Freedom

"Freedom is rarely granted; it must be conquered." - Rosie Vidovix-Unsworth

Learning to live with less

"There is no bigger freedom than learning to live with what you have."

Rosie Vidovix-Unsworth 

Journalism

Journalism is the art of arriving at a place knowing nothing, then writing as if you know everything.

Rosie Vidovix-Unsworth 

knot by knot

The First Knot I Weave

Sitting at the loom,I close my eyes and remember my prayers.

Like my ancestors before me,
I work the silk,
my boys sitting nearby.
They are my strength.

Knot by knot, I weave.
Minutes turn into hours,
my fingers moving fast,
the colors blending beautifully.
My boys watch,
their curious eyes silently asking why "Anne" is so occupied.

Knot by knot, I weave.
Hours turn into days.
My hands blister,
but the light dances in the silk.
One boy tugs at my skirt,
while the other dreams,
his hopes stitched into the threads before me.

Knot by knot, I weave.
Days stretch into weeks.
My wrists ache,
my arms grow heavy.
Yet, the sound of my boys' laughter fills the room,
a melody that keeps me moving.

Knot by knot, I weave.
Weeks have become months.
I glance up,
searching the shadows,
the quiet chaos of small voices
climbing over each other like silk threads—
fine, fragile, unruly.

Knot by knot, I weave.
Nearly half a year has passed.
My body is weary,
but there is no room for haste.
Every knot is a prayer,
a promise,
a whisper of patience.
When my hands refuse to move,
I rest.
I will weave again tomorrow.

Knot by knot, I weave.
The carpet stretches slowly,
a universe born of calloused fingers.
The silence of mornings,
the long afternoons,
the cold late nights—
they all linger in the threads.

Knot by knot, I weave.
It is nearly complete.
My children, my loom, my silk—
they hold my world together.
I give them patterns they can see now,
a future softened by the labor of my hands.

And with the last knot,
I weave my love.

Tiredness versus Boredom

"I don't mind being tired, but I can't stand being bored."

Rosie Vidovix-Unsworth 

A Lonely Life

I am alone...

I hear a song that makes me miss you.

The singer speaks of a love lost,

his words slicing through the air,

sharp, raw, unforgiving.

A heart broken beyond repair—

is that his, or mine?

I switch the radio off.

I don’t want to hear of love.

I don’t want to think about my lonely life.

I am alone...

I look in the mirror and whisper your name,

a name that burns on my lips,

searing the words I long to speak.

My voice cracks, trembles, breaks,

and I choke on the weight of unsaid truths.

The words disintegrate,

ash on my tongue.

I don’t want to say it aloud.

I don’t want to think about my lonely life.

I am alone...

I imagine your sweat glistening on your back,

droplets alive with sun and earth,

that primal, male scent

overwhelming my senses,

piercing through me like a blade.

It claims me,

invades me.

I throw the window open.

I don’t want to smell you.

I don’t want to think about my lonely life.

I am alone...

I taste the salt of a kiss

that never was,

my tongue tracing the phantom sweetness

of your skin.

Each imagined flavor lingers,

tangy and cruel,

as if I have devoured you whole.

I press a napkin to my lips.

I don’t want to taste you.

I don’t want to think about my lonely life.

I am alone...

My fingers follow the shape of your face,

I am alone... sharp lines of your jaw,

your neck,

your chest.

I feel the heat of you,

the pull of your skin on mine.

You draw me in,

your body becomes my world,

and for a moment, I belong.

Then I push you away.

I don’t want to feel you.

I don’t want to think about my lonely life.

Time

Choose your time wisely because you can't live it twice

Rosie Vidovix-Unsworth 

My beautiful İstanbul

My beautiful Istanbul

From January to March, I walked your streets,  

wrapped in cold winds and soft light.  

The Bosphorus, always moving,  

carried whispers from a thousand years.  

A city where people smile at you for no reason,  

where a thousand cats and countless dogs welcome you.  

Seagulls circled above, happy to see me  

as I crossed bridges between continents.

The Grand Bazaar pulled me in,  

with its chaos, its colors, its stories  

woven into every corner.  

So many people there, each with their own history.  

Spices filled the air, and I found myself  

lost, not in direction but in time.

I descended into the Basilica Cistern,  

where I stared in the eyes of Medusa.

I stood beneath the shadow of Hagia Sophia,  

feeling its weight, its age,  

and yet it stood so effortlessly,  

a testament to everything you are.

And the trees, oh, the beautiful trees...  

Old, magnificent witnesses, standing silent  

in forests and gardens everywhere.

In the quiet moments,  

when the crowds faded,  

I watched the city breathe,  

felt its pulse in every alley,  

its history seeping into my bones.

Istanbul, you held me for those months,  

in your arms of stone and sea,  

and even as I left,  

you stayed with me,  

etched into my memory,  

my beautiful Istanbul.  

I will love you always...

The Sculptor's Love

He walks the quarry in silence,  

among the rough, raw faces of stone,  

and there—hidden in shadow—  

a block catches his eye.  

It is love at first sight.

He kneels, brushing dust from the surface,  

his hands already tracing her curves in his mind.  

She is there, waiting for him  

to free her from the anonymity of the mountains.  

He smiles,  

imagining the beauty that will rise from the shapeless hard rock,  

her eyes soft with a life she does not yet know.

Days stretch into nights,  

and he can not stop. 

Chisel after chisel,  

the tap of his hammer echoes like a heartbeat,  

steady and patient,  

each strike bringing her nearer.  

The stone yields to his will,  

his fingers guiding, shaping,  

breathing her into existence one careful touch at a time.  

His bones ache, his skin wears thin,  

but he does not tire.  

He can see her now,  

emerging with every fragment that falls away,  

her lips, her hands, the delicate arch of her neck

until she stands before him,  

the perfect vision he had dreamt.

She is done.  

Complete.  

He steps back, holding his breath,

staring into the eyes he carved,  

and they gaze back at him,  

unblinking, silent,  

yet so full of everything he longs for.  

His heart catches in his chest.

She is not just stone,  

not to him.  

She is warmth and softness,  

a companion, a love he cannot bear to be without.  

He whispers to her,  

his voice trembling with a strange, tender hope:  

"If only you could live.  

If only you could step from this cold marble,  

breathe, speak,  

be mine,  

as I have been yours from the moment I found you.

"Don't waste time with time wasters"

Time is one of the most precious things you have. Do not let people who don't value time, dictate how you use yours.