2015 by becciseaborne


Lost Love


I am filling up

With all the conversations

We need to have


Unspoken words

Issue from my eyes

Every day


Each sunset

A new and infinite



Heart smashing

On shores of another

Impotent moment


for_my_lost_love_by_celtica-harmony_deviantartFor my Lost Love by Celtica-Harmony on

Congratulations…and Please…: a Letter to Jeremy Corbyn

Posted in Non-fiction with tags , on September 13, 2015 by becciseaborne

Dear Jeremy

I can’t congratulate you enough on becoming the new leader of the Labour Party. I’m genuinely excited and hopeful for UK politics in a way I never have been before, as I’m sure you are being told by many, many people.
I’m not really sure why I’m writing to you, but something about what has happened in the last few weeks, and yesterday in particular, just made me want to tell you how much what you’ve achieved so far means to me. And to many people I know.
I come from a family of Labour Party members and trade unionists, though we’d all lapsed during the Blair years and beyond. I’d never previously been a member, although I’ve been a trade union member for quite a few years now. I joined the Labour Party a few weeks ago as a supporter so I could vote for you (I’m sorry to say I didn’t as my ballot paper never arrived, despite me chasing it). At that time I promised I’d join as a full member if you were successful; I did that yesterday as soon as I heard the news, and I gather at least 15,500 have done the same. I want to do my part in making sure this works.
Your unwavering commitment to a set of principles which inform your decisions and actions, and which have seen you on the right side of history time and time again, are too rare in British politics. However, what you’ve done, above all else, is offer this country an opportunity to change the narrative, to show that there is a better way to be, a better way to discuss and think about things, and a better way for politicians (and the media) to behave with one another. You set a challenge for the Conservatives in so many ways and on so many levels. You have them so scared they’ve resorted to mind-boggling propaganda about how the Labour Party now represent a serious risk to national security. It’s almost farcical.
The positive tone, the reality, the humanity and compassion you have brought back to British politics leave me breathless with anticipation for what we might achieve for, and with, the people of this country again. What really strikes me is your unwillingness to engage with the negative discourse, but instead to find that positive stance, focusing on the issues and how best to address them. You leave personality, shaming, and put-downs well alone, and deal directly with the issues that concern the public. It is such a long time since someone has done that, and it makes me so grateful.
I think your track record speaks for itself as you’ve managed to maintain your principles and integrity during a really dirty time for politics, so I don’t doubt that you’ve a very real chance of getting us where we need to be in 2020 and beyond. The leadership position, however, is a very different animal, and I guess what I really wanted to say is, be careful. And continue to be brave. Please don’t be swayed. Please don’t allow the spin doctors or the media manipulators or the policy makers of any colour, to move you off course. I can only begin to imagine what the pressures will be when it comes to the crunch, but please always remember that what got you here is what this country really wants and needs…don’t let go.
And finally, I want to wish you all the best in this role – our time has come.
Kind regards
Becci Seaborne
PS – you’ve made a fantastic start already; straight off to the Refugees Welcome rally yesterday, and the mental health open day today – keep that up too please.


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on August 8, 2015 by becciseaborne

> • <

Reem Al Ghaith - Held Back

> • <

Dangerous love,

Broken beauty,

Locked cage.

> • <

Art from Reem Al Ghaith’s ‘Held Back’ exhibition

Finding the End

Posted in Fiction with tags , , , on March 7, 2015 by becciseaborne

> • <

Amanda Bauer

> • <

This is only the second piece of fiction I’ve written since leaving school over twenty years ago. It’s a work in progress, which I hope could become a short story, or a chapter in something longer perhaps. In the meantime, I thought it could use an airing in its present form.

> • <

As she shifts, pulling her feet up onto the windowsill and half turning her face away, he is suddenly ambivalent in his desire for her. He wants to feel her, and the sex they used to share, but there’s something about the dignity of her refusal that causes him to pause.

The world on the other side of the window is black as eternity; they’d walked back from the wake barely able to see each other, drunkenly bumping along unknown lanes one step at a time. The kiss, not long before they’d left the pub, had been familiar, yet raw and unkind. A predictable end to a day of emotional tension, crashing through veins carrying regret and unarticulated fears. Despite this, neither wishes it hadn’t happened. He left her only a couple of months earlier, but they both still care about each other and remain friends. Why else would she travel all this way with him to come to the funeral?

The only place nearby for them to stay is with friends of his family. There is a twin room with single beds at angles from each other. The room is small though, and the day has been large. They got in to, or at least on to, their separate beds, but they were both restless.

> • <

She looks back at him again now, a brief glance, without turning her head toward him, and he needs her all over again; he knows she feels the same. He tells her so, and as he starts to speak her hands begin to move, finding distraction in small objects.

“Of course I do,” she says with fierce quietness, imagining their voices carrying through thin walls, “but I want it to be because you love me. And you don’t.” Her eyes widen as she tilts her head back slightly and she pushes the nail of her middle finger deep into the flesh of her thumb. “How would that be any good? Why would I do that?”

She still loves him, he knows that. He didn’t plan this, but once they’d got back to the room, after that storm of a day had whipped up and set down again all the grief and memories and stories… And after all the drink, and the kiss, and then the dark, lonely intimacy of the walk back. Coming into that small, dimly lit room, it seemed inevitable that they’d end up in bed together. Their sex had always been good, and he still finds her attractive, still cares about her. He just doesn’t want to be with her any more. The truth is he’s in love with someone else. She doesn’t know this was why he left, but fate led him down a cul-de-sac anyway, so here he now is, letting her internal battle turn him on and push aside his feelings  of guilt. Trying to win the battle.

He’s always been persuasive when it comes to words and women and sex; he feels there’s still a chance, so now he’s reminding her how it used to be. She looks away to the window, finally unable to keep the tears from their freedom. She stares into nothing, hoping to will them into abating. He’s still talking. She doesn’t need reminding; she knows keenly the pleasure they gave each other, recalls the first orgasm he gave her, how sometimes just thinking of his touch, would arouse her. Fresh tears fall, and she fights a sob by contracting her stomach so hard she has to stop breathing. She closes her eyes slowly, opens them again, half turning. Repeats once more, patiently, barely audible with emotion, that it would be no good. Would do no good. Her hands hold her shins now in a bid for stillness, but they find no rest, and grip tensely. They agree once more that they both want to, but again she counters him as she searches the endless darkness outside. And again, and again. Until the darkness grows a pale edge, a soft blur finding its end after all.

> • <

Eventually they both wear out. The drink and the emotion have created concentric circles of their voices. He realises she can’t be won, and suddenly something shifts as the blur outside the window finds definition. His mind is hazy but he recalls something about her that he’s always been drawn to. He remembers that in the midst of their first, radiating attraction for each other, she wouldn’t even kiss him until she’d finished with her current partner. He’d mangled her heart, moved away without a thought for her, left her in a small-town spotlight  for everyone else to watch flail as their relationship decayed. Yet still she’d insisted. Do the right thing.

And now here she is again, taking some sort of stand. As if she needs it; is trying to tell herself something.

It’s late and they both know there will be no sex now, but they feel raw still and in need of each other, or something, at least. So they pass out together in one of the single beds, pressed into each other’s heat like children trying to forget a painful memory.

> • <

In the morning, head whirring a little, he brings tea. As he hands one to her, she smiles, “Thank you.”

 > • <


First drafted 6th December 2014




Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on February 28, 2015 by becciseaborne

Difference 2– • –


I found my way;

More bearable than your way.

My way has no stopwatch,

No expectant blank page,

No closed door.


My way has spaces,

Open windows,

Gaps, loops, connections, cracks.


I found my way;

My way has truth,

My way has me.


I found my way;

More bearable than your way.

My way has no checking,

No assumptions,

No answers.


My way has openings,


Opportunity, questions, choice.


I found my way;

My way has truth,

My way has me.


 – • –