Oh hi
I wrote this in May or June 2019:
What's happening in your beautiful life?
Taking it back, I don't think we've ruined it so far to not care, right?
Or to not want to know that each of us are winning at this thing, life.
Every time I find myself holding the steering wheel with my right pinky finger knotted under my other fingers, I think of you. Why?
It's rather random. But it stems from the first time I ever noticed this pinky habit of mine...
2014, en route to a weekend of subtle need. It was late, too late to be driving that road, rather daring even.
A weekend of talking, determined lamb roasting, exploring and again, again of just you and me.
Separate bedrooms but a closeness I had never felt before. It was a utopian weekend I will never forget.
The endeared awkwardness, the music show-off, the dawning of an ease to come.
Thank-you for your impeccable hospitality in my then rambling dire state. Thank-you for that and being yourself. The hard truths, the Judas goat, thank-you for every fucking moment really.
It's the past, I get that, but it was momentous to me.
I don't think you know the impact you have on other people just by being you. Even if you feel like you may be exhausted, trying too hard or omitting - you've got a euphoric and life altering presence nonetheless.
You do not need to search for love for it will be all around you.
Mostly because you've cultivated it and I know... how? How can you as a human, whom may have done so much wrong in this world cultivate something so powerful?
A lot if it has to do with your upbringing but it also has to do with how you've grown as your own.
Learning humility, admitting you can always absorb and opening your mind is only but three of the many things I was privileged to see you tackle, and acknowledge, in such a short amount of time.
When I would spin things in a different way, as I do, to see your expression of "oh wait, I never saw it that way", that's one of many many things.
Bru, use your practicality to a degree but don't hesitate. There's a thing in you that's not given enough credit. Your heart. Stop second guessing it. For a moment and, just a moment is all it takes, follow your heart.
I know you judge it, fear it, hell, even resent it sometimes...
But when shown, it's the most candid heart I have ever held for but a moment.
If I can, from those moments, see it's potential then Lord, it's powerful.
I thought we had it.
The stuff that would make me believe in being with one person, the person, for the rest of time. Honestly thought you saw me and I you and we could resolve all issues through love. My bad. Your bad too.
I don't know if you need this but I'm sorry for making you choose your mind over your heart.
Things changed but only because I had hit the panic button not because I'd been with someone else or because I loved you less.
My fault of wanting it all but not knowing how to navigate without a plan. I'm sure you had the idea that I was 'chill, go with the flow', and you went with that. Until I started making plans and it all got real.
Because in actuality I'm partial to a plan. This only shushed your heart and triggered your logical mind - which instead of figuring it out decided not to connect with my want of a future with you.
Truth, the reality scared both of us.
I was scared of losing you. Funny that.
You were scared of us disappointing each other, sacrifices being all for nothing.
It's truth, you never trusted me.
But you never gave me enough credit to trust me being with you.
The being with you was the game changer.
I hope I can meet someone who has all your qualities par the doubt. Someone who isn't so quick to think I would be a shitty person to them. Someone who may have more courage, matching their heart.
The m&ms, the backtrack to fetch a wallet, the first person to cuddle sleeping, I know I want that stuff. But I also know I want someone who doesn't throw in the towel when my own worst demons surface and make it harder.
I know I do it, test a person by faux running away. Making it harder. Enter abandonment issues.
Because that's all it was. Never loved you less. Instead I searched for a deep deep love in you. The kind that says fuck it and beats the doubt and beats the practicality.
I wanted that punch-drunk illogical yet true love with you.
I just remembered the first time I met you.
It feels like it was another lifetime,
experienced by a clueless 20 something year old in search of an... experience.
You were wearing a tropical shirt - that, or I had a tropical drink in hand - but you were just as arrogantly mixed and self involved. Completely matching my jug of tropics, I thought those were your ingredients, as you sticky'd up to my friend.
The words you spoke went straight up my straw and into my mind with the slickness of a prick, dare I say cock-tail. Making my skin crawl with sweet sweet stay aways.
Just sip your own jug Rox, was what I thought.
If you're going to get on the same level as this person, who your friend has clearly conquered, sip the fuck up.
I did that for all of maybe six minutes, all those thoughts, all that chugging, then you said you were a ghost writer.
And that changed everything.
You didn't know because you were just swirling your ingredients to the surface. The hard liquor stuff.
There was depth to your cockiness.
Maybe even a rock bottom.
Either way, it was then, that exact moment, those words you just happened to mention, post third tequila shot (I'm guessing as I can't recall you wearing any shoes).
Of course, I went off to make bad decisions.
You went off to become an enigma.
Monday, February 10, 2020
Sunday, October 21, 2018
The Glass Room
Almost thirty-something and can't say what I'm chasing in this life. There are re-occurring dreams that I have which may indicate that this is just a transition stage of a developing existence from before. Scientific fact, according to them that call themselves they, you don't dream of something you haven't seen in real life before. But I vividly dream of being in a house I have never before seen in my life. There's a long corridor branched with bedrooms, not unusual no but this corridor ends with a master bedroom with a peculiar glass room in the centre of it. Not so much a wardrobe, all random and weird things are kept in it. It's messy and cluttered. As if in spite, the overflowing items contradict the see through glass. There are carpet floors only in the master bedroom, making it both warmer and confusingly displaced to the other bedrooms. On the opposite side of the house is a kitchen, nothing fancy and an adjoining sunken lounge. The lounge is strikingly smart but outdated. I can see a kitchen backdoor I have escaped many nightmares from... into hidden passageways but that is a different story. I hear people chatter in this kitchen lounge area of the house but I am alone and wander away down the corridor, curious. I always end up sleeping in the first bedroom furthest from the master. It has twin beds, leaving one bed unnecessarily taxing on my conscious in the orderly moonlight. Shining through the modernest white blinds which illuminate both the empty bed and the conventional wooden floors. The duvet is stiff and cold. I hear doors open and close and then I'm asleep and the house is dissolved into another dream.
Other times I find myself walking around the peculiar glass room within the master bedroom which leads to four steps down into the actual wardrobe and bathroom area. The roof is low, a secret for those that dare. Again in another dream, it is here in the walk-in wardrobe that I can vividly see myself younger playing with my friends. With sleeping bags and toys, speaking of boys and dreams, ensuingly rebellious and blacking out from too much alcohol. Like I had lived my whole childhood in this house but slept in the guest twin bedroom every night. Most strange is the door leading outside from the wardrobe. Who would even design that? But there it is and I open it every now and then. Finding myself on a white and blue tiled entrainment area with an Olympic sized pool as blue as every association with the Greek colour. That rich, blue and yet just cool enough to still be inviting colour. I feel this overwhelming emotion that the white tiles were scrubbed intentionally to hide an atrocity. Never do I take more than a couple steps before I retreat not wanting to be apart of it. The invite turns into more of an impending allurement. Fallen leaves from the perfectly landscaped redwing dogwood hugging the discriminatingly exclusive high walls are blown around relentlessly. In that moment of the dream I stand white knuckled hand still holding the door handle, squinting my eyes to see how this part of the house, for some time, hasn't been celebrated except to keep the pool immaculate and the tiles errorless. Like an outsider with enough inside knowledge to know that this house is not my home, I go back. This is the part of the dream that I search for that kitchen lounge chatter. Searching for new information. It automatically turns to night at this point, I don't know why. Perhaps it is only in the night that we seek what we are longing for? Giving light to atrocities or truth versions of ourselves that eventually appear.
The goal of any dream is to survive right? Never do you actually die... normally it consists of snippets of a parallel universe where you did the "right" thing. So you're there saving yourself with nothing but an intrinsic gut feeling and the hope that the dream either evolves or stops. Which in my almost thirty-something life believes and grips onto the hope that it will, evolve and we discover that I'm not as dislocated as my night re-incarnations. Curiosity for that singular hand to hold bringing sense to 'whatever this all means' when I wake up. Knot your fingers into mine.
Other times I find myself walking around the peculiar glass room within the master bedroom which leads to four steps down into the actual wardrobe and bathroom area. The roof is low, a secret for those that dare. Again in another dream, it is here in the walk-in wardrobe that I can vividly see myself younger playing with my friends. With sleeping bags and toys, speaking of boys and dreams, ensuingly rebellious and blacking out from too much alcohol. Like I had lived my whole childhood in this house but slept in the guest twin bedroom every night. Most strange is the door leading outside from the wardrobe. Who would even design that? But there it is and I open it every now and then. Finding myself on a white and blue tiled entrainment area with an Olympic sized pool as blue as every association with the Greek colour. That rich, blue and yet just cool enough to still be inviting colour. I feel this overwhelming emotion that the white tiles were scrubbed intentionally to hide an atrocity. Never do I take more than a couple steps before I retreat not wanting to be apart of it. The invite turns into more of an impending allurement. Fallen leaves from the perfectly landscaped redwing dogwood hugging the discriminatingly exclusive high walls are blown around relentlessly. In that moment of the dream I stand white knuckled hand still holding the door handle, squinting my eyes to see how this part of the house, for some time, hasn't been celebrated except to keep the pool immaculate and the tiles errorless. Like an outsider with enough inside knowledge to know that this house is not my home, I go back. This is the part of the dream that I search for that kitchen lounge chatter. Searching for new information. It automatically turns to night at this point, I don't know why. Perhaps it is only in the night that we seek what we are longing for? Giving light to atrocities or truth versions of ourselves that eventually appear.
The goal of any dream is to survive right? Never do you actually die... normally it consists of snippets of a parallel universe where you did the "right" thing. So you're there saving yourself with nothing but an intrinsic gut feeling and the hope that the dream either evolves or stops. Which in my almost thirty-something life believes and grips onto the hope that it will, evolve and we discover that I'm not as dislocated as my night re-incarnations. Curiosity for that singular hand to hold bringing sense to 'whatever this all means' when I wake up. Knot your fingers into mine.
Wednesday, March 7, 2018
This is
An end
But this is not
The end
- L.E Bowman
You can't
Is not a prediction
It is
A challenge
- L.E Bowman
_________________________
it was Us
there was I
And There Was You
entities too big to fuse into THIS world
but we had our own
Always with each other
never to be real
_________________________
The bully that cares is Resilience
one's own kindness to move on when it hurts most
in the yard of despair that needs a king
both a fighter
and a saviour
pushed from internal intentions unknown to the victim
survival until the force
the bounce
and the probability that the world will be a playground again
_________________________
You're a beautiful mind of maps
when my heart is gravitational pull
with my utopian sense of North
your compass swirls off track
So we get off at the next stop.
_________________________
my fingers in your hair
your arm heavy on my stomach
reached to hold the other side of me
my leg latched on yours
as we float higher than the net above
your soft lips against my heart
and I feel as fragile as your small lashes
that may not keep this dream safe
at that moment you wake
pulling me closer as I squeeze back
compelled by passion seconds away
but in those seconds I feel strength
and love and something of a lifetime
_________________________
if we crossed paths again
could you hold my gaze
without trembling restrain
speak of nowadays
and feel okay with the fated
while your eyes animated
precipitate a Cheshire smile
my feeling of infallible reconcile
_________________________
It's funny how the thing that destroyed us
will ultimately rebirth us
Like there really isn't a line or a
countdown
But rather a block of each consecutive
day making us safer from each other
As they get filled and ticked off
it happens with every cry turned laughter,
every moment we are not together but
distracted
Making it funny because we laughed on
the break up call. Already then we longed
to be that distraction for each other.
_________________________
Remembering the childlike tenacity that in
spite of balance, reached for the hand
dearest to it
How obscure it is to be an adult when the
carousel stopped turning
_________________________
Losing my fucking mind
Add a song
Send an email
Don't like an Insta
That's BASICally approving
this daily funeral of lost hearts
DO SOMETHING else that means more
_________________________
I feel all the things
how you're dealing with two break-ups
not just ours but the One before
the one I distracted you from
_________________________
We had everything but perfection
which doesn't exist
so we just had everything
_________________________
if
something
terrible should
ever happen to you
no one immediate
would let me know
they'd not think to, why
_________________________
Seen every driver that isn't you today
It's going to be like this forever isn't it?
Please get a new car I DON'T know about...
_________________________
The very worst of this
Is that you're supposed to be my person
Supposed to, in terms of you are
Where truth is not as scary
and marked skin is shown well below
the surface
Touched and held as if it were your own
_________________________
What's in a water
You
What's in a whisky shot
You
All in my blood, racing towards my heart
in competition against a reality
I want to escape to but beat defeat from
_________________________
It's still too soon to break the silence
for a battle within me rages
Between talking to my once friend
And now gone lover
Scared that I'd softly scream for them to
be one of the same again.
_________________________
Sunday, June 25, 2017
Sicker in the Daytime. Safer on the Inside
"Sicker in the Daytime. Safer on the Inside"
My eyes burn, the heat of something intensifying with every slow and painful shutter.
It's nighttime and I'm outside.
Is everyone really sicker in the Daytime?
Are we all safer humans on the Inside?
The Daytime when shadows are temporary. The Daytime when nothing hurts. We are ailing in our own day. Our own time, our endemic antibiotic daily schedules.
To be sick, indisposed and so medicated when there are worse things,
Makes us terrifyingly worse than those things.
Basking the suns rays does not maketh the man.
Sensitivity to the nights darkness does.
_______
The month is June, the year is 2017 and it has been one of knifelike change. The air I breathe does not warm my lungs instead it pierces them. The humidity is gone, the safe sweat of routine is gone. The clammy calmness I felt for many years prior to this night of June is gone. Replaced with a startling freeze, the kind that eventually passes the threshold of pain to become numbingly present. Accepted, a blanket of reality heavy enough to ascertain that you'e alive. To fight for breath and hold on before the exhale. At this moment I've come to realise it's not the air I'm holding onto but the repossessed carbon dioxide that I don't recognise as my own.
____
Her name is Satisfied. Picking me up on the side of the road in the night so I can prolong my Daytime. The car is actually warmer than the house. Perhaps it was the few steps I took from the house to the car that reminded me again I am not home. We're strangers of the worst kind. You see this when you buy something at a shop, order a meal, avoid a beggar, drive on a busy road and look at lights on in houses you pass. All within reach but other worldly.
The choice to stay distant and to stay a simple customer overwhelms me to tears. She's a single mother of two, Zimbabwean and working two jobs. One of the first things she tells me is that when you are well you keep going. You push a little harder that day and get as much done as you can because tomorrow is not promised. She recently lost her sister to TB. We then get into a conversation that I would have with a best friend. The Uber trip is through dark, winding and narrow roads. Turning bright lights on every now and again to navigate the horizon, we're in this together. But she is driving. My life in her hands. Same hands that make your meal, that full your petrol tank, that give you a receipt. I want to hold all those hands. Instead I got her number in the promise I will give her my hands at the salon she works at in the Daytime. Bright lights are off during the day and we're not in it together most of the time. I saved the number as Sati, hoping that I don't forget this after I've said goodbye, wished her well and ordered my cocktail 5 minutes later.
__________
It all falls down. Eventually the walls are chipped and you look at your nails broken and bleeding. You've been the one hacking at the wall. There's dust in your mouth of old promises, loves and losses. Taking one step out of the rubble, that which was caged chaos, you look up. Dust off the remnants and see what you're made of and for.
Vast and green, made to move better from. It's the same field that was always on the other side but it's vibrantly different. There is not a particular person to meet you there, only yourself amongst everybody else. They too have nails broken and bleeding. The field is life and while it seems safer on the inside of the walls it's a lie. The safeness is inherently inside the people on the field.
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
letters to myself
White noise against my pillow
amber glow to meet cold window
blue to black with fairy light
falling into the depth of night
Heart at ease with care
wind beating the air
sinks the mattress heavy
eyes rested and ready
Day behind the mountain
not an expectation to count in
wrapped in vanilla blankets
the new morning my sweet canvas
_______________________________
What rhymes with Wednesday
Delicious clear conscience ruby glass of ambrosia, sipping your body on a misty Cape Town Wednesday night is an ease of life's kindness. You were bought on a whim, like most things I do, but I love you more than that. See, the reason behind my luck of having you tonight is thanks to a lady whom I'm sure had an unfortunate day. Either one of her five dogs caused her frustrated state, perhaps it was the combination of all five possibly six dogs in her expensive SUV with the actual park in the other direction and the less inviting parking lot of KwikSpar ahead. That or the pup on her lap forget to wee before hand and she was not moving her SUV because it's hard to multitask when using triple ply soft tissues to dry oneself. Especially when those are on reserve for mental breakdowns only. More likely she had just heard her housekeeper stole her Prada bag. Either way she was somewhere between stationary and spaced out staring at me when I gestured for her to turn into the parking lot. Undeniably a clear gesture to remind her she has right of way. There was no response. Lingering on uphills is not a first choice so I zoomed my little car into the parking lot. When a swift and smooth uphill start turns bad... She then came back from space and hooted whilst flailing her arms in the air. Yes, perhaps she didn't do that simultaneously. Perhaps it was the poor lap dog that jolted into the hooter. I'm not sure what actually happened because it was unexpected and offensive. With a slight veer to the side I let her self righteous SUV pass me, defending myself from her squeals at the same time. There wasn't anything Kwik and painless about that Spar visit in Vredehoek. Luckily I did not bump into the lady while roaming the three isles, unfocused with agitation, she had hooted her bad spaced out vibes onto me, the road version of a baton race. Didn't let it go until I saw you on special. Wine, you are special.
Monday, February 6, 2017
rebuilding
So I have managed to learn or at least pay first witness to what happens when you leap off from your own pedestal and then get kicked while you're down.
What it means to try even harder but still too late.
There is no going back, there is no retraction of words nor actions and there is not a single feeling left unsaid. It's utterly painful to confess your everything and not get what you hoped would happen in return but it is overwhelmingly lifting to know you did try.
The more I look at it and understand, the more I see that I cannot control everything.
Words happen. Actions don't. Love is a choice. And walking away is a must.
Where in my mind do I honestly believe if I just said one more thing, or the same thing differently, it would change everything?
Why have I clung to this notion for years and years? Right now, it's probably the saddest thing I have ever done to myself.
I am not cupid nor am I a unicorn. I am not put on this earth to fix you. And I am certainly not doing any favours to anyone by pretending I am it all and can do it all. I flat out cannot.
There are many cringe-worthy moments I wish I could take back, retract from all existence or take to my grave with not another soul knowing. But they are both my downfalls off the pedestal and the steps back up.
Fuck you for thinking I was on a pedestal in the first place. No one person is to blame, however if you had never said that I wouldn't have fallen so fucking fast and far off the thing.
Okay that may sound like a lot of resentment... I don't resent you as a person. I resent my thinking that you would be there to catch my fall after so blatantly saying I needed to get off the pedestal.
I expected too much. I put all my eggs in one basket and all that happened was that they became scrambled with my brain as the basket case.
Where in my mind do I realize that everything is as it should be and I don't have to meddle or specifically change for anyone? It's that little section of my brain that has been shunned to the back. That section where I used to know and believe I didn't have to trip up or fall off or tell you my deepest darkest secrets in order for you to love me back. It's that section called self-worth and self-respect.
You tell people, rather lovers, those kinds of things when you feel safe and secure and loved in a relationship. I felt none of those things instead I was desperate, felt unworthy and unseen when I told you and that, that is what I resent.
It was like saying "Here, this is what you wanted? have it and have all of me without having to actually love me".
A huge part of me regrets it. Regrets knowing that you know far too much for someone that isn't even my friend, reciprocally.
A small part of me does not regret it.
I tried to knock my pedestal in your eyes, because that's what you wanted and I would have done anything... but the view of it, the greater picture is that it didn't and won't ever fucking matter.
Whether you've judged me, loved me or simply felt indifferent does not matter anymore,
I have hit rock bottom for you. I have not only leaped from my pedestal but I began to hate myself for ever being on it. I began to think I was not cool enough, not broken enough and not real enough whilst I was still seen as sitting up there. But the truth is I have always been broken and real and will most likely never be cool and it was not me that was ever wrong or too unattainable, it was you and it was your perceptions and view. You thought yourself either too cool or so low and you projected that shit onto me.
Where in mind do I begin to know the difference between truth and love? When I stop doing the saddest thing possible to myself. It is done now, I have turned myself into a body of desperation and a soul of torment. While this shit is painful, it is also brutally needed. It's the glue I'll use to piece together my shattered pedestal. It's the step I'll build to lift myself up off the floor. It's the position I'll take knowing I went too low to make you high and I will never do it again.
What it means to try even harder but still too late.
There is no going back, there is no retraction of words nor actions and there is not a single feeling left unsaid. It's utterly painful to confess your everything and not get what you hoped would happen in return but it is overwhelmingly lifting to know you did try.
The more I look at it and understand, the more I see that I cannot control everything.
Words happen. Actions don't. Love is a choice. And walking away is a must.
Where in my mind do I honestly believe if I just said one more thing, or the same thing differently, it would change everything?
Why have I clung to this notion for years and years? Right now, it's probably the saddest thing I have ever done to myself.
I am not cupid nor am I a unicorn. I am not put on this earth to fix you. And I am certainly not doing any favours to anyone by pretending I am it all and can do it all. I flat out cannot.
There are many cringe-worthy moments I wish I could take back, retract from all existence or take to my grave with not another soul knowing. But they are both my downfalls off the pedestal and the steps back up.
Fuck you for thinking I was on a pedestal in the first place. No one person is to blame, however if you had never said that I wouldn't have fallen so fucking fast and far off the thing.
Okay that may sound like a lot of resentment... I don't resent you as a person. I resent my thinking that you would be there to catch my fall after so blatantly saying I needed to get off the pedestal.
I expected too much. I put all my eggs in one basket and all that happened was that they became scrambled with my brain as the basket case.
Where in my mind do I realize that everything is as it should be and I don't have to meddle or specifically change for anyone? It's that little section of my brain that has been shunned to the back. That section where I used to know and believe I didn't have to trip up or fall off or tell you my deepest darkest secrets in order for you to love me back. It's that section called self-worth and self-respect.
You tell people, rather lovers, those kinds of things when you feel safe and secure and loved in a relationship. I felt none of those things instead I was desperate, felt unworthy and unseen when I told you and that, that is what I resent.
It was like saying "Here, this is what you wanted? have it and have all of me without having to actually love me".
A huge part of me regrets it. Regrets knowing that you know far too much for someone that isn't even my friend, reciprocally.
A small part of me does not regret it.
I tried to knock my pedestal in your eyes, because that's what you wanted and I would have done anything... but the view of it, the greater picture is that it didn't and won't ever fucking matter.
Whether you've judged me, loved me or simply felt indifferent does not matter anymore,
I have hit rock bottom for you. I have not only leaped from my pedestal but I began to hate myself for ever being on it. I began to think I was not cool enough, not broken enough and not real enough whilst I was still seen as sitting up there. But the truth is I have always been broken and real and will most likely never be cool and it was not me that was ever wrong or too unattainable, it was you and it was your perceptions and view. You thought yourself either too cool or so low and you projected that shit onto me.
Where in mind do I begin to know the difference between truth and love? When I stop doing the saddest thing possible to myself. It is done now, I have turned myself into a body of desperation and a soul of torment. While this shit is painful, it is also brutally needed. It's the glue I'll use to piece together my shattered pedestal. It's the step I'll build to lift myself up off the floor. It's the position I'll take knowing I went too low to make you high and I will never do it again.
Monday, October 17, 2016
just thoughts
One day you wake up and that person you thought was your future isn't anymore. No more than a faded feeling. Tired of writing about him and exhausted from living around him. You wake up and you realize that you have endless energy for everything else that isn't him.
Quite frankly, comfort zone you can fuck right off!
As a self proclaimed introvert this scares me and instinctively I want to say it and then retreat back into my self. Just throw it out there and not particular have to do anything about it. But my internal wires are fraying and I know that if I do not re-wire myself I'll short circuit my life. A small implosion, almost undetectable but for the burn out, the faults and the lack of electricity. In the comfort zone I can function but it's dimmed and it's dutiful. I need to get out. I need to push my own buttons and I need to grow. Fully aware that I've got energy that needs to travel and touch much further than the switchboard I keep playing with. There are darkness's I need to light up in the world and there are flames I want to feel.
A love that can keep their hands off me. A love that can board a plane before me. A love that can shake their gaze at me. A love that can stop contemplating with me. A love that can stray too long from me. A love that can sip victory champagne without me. A love that can set foot in foreign seas across from me. A love that can use humor as armor against me. A love that can bear to break fairy-tales around me. A love that can easily say goodbye towards me. A love that can put up their feet and focus ahead of me. A love that can do all of these but doesn't.
_____________________________________
Quite frankly, comfort zone you can fuck right off!
As a self proclaimed introvert this scares me and instinctively I want to say it and then retreat back into my self. Just throw it out there and not particular have to do anything about it. But my internal wires are fraying and I know that if I do not re-wire myself I'll short circuit my life. A small implosion, almost undetectable but for the burn out, the faults and the lack of electricity. In the comfort zone I can function but it's dimmed and it's dutiful. I need to get out. I need to push my own buttons and I need to grow. Fully aware that I've got energy that needs to travel and touch much further than the switchboard I keep playing with. There are darkness's I need to light up in the world and there are flames I want to feel.
_____________________________________
A love that can keep their hands off me. A love that can board a plane before me. A love that can shake their gaze at me. A love that can stop contemplating with me. A love that can stray too long from me. A love that can sip victory champagne without me. A love that can set foot in foreign seas across from me. A love that can use humor as armor against me. A love that can bear to break fairy-tales around me. A love that can easily say goodbye towards me. A love that can put up their feet and focus ahead of me. A love that can do all of these but doesn't.
Thursday, September 29, 2016
(no title)
Where the sky meets the sea and all the cloud formations in-between, I scream with everything that has tortured me for you to come back. Coarse sands, every pebble, rub through me exposing an hour glass of waiting. Trying every second to be less abjured by gravity I cannot feel this world without you in it. Trying every second to be more blinded by reality I cannot see this world without you in it. Despite the daily hues and nightly embers allowing me to forget momentarily, the bigger picture lacks the flame. God do I want to burn my hands!
amidst fog, unclear a path towards holding
There, the deer stir and leap with no king
Coolness, that of damp yet growing, awakens the leaves
osmosis deepens the air and lowers the light but for the rays of
glitter and fairy-tales
Wondering shrieks echo, echo off the timeless canopies, echo down the twisted vines, reverberating the roots with psychosis through the forest.
A dew drop changes to molten love
as it slips from its flower
Igniting the stem, the leaves and the friendly fauna. Asphyxiating clouds replace the mist like an enchantress scorned has commanded toxicity and torture to spread lustily. The psychosis spreads like the fire burning, prior lulled animals turn frantic and demonic as their rushed paws and the like are licked by devouring fervent intensities. What was timeless crashes in seconds with cackles, infernally possessed in the cracks the trees argue and lose, overwhelmed they meet the pit of hell.
braised behind, with a wall choking
the beetle, frets for haste his own thing
No, gold ring takes all movement
Swallowed by a tunnel of blue tint
A small pop, unheard in the blazed
So, heat till, depress untimely death.
What is a forest erased but devastation and ash? All because a drop of dew thought itself something warmer in fluidity. All reality obscures for a single moment in time which causes havoc then smoking remnants. My hands can hold neither ash nor devastation for longer than kept sorely shut, eventually I open them and both dissipate with the breeze.
Then do my hands dig deep, into the soiled, undergrounded still warm with hope yet dark still with the unknown. Digging repeatedly enough for
Less covered there,
a contrasted lesson of life with its humble beginnings and smallness
a seedling emerges.
It all cycles back to you. From the forests to the shores to the skies to the stars, where not one thing is not touched by an undercurrent not of you. A world with you in it is worth the world burning my hands.
Friday, September 16, 2016
Storms precede
There is wind on the horizon which turns the sea darker shades of grey in fits of waves unsettling the surface. I can feel the change on my skin and it has yet to hit me. The air no longer still nor light it moves its way towards where I stand, promising to knock me over with forceful effort and whirling whispers of transformation. The approach is too fast to fully grasp and I lose my balance. Knocked into the wall behind me, I fall without breath to the floor where gravity appears to be pulling. Blonde hair in my face, head low and blue eyes squinting to focus on my hands, white knuckles and red finger tips I push the ground away from me. Managing to sit on my haunches I gasp for the breathe to come back, fill my lungs and remind me that I am alive. The wind cannot steal my breathe again, I purposefully reclaim the air that is mine, frantically I inhale it back into my body. Dizzy now I keel back over onto my side grabbing my knees towards my heartbeat that is thunderously loud. The floor is softer than reality, the floor is calmer than my convulsing body, it soothes me and I can feel its stillness being absorbed by my skin. Thin lips pulled in even tighter to stop the trembling, my eyes burn dry with the longing to see more of what is ahead of me.
"It's sprint time!" the instructor warns the class.
I very ungracefully get up off the mat, soaked sweat towel in one hand, asthma pump in the other and robotic-ally move towards the dread-mill.
"Be careful, your treadmills are flying" he warns again.
Without hesitation I change the speed to slower, fitting my level of perseverance and amount of expenditure committed. Knowing full well I could do better, I hop on for a thirty second jog. On either side of me are people running for their lives, keen and head strong. With two sprints to go I up my speed each time.
"... three, two, one. Shut the treadmills down and make your way back to the mat"
Well I certainly didn't die and could have probably run faster, to be honest I never really want to get off the treadmill at this point. It's the point where I actually want to do better and persevere a little longer but I miss the fucking boat every time. Metaphorically for my life as well. The ship sails and I'm ashore with what if's, could have's and should of's.
__________________________________________________
Eyes adjusting to see leaves and sticks and feathers, all swirled up and wasted around me. My right cheek is now ice cold from the floor and my hip numb from weighted lying. To move would mean to differentiate myself from that that is wasted around me, but sometimes I want to be a leaf, a stick or a feather only moved by wind. Sometimes I only feel deserving of movement when it is not I that is moving me. Can the wind come back, either to sweep us all away or to make us into something different? Would the wind know how to create something using leaves, sticks, feathers and me? I would forfeit my breathe for it to move me once again however lying on the floor for a bit longer is an alternative not worth living for. The aches get too unbearable, my short legs and their muscles cramp, shoulders built from swimming and surfing can no longer take the stillness. So unlike all that is static around me I heave my body up off the floor, standing sorely and somewhat lifelessly. My eyes blink slow and any facial expressions left when the wind did. When my mind decides to reclaim its position the rush of thoughts just about topple me over again.
__________________________________________________
Drenched and stretched, feeling healthy and important to myself I leave gym happy. This lasts well through the first, second and third cigarette I chain smoke upon getting home. Gulping water like I don't know what wine is, sitting outside to cool off my body and its elevated awe, I book upcoming gym classes while I'm riding this wave of elevation. Just like that, after the classes are booked and my phone turns back into a platform for comparison, longing and superficiality I lose my muster. Between the images of couples in love, the singles who explore and the world at war I become so very tired. 05h45 creeps closer as I routinely shower, eat and try to sleep. I think to myself how much better or worse is it to receive a goodnight text or to share my bed with someone? To have someone there or right here... I couldn't choose so perhaps I have neither. To chase love and not know what to do with it when you get it is reflective of human nature. Always choosing misery and misconception over getting to really know oneself. Why during that time of night all appears discernible, like I'm running for my life, keen and headstrong? Sprinting through thoughts, deciding directions and concluding relationships. Metaphorically I need my asthma pump, working my thoughts up to a suffocating amount I lie in savasana, corpse pose, and channel my focus to breathing.
"Inhale for three two one, hold for three two one, exhale for three two one..." repeat.
__________________________________________________
__________________________________________________
__________________________________________________
"It's sprint time!" the instructor warns the class.
I very ungracefully get up off the mat, soaked sweat towel in one hand, asthma pump in the other and robotic-ally move towards the dread-mill.
"Be careful, your treadmills are flying" he warns again.
Without hesitation I change the speed to slower, fitting my level of perseverance and amount of expenditure committed. Knowing full well I could do better, I hop on for a thirty second jog. On either side of me are people running for their lives, keen and head strong. With two sprints to go I up my speed each time.
"... three, two, one. Shut the treadmills down and make your way back to the mat"
Well I certainly didn't die and could have probably run faster, to be honest I never really want to get off the treadmill at this point. It's the point where I actually want to do better and persevere a little longer but I miss the fucking boat every time. Metaphorically for my life as well. The ship sails and I'm ashore with what if's, could have's and should of's.
__________________________________________________
Eyes adjusting to see leaves and sticks and feathers, all swirled up and wasted around me. My right cheek is now ice cold from the floor and my hip numb from weighted lying. To move would mean to differentiate myself from that that is wasted around me, but sometimes I want to be a leaf, a stick or a feather only moved by wind. Sometimes I only feel deserving of movement when it is not I that is moving me. Can the wind come back, either to sweep us all away or to make us into something different? Would the wind know how to create something using leaves, sticks, feathers and me? I would forfeit my breathe for it to move me once again however lying on the floor for a bit longer is an alternative not worth living for. The aches get too unbearable, my short legs and their muscles cramp, shoulders built from swimming and surfing can no longer take the stillness. So unlike all that is static around me I heave my body up off the floor, standing sorely and somewhat lifelessly. My eyes blink slow and any facial expressions left when the wind did. When my mind decides to reclaim its position the rush of thoughts just about topple me over again.
__________________________________________________
Drenched and stretched, feeling healthy and important to myself I leave gym happy. This lasts well through the first, second and third cigarette I chain smoke upon getting home. Gulping water like I don't know what wine is, sitting outside to cool off my body and its elevated awe, I book upcoming gym classes while I'm riding this wave of elevation. Just like that, after the classes are booked and my phone turns back into a platform for comparison, longing and superficiality I lose my muster. Between the images of couples in love, the singles who explore and the world at war I become so very tired. 05h45 creeps closer as I routinely shower, eat and try to sleep. I think to myself how much better or worse is it to receive a goodnight text or to share my bed with someone? To have someone there or right here... I couldn't choose so perhaps I have neither. To chase love and not know what to do with it when you get it is reflective of human nature. Always choosing misery and misconception over getting to really know oneself. Why during that time of night all appears discernible, like I'm running for my life, keen and headstrong? Sprinting through thoughts, deciding directions and concluding relationships. Metaphorically I need my asthma pump, working my thoughts up to a suffocating amount I lie in savasana, corpse pose, and channel my focus to breathing.
"Inhale for three two one, hold for three two one, exhale for three two one..." repeat.
Only to be reminded at 06h30 when it's sprint time again.
__________________________________________________
With my mind leading my body I walk away from the storms remnants, the air is quiet again and the sea has no horizon. Nothing is clear but at least my pieces have moved themselves in search for something. Aimless but movement nonetheless. Configuring themselves into a human shape, five foot two with small feet matching small hips, we become a little more useful. I talk like I am fine, even with high pitched expression and curiosity. My words appear to be off the floor but I am actually standing on them, kicking them and wishing they weren't cutting me with every sharp contact. Entering the room my heartbeat is muffled by other sounds and my eyes distracted by other sights. There is a busyness about the older bodies that I struggle to relate to and there is very little connection to the younger body that sits idle with itself. Although the room is warmer with us in it, with hot breathe and amicable sighs, I rarely feel avidity with anyone.
__________________________________________________
__________________________________________________
It's been three days and four hours since I last went to gym but who's counting? It's been weeks since I last stilled my mind and body in a precarious yoga pose, it's been months since I last immersed myself in saltwater under, over and on waves and it's been almost a year since I rode through sugarcane on a horse that can sense me better than any person could. So I am counting but not all of it literally, I count on these things to feel less of time and more of myself. You know the feeling of immeasurable warmth and rightness that seems to beam from and through you? That's what these things do for me.
"The sun will set without thy assistance" Talmud says.
Yet I continue to say that time is at fault not I. Without asking when, because time is actually irrelevant, rather asking why do I let these things slip away from me? Half of which are free and the other half carry on without me anyway. Uncertain if this is another excuse but perhaps I rebel against what I know I need in defiance for having to need anything at all.
__________________________________________________
"The sun will set without thy assistance" Talmud says.
Yet I continue to say that time is at fault not I. Without asking when, because time is actually irrelevant, rather asking why do I let these things slip away from me? Half of which are free and the other half carry on without me anyway. Uncertain if this is another excuse but perhaps I rebel against what I know I need in defiance for having to need anything at all.
__________________________________________________
Sitting on a couch that is heavy to move and positioned for lethargic purposes, I lift my feet up off the floor to distance myself from it further. That cold steady floor seems unfamiliar and frighteningly contrasted to what is burning inside of me indefinitely. There is superficial lighting making the night darker and the people inside brighter, the home of people and things with dysfunction and dreams. I sit wondering if the lights should fail and the television turn off would the family know what to do? With life and love and the bridge between them. I rub the tip of my thumb over the edge of my nails and fingertips, making one OK hand symbol per hand with index finger to thumb, ending with three solid Nil, Zero hand symbols with the remaining fingers down. I sit doing this motion for quite some time, in reverse and repeating. Noticing that this family go from okay to nil just as frequently. Becoming overwhelmed with my hands and the nail indents I had made I grab the television remote and change the channel.
__________________________________________________
Continuing with my rebellion to activity and the things that make me feel good, I seem to be otherwise quite capable of actively doing things that make me feel, for lack of a better word, bad.
"You get rid of that boyfriend of yours now, no good" said by my quirky new gynaecologist. I laugh a little in politeness to his peculiar Polish-ness. Also because although my legs are widespread it's not my normal situation. Disease free apart from an acute case of sleeping-with-men-I-don't-really-know. Neither the gynaecologist nor I have a sensitivity gauge, so we go about our own business in a matter of fact manner. Of course my personal business only becomes his when I'm paying for it. He's a professional and gets the Mirena in place quickly and for the most part painlessly. Genuinely I feel very little down there and more in my mind and heart. It's as if my ability to physically feel down there is measured on the same level as my connection to things, people and the universe connecting me to them. No doubt that is the only pleasure I seek, that connection. But whilst my legs may be open my heart is seemingly otherwise impenetrable. My mind is fully aware of this to my orgasmic detriment. I leave his office feeling only slightly better in the fact that mistakes can't happen for the third time.
__________________________________________________
Continuing with my rebellion to activity and the things that make me feel good, I seem to be otherwise quite capable of actively doing things that make me feel, for lack of a better word, bad.
"You get rid of that boyfriend of yours now, no good" said by my quirky new gynaecologist. I laugh a little in politeness to his peculiar Polish-ness. Also because although my legs are widespread it's not my normal situation. Disease free apart from an acute case of sleeping-with-men-I-don't-really-know. Neither the gynaecologist nor I have a sensitivity gauge, so we go about our own business in a matter of fact manner. Of course my personal business only becomes his when I'm paying for it. He's a professional and gets the Mirena in place quickly and for the most part painlessly. Genuinely I feel very little down there and more in my mind and heart. It's as if my ability to physically feel down there is measured on the same level as my connection to things, people and the universe connecting me to them. No doubt that is the only pleasure I seek, that connection. But whilst my legs may be open my heart is seemingly otherwise impenetrable. My mind is fully aware of this to my orgasmic detriment. I leave his office feeling only slightly better in the fact that mistakes can't happen for the third time.
__________________________________________________
It's bedtime so I peel myself off the couch, feed my dog treats and shuffle to a room which is far too large for its lonely requirements. At least it's pretty enough, even with the mess of heaped up clothes on the day bed and the hoards of empty pill packages under the bed. Pretty enough when you don't look too closely and if the lights stay off and I navigate blind all that mess is unseen. The moon filters through on the left of my bedside as I roll over to face it and sink my hurt organs deeper into the mattress, which under the sheet is surely stained with tears, sweat, semen, coffee and blood. Life-sources for the body of a twenty eight year old female who wishes she weighed less than the fifty two kilograms trapped by her skin. Hearing the television continually entertaining my parents I shut my thin eyelids to the world only to be met by a parallel universe behind them. Night escapes from my clutches with tense hands relaxing their hold on my second favourite pillow. Without wondering where my favourite has found itself because that requires more tears and a reality I'm trying to fall asleep from. The after hours, when time ticks down the hall on the Grandfather clock compelling all to be silent so it can be heeded, obscurity is heightened. Rings of the scene in The Nutcracker where evil mice come out to torment and taint all that is charming, the hourly chimes contending for morning to come and dreams to be discarded.
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Abandonment, what I let myself do to things and what I expect people to do to me. When I focus on breathe, without clouded thought while asking what it is that I feel about feeling, this is the word that pops up from the crevasses. Instant gratification exempt of commitment and endurance is by definition how I have treated most things. Manifesting to include but not limited to my hobbies, my loves and relationships, my body and if I'm being really honest, my spirituality. Rooted to a four year old with a short albeit significant time without a father, losing brothers in the process. Branching to an adolescent having to detach from her sister as countries and oceans separate, but gaining a brother-in-law. Flowering into a woman that gives her heart to another, who relinquished it all and returned it back to her forsaken. Imaginably, because I acknowledge my flaws and own them completely, it's now time to change them.
"Be prepared each day to confront your own self sabotage" unknown.
There comes a point after sitting in limbo for days that I seem to snap back to getting shit done, that point is reached when stewing deeper into wounds only brings about ineffectiveness and stupor. Frustrating myself so, that productivity and action are the only answers to questions of inner awareness. I refuse to abandon myself and the soul that has purpose within me, having dreams and goals with the ability to reach them and beyond. It takes the low point to reassess, reassure and redirect with keenness and to keep running, less likely to miss the boat this time likewise to do better.
Between seasons the birds aren't chirping when I wake as they're far too comfy in their nests to search for the early worm that too sleeps soundly. Internally I wake up first, blue veins startled with a subservient craving for inhalants, a concurrently numbing and stimulating placebo to me. This is done in the dark with habituated hands. If it's a good morning I wont see the pigmented skin that is usually under my mask, that which is my face without the need to impress. Mostly because the light has not surfaced and neither have my insecurities. Given that, I'll perceptibly make-up my body, especially the chubby bits in fluctuating workout clothes. Dressed, first cigarette and black coffee as my fuel, followed with toothpaste I leave the home into the dawn alone, bewildered slightly yet convicted. The desolate streets are interrupted by high heart rates and strangers I comparatively relate to simply because we have the same attire on our bodies. There is an alertly cold eddy of air that flows into my car, prickling the hair of my unguarded skin and plunging to my bones. Should the dimmed stars see into my sunroof they would view me writhing, conflictingly sculling undercurrents of inertia and persistence. I bid the obscurity of night adieu as persistence wins and it is now 05h45, almost sprint time. If the horizon looms of wind and transformation... let it as I'll do better for longer this time.
__________________________________________________
Abandonment, what I let myself do to things and what I expect people to do to me. When I focus on breathe, without clouded thought while asking what it is that I feel about feeling, this is the word that pops up from the crevasses. Instant gratification exempt of commitment and endurance is by definition how I have treated most things. Manifesting to include but not limited to my hobbies, my loves and relationships, my body and if I'm being really honest, my spirituality. Rooted to a four year old with a short albeit significant time without a father, losing brothers in the process. Branching to an adolescent having to detach from her sister as countries and oceans separate, but gaining a brother-in-law. Flowering into a woman that gives her heart to another, who relinquished it all and returned it back to her forsaken. Imaginably, because I acknowledge my flaws and own them completely, it's now time to change them.
"Be prepared each day to confront your own self sabotage" unknown.
There comes a point after sitting in limbo for days that I seem to snap back to getting shit done, that point is reached when stewing deeper into wounds only brings about ineffectiveness and stupor. Frustrating myself so, that productivity and action are the only answers to questions of inner awareness. I refuse to abandon myself and the soul that has purpose within me, having dreams and goals with the ability to reach them and beyond. It takes the low point to reassess, reassure and redirect with keenness and to keep running, less likely to miss the boat this time likewise to do better.
__________________________________________________
Between seasons the birds aren't chirping when I wake as they're far too comfy in their nests to search for the early worm that too sleeps soundly. Internally I wake up first, blue veins startled with a subservient craving for inhalants, a concurrently numbing and stimulating placebo to me. This is done in the dark with habituated hands. If it's a good morning I wont see the pigmented skin that is usually under my mask, that which is my face without the need to impress. Mostly because the light has not surfaced and neither have my insecurities. Given that, I'll perceptibly make-up my body, especially the chubby bits in fluctuating workout clothes. Dressed, first cigarette and black coffee as my fuel, followed with toothpaste I leave the home into the dawn alone, bewildered slightly yet convicted. The desolate streets are interrupted by high heart rates and strangers I comparatively relate to simply because we have the same attire on our bodies. There is an alertly cold eddy of air that flows into my car, prickling the hair of my unguarded skin and plunging to my bones. Should the dimmed stars see into my sunroof they would view me writhing, conflictingly sculling undercurrents of inertia and persistence. I bid the obscurity of night adieu as persistence wins and it is now 05h45, almost sprint time. If the horizon looms of wind and transformation... let it as I'll do better for longer this time.
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
Letters to myself
Growth of a flower
When trying not to cower
It's harder than I thought
Should I not be sought
While the fresh dew dries
Heats of a dry gust guise
It's harder than I thought
Should I not be sought
Bird-songs and beauty dimmer
As scandal and silence simmer
It's harder than I thought
Should I not be sought
Off to their own time
Offended if or not a crime
It's harder than I thought
Should I not be sought
Roots up-heaved so haplessly
Above that soiled matchlessly
It's harder than I thought
Should I not be sought
Crumpled petals of purity diminish
Strewn leaves of lies finish
It's harder than I thought
Should I not be sought
The Flower and its stance
Do it not stand a chance?
Monday, September 5, 2016
Reservation?
Excuse me while I go be important to myself. In fact, don't even excuse me because there is nothing offensive about it. At this stage of where we are, we owe each other very minimal. There is little invested in making us work and there is even less attached to how we make each other feel. That may sound hopeless, selfish and isolating but the truth is I can't give any more than I get. And neither should you.
So instead of forcing something that in reality doesn't consume our hearts and minds, I'm backing off further. For now. Yes, I like you. Yes, talking about a future with you is nice. Yes, having you in my life may make it a little better. But I can like you without a focus on future and at no expectation that my life should change. The main catalysts for this thinking and feeling are both distance and time and their ability to keep us strangers for longer.
Perhaps that is my issue here. Perhaps I would want to give more of me to you, for you and with you if you weren't still such a stranger to me. I know I would end up doing that if I saw you more often and if you were to see me, at all. When distance is gone and time is here, we're foreigners mapping each other out and arduously navigating blind. Too quick and of basic quality I see you seeing me, too brief and of lowermost quantity.
It takes moments, memories and magic to open myself up. Right now these are not on the table and instead of reserving a seat for you at this table I am turning it over and using it as a shielded fortress. Neither of us are presently hungering for this to work and I'll ensuingly be starved if I don't.
And it is okay. We will be okay because neither of us are a priority to each other right now. The times that we are do not override the times that we aren't, the seats at the table are pushed in and out mindlessly. What is the point to hunger for a candlelit feast upon this table if it's treated like a fast food diner booth? A phone call every third day or so, a morning message followed by an infrequent goodnight of vice versa, a hotel room of suitcases, sensations and sighs. I choose to topple this table until further notice.
So instead of forcing something that in reality doesn't consume our hearts and minds, I'm backing off further. For now. Yes, I like you. Yes, talking about a future with you is nice. Yes, having you in my life may make it a little better. But I can like you without a focus on future and at no expectation that my life should change. The main catalysts for this thinking and feeling are both distance and time and their ability to keep us strangers for longer.
Perhaps that is my issue here. Perhaps I would want to give more of me to you, for you and with you if you weren't still such a stranger to me. I know I would end up doing that if I saw you more often and if you were to see me, at all. When distance is gone and time is here, we're foreigners mapping each other out and arduously navigating blind. Too quick and of basic quality I see you seeing me, too brief and of lowermost quantity.
It takes moments, memories and magic to open myself up. Right now these are not on the table and instead of reserving a seat for you at this table I am turning it over and using it as a shielded fortress. Neither of us are presently hungering for this to work and I'll ensuingly be starved if I don't.
And it is okay. We will be okay because neither of us are a priority to each other right now. The times that we are do not override the times that we aren't, the seats at the table are pushed in and out mindlessly. What is the point to hunger for a candlelit feast upon this table if it's treated like a fast food diner booth? A phone call every third day or so, a morning message followed by an infrequent goodnight of vice versa, a hotel room of suitcases, sensations and sighs. I choose to topple this table until further notice.
The table is light to push and with little assistance it falls onto its side. On edge of little substance. Surface levels of thin balance and unequally pressured instability. The table is unequivocally of no syn-chronic purpose for us, it will just lay there off kilter until there is a presence to willfully lift it and us together. I alone am too capricious to forcefully put it up right, so it lays. You alone are too solipsistic, should you move the table it would crush me.
I feel it best to not even invite you to dinner anymore. And that is okay because we don't have a date planned anyway. There is no place nor time for what we are currently, to each other and to the world. All I want is to give something to the world but all that I can is by not trying too hard to be with you. So, enjoy your meals inadvertently without me as I go be important to myself. I'll continue to nourish myself even if it means I eat alone unconventionally behind a table.
Monday, August 29, 2016
dirt roads lead to clear paths
How you interpret the world is what will ultimately make me fall in love with you. I care so deeply about creativity, intuition and connection that if those things aren't in your interpretation I honestly don't believe we should, or could ever, be lovers.
I may not have all my ducks in a row or an internet banking app on my phone, not yet. I may not have the tidiest room because I am a gypsy and have been uprooted recently for reasons and friendships bigger than myself. I most certainly still want to backpack third world countries and sip a cocktail or three watching sunrises with no intention to shower that day. Unless the shower is a waterfall I have hiked to, whilst chatting about collective consciousness, emotional intelligence and lyrics of a song. So although I lack a lot of down the line practicality, and one could confuse my child like optimism as naivety and foolishness, that does not bother me. If it bothers you, you're not the one for me. I can very easily download the app, I can very easily clean my room and I can very easily shower three times a day if I needed to, but I don't need to. My interpretation of the world is bigger than convenience, than set norms and outer shell obsessions. I can do the mundane, I can do the budgets and I can do the responsible. But they are not my world and will most likely never be.
Lover, do not walk in front of me, as I will not follow.
Lover, do not walk behind me, as I will not lead.
Lover, walk beside me, as We are in this world together.
The details are vague but I was deadlocked in hot sticky, black molten tar. It dripped thick from my limbs and the fumes burned raw with every breath. I woke up suffocating and scared.
Why? because I feel stuck in something that isn't natural. That paves the road for a misinterpreted world. Appearing fluid at first, constructive and even necessary but tar turns rigid and unapproachable at the midday sun and appears as black ice under the moonlit blankets. A road to nowhere good. Nowhere great and nowhere true.
Fuck I want great. I want extraordinary. I want a dirt road and dirtier pairs of dancing feet to walk it with. Should there be signal, I'll download the fucking banking app if I have to while we talk about how we care so deeply for interpretations of the world and that there are endless reasons as to why yours made me fall in love with you. Falling not down and scraping hurtfully lodged tar off my knees no. Falling up and up to something more spiritual and almost other worldly.
I may not have all my ducks in a row or an internet banking app on my phone, not yet. I may not have the tidiest room because I am a gypsy and have been uprooted recently for reasons and friendships bigger than myself. I most certainly still want to backpack third world countries and sip a cocktail or three watching sunrises with no intention to shower that day. Unless the shower is a waterfall I have hiked to, whilst chatting about collective consciousness, emotional intelligence and lyrics of a song. So although I lack a lot of down the line practicality, and one could confuse my child like optimism as naivety and foolishness, that does not bother me. If it bothers you, you're not the one for me. I can very easily download the app, I can very easily clean my room and I can very easily shower three times a day if I needed to, but I don't need to. My interpretation of the world is bigger than convenience, than set norms and outer shell obsessions. I can do the mundane, I can do the budgets and I can do the responsible. But they are not my world and will most likely never be.
Lover, do not walk in front of me, as I will not follow.
Lover, do not walk behind me, as I will not lead.
Lover, walk beside me, as We are in this world together.
The details are vague but I was deadlocked in hot sticky, black molten tar. It dripped thick from my limbs and the fumes burned raw with every breath. I woke up suffocating and scared.
Why? because I feel stuck in something that isn't natural. That paves the road for a misinterpreted world. Appearing fluid at first, constructive and even necessary but tar turns rigid and unapproachable at the midday sun and appears as black ice under the moonlit blankets. A road to nowhere good. Nowhere great and nowhere true.
Fuck I want great. I want extraordinary. I want a dirt road and dirtier pairs of dancing feet to walk it with. Should there be signal, I'll download the fucking banking app if I have to while we talk about how we care so deeply for interpretations of the world and that there are endless reasons as to why yours made me fall in love with you. Falling not down and scraping hurtfully lodged tar off my knees no. Falling up and up to something more spiritual and almost other worldly.
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
Set off with no particular directions
Oh heeeey today and more acutely tonight. I've felt you before, worse and myself weaker. Been a while though, what was it that set you off? Simply a seed planting thought, a song lyric singing and a gut wrenching feeling of course. To describe you would be to know you fully, I am not there yet. You're familiar enough to acknowledge, more than just an acquaintance. Still your existence, your very root cause is a stranger to me. I cannot know more to you than what I have only chosen to see. But you're here today and tonight and I cant ignore it. With every time you surface I change. Feelings take hold of my mind and a direction is set, either slightly stronger or much much weaker. That is the end result however, getting there are the hours and minutes of pure confusion. Lost. For now, that's all I have to call you. So lost it swells my eyes with unchartered waters and hollows my stomach to unfathomed caves. You appear on days like these which remind me of the miles and the crevasses I need to cover. Unable to tread the water, I sink. Unable to keep the cave vaulted, I stray. Absent and not in the room because I am so far far away from everything. Set on automatic forfeit you replace me. You used to take over all of me for weeks and that is how I recognise your antics and your results. Albeit frightening at times, in opposition to hiding or running away in avoidance, I'm glad to have met you. Your visits are becoming less frequent because your lessons are more prominent. So I sit with you all day and now at night as almost friends. But I get to choose my life, love and friends, this you also remind me of. Lost but capable to change directions.
Monday, August 15, 2016
Cease Fire, the war is almost over
Darling, it's just your head playing tricks on you.
To illude yourself into thinking you're not only capable of but are in fact letting go of attachment.
For far too long I have battled the war between head and heart; it consumes me, it propels me and it injures me. Wearing an armor of schedules and then nakedly falling into trenches of moments without you. Where is that connection to you? For me, it's everywhere and it is in everything. I need him but I want you. Because you, my love are so deeply imprinted on my heart that my minds futile attempts to conquer this war are seemingly fatal. Ostensibly doomed are relationships I wage for interception of my hearts longing.
And it is not due to any lack of love for myself, no, I have owned that shit and work internally hard to overthrow any form of self-sabotage. I am my own enemy or patriot and ultimate commander of the two. However without your artillery I fight with extremism and a suicidal bomb strapped to my heart. Without your heroic engagement I sit in neutralized camouflage amidst land mines and fields strewn with debris and casualties.
So yet again I find myself on the front lines, with all and with him that isn't you. I don't mean to compare but when you have swam in the sea a lake will no longer do. You've set a ruling standard so high with your laughter, your facial expressions, your hands and your connection to the world and me. I want that and I want you. But I need him. You've gone MIA in my life and you have abandoned the revolution of our love. My heart is becoming more subversive to my growth and my survival as it is in constant defense of your actions.
I will never admit defeat, yet I am a refugee in another mans arms.
Displaced, disarmed and deployed into a world that sounds, smells and sees different to you.
The struggle of war compelled by the love of peace, I want peace too. So I wake each day and choose to fortify the now. As it currently stands my mind is making allies with him. A coalition is forming and there is little I can do about it, or rather should I even do anything about it? On the front lines faced with the option to accept his sounds, smells and seeing as a new world treaty rather than a cataclysmic war. Prowling at what depicts as his flaws does not make me truer to you, no it makes me cruel, cynical and delusional. Hush my heart passive enough to allow it to be conscripted and entrusted to him, for currently I have no reason to give it to you. No other reason than a secret campaign to be by and on your side of the war.
But there will be no more suffering due to the battle of head and heart. I do not want retribution nor for it to be misplaced onto him. I go into this knowing that I wave no white flags and I am riddled with bullet holes of past wounds. I also know that there is a powerful beauty to him that disengages my fight or flight response, putting me at ease. His hands are warmer and his touch unwavering. He's a veteran in his own battles, unequivocally having faced fears and standing with valor. He is elite in capturing my attention.
And while my heart has you as its vanguard, quickly is it learning to love more than you, to love a little less dependently and to love a little differently.
To illude yourself into thinking you're not only capable of but are in fact letting go of attachment.
For far too long I have battled the war between head and heart; it consumes me, it propels me and it injures me. Wearing an armor of schedules and then nakedly falling into trenches of moments without you. Where is that connection to you? For me, it's everywhere and it is in everything. I need him but I want you. Because you, my love are so deeply imprinted on my heart that my minds futile attempts to conquer this war are seemingly fatal. Ostensibly doomed are relationships I wage for interception of my hearts longing.
And it is not due to any lack of love for myself, no, I have owned that shit and work internally hard to overthrow any form of self-sabotage. I am my own enemy or patriot and ultimate commander of the two. However without your artillery I fight with extremism and a suicidal bomb strapped to my heart. Without your heroic engagement I sit in neutralized camouflage amidst land mines and fields strewn with debris and casualties.
So yet again I find myself on the front lines, with all and with him that isn't you. I don't mean to compare but when you have swam in the sea a lake will no longer do. You've set a ruling standard so high with your laughter, your facial expressions, your hands and your connection to the world and me. I want that and I want you. But I need him. You've gone MIA in my life and you have abandoned the revolution of our love. My heart is becoming more subversive to my growth and my survival as it is in constant defense of your actions.
I will never admit defeat, yet I am a refugee in another mans arms.
Displaced, disarmed and deployed into a world that sounds, smells and sees different to you.
The struggle of war compelled by the love of peace, I want peace too. So I wake each day and choose to fortify the now. As it currently stands my mind is making allies with him. A coalition is forming and there is little I can do about it, or rather should I even do anything about it? On the front lines faced with the option to accept his sounds, smells and seeing as a new world treaty rather than a cataclysmic war. Prowling at what depicts as his flaws does not make me truer to you, no it makes me cruel, cynical and delusional. Hush my heart passive enough to allow it to be conscripted and entrusted to him, for currently I have no reason to give it to you. No other reason than a secret campaign to be by and on your side of the war.
But there will be no more suffering due to the battle of head and heart. I do not want retribution nor for it to be misplaced onto him. I go into this knowing that I wave no white flags and I am riddled with bullet holes of past wounds. I also know that there is a powerful beauty to him that disengages my fight or flight response, putting me at ease. His hands are warmer and his touch unwavering. He's a veteran in his own battles, unequivocally having faced fears and standing with valor. He is elite in capturing my attention.
And while my heart has you as its vanguard, quickly is it learning to love more than you, to love a little less dependently and to love a little differently.
Saturday, May 21, 2016
Let Him Go, Let Him Be
His eyes smiled at her with the warmth of a home and a sweetness of thousands of hello's. The wrinkles in the corner whispered years ahead of encouragement in learning. Eyelashes fluttering continuous waves of love and tenderness but mostly protection. Capable of tears, yes, capable of closing yes, capable of irritation redness diseases, yes. But these eyes were looking at her, really looking. She met his eyes with hers and they were locked in commitment, compassion and both curious at the comfort of each other.
Oh how a girl can dream.
My eyes have been closed far too long, that when I do make eye contact with anyone I actually break out in sweat, buried alive in social anxiety and begin to burn my cheeks red with doubt. To avoid the concluding give away, an awkward panic, a glazed distant shell, I look away. In the hope that the focus will be taken off my transparent infected soul.
But I am so aware of this, almost too aware, that I am now able to treat it before the outbreak becomes contagiously unbearable.
It is not my eyes but my mind. It is not my seeing but my thinking. Much like breathing soothes my thoughts, much like sitting stills my heart rate, efforts are required to break this bad habit and unbind and un-blind myself. I am a lovingly strong woman. My eyes should display this in a single glance to whomever I see. Gateway to the soul they say, the only person who says my soul is broken is me. On the other side of my vision is something completely different to my inner thoughts. It's about time I see myself that way.
To the ex, the stranger and the familiar. To the intimidating, the less fortunate or the potential date.
Figuring out why I am still struggling to heal is a daily awakening.
There have been beginnings to an understanding that keep arsing.
Signs, symbols and pelvic yoga poses catching my thoughts and emotions
I need to let him go.
Saying I have or I can is the easy part, it's the wanting that keeps my eyes shut tight.
Engaging in a new possibility makes me feel like I will lose my past possibilities. And I'm still quite attached to how I wanted my life to be back then, nothing and no one new coming into my circle. My mind screams that I cant let anyone in, from acquaintances to friendships, because it will take from me what I had on reserve for him.
Extremely unhealthy and utterly depressing. This way of thinking has left me crippled. In actual fact I have nothing in my reserves and I'm only fooling myself if I think I can share something that is not there. Delusional. Even if he had looked, the sad thing is that, he wouldn't have seen anything.
So I must make eye-contact and I must simultaneously let him go. As hard as it gets because then it can only get better. I cannot force him to look at me, to see me with smiling eyes and I cannot change what he has, currently does, or ever will see when he looks at me. As those are his eyes not mine.
The same goes for everyone I meet. I sweat and get social anxiety because I panic at the thought of not being in control of what the other person sees. Forgetting I am a lovingly strong woman who can only control her own eyes.
So are you listening eyes? Not to my thoughts that spew doubt but my heart of strength and resilience. Not to my thoughts that stage me in a certain way but my core center beaming out through my eyes with an abundance of and for always love.
I blink but now my eyes are open and they cannot un-see life this way.
Oh how a girl can dream.
My eyes have been closed far too long, that when I do make eye contact with anyone I actually break out in sweat, buried alive in social anxiety and begin to burn my cheeks red with doubt. To avoid the concluding give away, an awkward panic, a glazed distant shell, I look away. In the hope that the focus will be taken off my transparent infected soul.
But I am so aware of this, almost too aware, that I am now able to treat it before the outbreak becomes contagiously unbearable.
It is not my eyes but my mind. It is not my seeing but my thinking. Much like breathing soothes my thoughts, much like sitting stills my heart rate, efforts are required to break this bad habit and unbind and un-blind myself. I am a lovingly strong woman. My eyes should display this in a single glance to whomever I see. Gateway to the soul they say, the only person who says my soul is broken is me. On the other side of my vision is something completely different to my inner thoughts. It's about time I see myself that way.
To the ex, the stranger and the familiar. To the intimidating, the less fortunate or the potential date.
Figuring out why I am still struggling to heal is a daily awakening.
There have been beginnings to an understanding that keep arsing.
Signs, symbols and pelvic yoga poses catching my thoughts and emotions
I need to let him go.
Saying I have or I can is the easy part, it's the wanting that keeps my eyes shut tight.
Engaging in a new possibility makes me feel like I will lose my past possibilities. And I'm still quite attached to how I wanted my life to be back then, nothing and no one new coming into my circle. My mind screams that I cant let anyone in, from acquaintances to friendships, because it will take from me what I had on reserve for him.
Extremely unhealthy and utterly depressing. This way of thinking has left me crippled. In actual fact I have nothing in my reserves and I'm only fooling myself if I think I can share something that is not there. Delusional. Even if he had looked, the sad thing is that, he wouldn't have seen anything.
So I must make eye-contact and I must simultaneously let him go. As hard as it gets because then it can only get better. I cannot force him to look at me, to see me with smiling eyes and I cannot change what he has, currently does, or ever will see when he looks at me. As those are his eyes not mine.
The same goes for everyone I meet. I sweat and get social anxiety because I panic at the thought of not being in control of what the other person sees. Forgetting I am a lovingly strong woman who can only control her own eyes.
So are you listening eyes? Not to my thoughts that spew doubt but my heart of strength and resilience. Not to my thoughts that stage me in a certain way but my core center beaming out through my eyes with an abundance of and for always love.
I blink but now my eyes are open and they cannot un-see life this way.
Author: Elyane Youssef
Title: Let Him Go, Let Him Be
I
know how hard it seems to be without him,
and I know how awful it is to let
him go.
He was your home, your soul mate.
But sometimes, we need to
evacuate when the fire alarm goes on,
we need to leave our home or else
we’ll die burning.
Leave your home.
Leave your soul mate.
You came into each other’s lives
so you can slap each other awake,
so you can awaken and open what’s
been closed inside each both of you.
Now that you have accomplished
your mission,
let him go,
let him be.
Don’t you claim that you love
him?
If you really do, you must unlock
your chain that’s wrapped around his soul.
I know it’s difficult to believe
that you won’t ever again be present in his life, but
sometimes love means letting go.
Are you in love with him, or do
you love him?
because if you are in love with
him, you will need him, however,
if you love him, you will set him
free.
Sometimes love means letting the
other person be and live the way he desires.
Don’t let your love be the cage
that will stop him from flying.
Go and open the door for him so
he can roam the world,
and if you two are meant to be,
he will know his way back to you.
Until time shows you what’s meant
to be and what’s not,
let him go.
He’s not yours and you are not
his.
You don’t own each other because
love is freedom,
happiness,
and kindness.
Go build your own home now and
decorate it with flowers.
Set yourself free and let
yourself be as well.
You deserve to be and you deserve
to taste joy and comfort.
I beg you to stop serving
yourself the plate of misery.
Although you don’t realize it,
part of your misery is refusing to let go,
you’re still clinging to him like
a mother clinging to her own baby.
Love him, do not hate him,
but let him go, let him be.
Thank him for the experiences and
lessons that you needed and then,
let him go, let him be.
All is happening for a reason,
you will soon see.
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