The day after us

Inside the creases of my skin
Mixed with the song of fuzzy rain
The evening’s kindness wearing thin
Your touch – the thought that ripped my brain
I dreamed you up, I told those streets
I knew the night could choose to hear
My heart kept busy counting beats
While raindrops masked the single tear

Currently listening to Malaika (Angel) by Miriam Makeba (RIP, Mama Africa, the world misses you)

A promise

I can’t sleep. I keep thinking. Through the darkness, I can see the contour of your cheekbone. You have that necklace on you, my goodbye gift. The leather frame goes around the little silver spear end, sitting above several rows of red beads. You even chose a matching outfit. Do you treasure it? How long will you keep it like this, close to your heart?

You take my hand, close your eyes and start rhyming... Your words run around the room, no, they jump, full of energy and emotion, while you lie there, exhausted yet unable to sleep, smiling at me, rapping for me, squeezing my palm.

I miss you like Kenyan soil misses the rain in the dry season. I am not sure if you miss me as much. I am not sure if you are able to miss, to love, to feel. I heard that you aren’t. I don’t know if people are saying the truth... but you are the people.

You spoke sweetly to me, you spoke honestly. You gave me little gifts of attention, but you’d take them away whenever your work came into play, showing me how hard it would be, were we together. You’d shower me with compliments, yet you’d openly warn me that I’d get burnt.

I didn’t ask you all the questions I needed to ask in those short two days. I didn’t feel like interviewing you. In my head, I was weighing the risks. I am tired of being hurt. My heart has been broken and mended just enough for me to lock it up. When I suffer, my work suffers, and my ability to give, which determines who I am. Something tells me you might feel the same.

You extended your pinkie and we made a little union, a promise to each other. How binding is it? What am I to make of it? Can you tell me frankly and ease the tension within me? Can you keep it... or let it go? It hurts to be here in the middle.

Image credit: ramo138


The sun dipped its brush in the fog this morning, drawing perfect pastels over the mountaintops. It was a little after 7 and I took the long route home, enjoying the warmliness of this brand new autumn day.

There is some magic about the airports; they tend to highlight the human in us.

You hugged me and asked me to take care of myself. "You are going there so you can be useful to the people, so be smart and do what you have to be useful," you said. For the first time I felt you are finally at peace with my decision and maybe even respect it. For the first time I felt such sincerity in your tears, clear of attempts to prevent me from going.

Yet it was you leaving this morning, not me. I stood there for the longest time watching the two of you go through the security line, his striped shirt allowing me to tell you apart from the crowd. I wanted to keep looking at you. We parted lifestyles a while ago and those are only geographical directions we are parting today. Dots on the map. Longitudes and latitudes.

When we get back together, things won’t be the same, I thought, and I think you felt it, too. I could see it in your tears. I love you, mom. Good bye and safe journey.

* * *

I will be gone for some time and I will miss blogging, and all of the wonderful writers I've been just starting to get to know. I should be back by mid-December if things go as planned. I will try to get online every now and then, most probably on weekends, if I get a chance. Please stop by Dreaming of Africa if you want to follow my journey.

Currently listening to Dark Road by Annie Lennox (from "Songs of Mass Destruction")


You are humble, and brave, and full of understanding, and laughter... And sometimes I sit there and reflect on how exceptionally lucky I am to have you as a friend. And then I can’t help but wonder... what have I done to deserve you in my life?

Image credit: Inominatus

Currently listening to Pearls by Angelique Kidjo & Josh Groban

Inside an hourglass

This thinking grips my heart
And squeezes it, and bends
I can’t tell you apart
From where my dreaming ends
I might have felt your pride
Elusiveness so tender
Despite this vast divide
Temptation to surrender
You might have dug my mind
From underneath the laughter
So does this world unkind
Allow the ever after?

* * *

I know, they are called the Atlantic… Sometimes fortune cookies really creep me out. But then again, I prefer reading between the lines. I might be on the verge of crossing the great waters in my life, the journey that many won’t understand, especially family. My mind is set however, and I know I can reach the other shore... as I long I remember to breathe.

Currently listening to Erykah Badu & Stephen Marley

Can I keep this one... please?

Have you ever felt as if something you dreamed up is right there, within the hand’s reach, so real yet extremely fragile? Did you jump right at it or stop breathing for a minute, not to spook it, fearing that something so good can disappear so easily? Isn’t that how real life works? Aren’t things that are too good normally also too elusive to be kept by anyone for longer that several happy heartbeats?

Image credit: happysak
Currently listening to Warchild by Immanuel Jal

Beyond the twigs

I lost myself in the city
Counting the twigs
When it gave me the glimpse of its heartbeat >>>

Maybe they were arteries...

The other to-do list

To forgive

To listen more carefully

To hide emotions that can harm someone

To be thankful and don’t take things for granted

To be brave about discussing situations when they occur

To think twice before making decisions which involve others

To stay kind even when you are not spoiled by others’ kindness

To let people you care about know it with words and actions

To show passion when it will make someone feel right

To stay silent when no words are needed

To let others be who they are

To be yourself

Prosaic things

I take a walk with you
To open up a bit
I tell you sky shots are prosaic

You laugh at me
Because I snapped some
The other day

I tell you sometimes
I snap prosaic shots
For lack of any better

The truth is I am telling you
Prosaic things
Because I can’t tell you the truth

The prosaic image is by me

Pain in the... neck

- Writers are not very fun people to be around from what I’ve heard, is that true?
- Should I read it as a “subtle” hint that I’m not fun to be around?
- No-no-no, it’s just that...
- It’s just that whoever told you that can’t write and envies our awesomeness.

...Just one of our weird small talks in between tea sipping/page flipping/people watching at a coffee shop. Your straightforwardness is amusing. You like to ask strange questions, provide controversial arguments and lead conversations into dead ends. I don’t mind it though, because you unknowingly teach me to handle the uncomfortable and the not-so-friendly, which comprise the majority of the real.

Image credit: arwenita
Currently listening to Cain's Blood by the awesome Lucas Kellison

Do you freecycle?

This nonprofit movement has been around for years, but I’m surprised to still come across many people who have never heard about it.

I came up with a quick list of benefits.

~ It's an upgraded version of recycling, more people oriented and fun.

~ It's great for the environment, keeping useful things out of landfills.

~ It provides an effortless way to help someone.

~ You'll get a lot of free stuff.

~ It's free.

Give it a try?

Dream box

"I put my dreams in a box
so they'll never spoil,
hidden from the sunlight,
underneath the soil.
You can never be too
careful with a secret
as someone once said,
but would it be safer to keep
it locked up in my head?"

~ Music & Lyrics

True friends stab you in the front

Why are you making it so hard to be friends with you? I tape the cracks in this relationship and pretend that I don’t see the mess they create, acting as if it’s whole again. But there is only so much fixing one can do before finding the thing completely useless and throwing it away, right? Is that what awaits us in the end?

Why do you have to pour acid into the drink you are offering me? Do I really evoke that need in you? Do we have to put this strain in our conversations? I force my mind into giving this situation a comical angle (think Coffee & Cigarettes by Tom Waits & Iggy Pop).

Why is this happening, out of competition, jealousy or pure lack of understanding? I was containing myself all day yesterday, but at the end, the emotions I stacked on top of each other reached the tipping point, and I responded to your bitter remarks with my own. It didn’t make me happy. Whenever negativity boils up, I close my eyes and think of the good things you’ve done, reminding myself that minor conflicts should not ruin the major trust we’ve built over the years.

Why don’t I just let this one go? When in doubt, I reach for that (hopelessly naïve but intentionally so) belief that people are inherently good at hearts, but the situations they face in life sometimes make them act, or more often simply appear, adversely. I know you’ve been going through a hard time lately – another reason I should have just let your remark slide by, but I didn’t manage, and there goes my darker side.

Why don’t I write to you? I read somewhere that the best rule of friendship is to keep your heart a little softer than your head. I reach for the keyboard but find that you beat me to it. You feel me, girl, and that’s another reason not to throw us out of the window.

* * *

The title of this blog entry is a quote by Oscar Wilde
Image credit: vassiliki

Abre los ojos

“If your knowledge were your wealth then it would be well earned,” I heard as I woke up this morning. It played in the background of my dream, and those last few minutes in between pressing the snooze button, I whispered along.

Erykah’s songs pull me in, and I keep falling into them, absorbing some new emotions along the way but never really hitting the ground… Just hanging there and thinking, how in the grand scheme of things I still have miles to fly to grasp at least a little something in this world.

It’s good to wake up believing you can change something for better. It’s harder to sustain that faith as you go through the day.

Image credit: vhm-alex


Friday night’s conversation felt like a bunch of needles in a chair. It caused major discomfort in certain places. “No. I like talking about this,” I kept stubbornly saying each time when offered to change the subject. I think questions that are easy to answer are strings of wasted words. It’s that timely uncomfortable query that can make a difference between safe inaction and daring to take a chance.

* * *

- Why do you care about people starving or getting killed thousands of miles away? What is it to you? Why don’t you just want to live your life and build your own happiness?
- Wow. Um. I don’t know. I never thought there has to be a reason. Maybe… Well… I guess… I think there are two worlds. One is carefree and comfortable, where you live for your own good. Another one involves the choice to open your eyes and see the evils of your time and find the strength within you to act upon them. And once you really see that other world and experience it at least once, there is no coming back to that comfortable yet meaningful nothingness. Because… I am not sure how else to word this. Wow, that is such a deep question. Nobody has ever asked me that.

- Have you ever taken care of anyone?
- My younger sister. My parents both worked full time so I looked after her when we were growing up. That’s about it…
- That doesn’t really count.
- I know.

- Would you be able to give something up to help someone? Would you be able to pass your own plate to someone who needs it more?
- I think so. I believe so. Not that I ever had to…

- Ok. How about this: Would you be able to stay in a place where people don’t like you? Racism exists everywhere, you know.
- I know. That’s a tough one. I guess I’d just have to work that much harder to deserve their trust and maybe get them to like me…

- You’ve never done anything like that before. How do you know that you can make it there? Why do you think that you have what it takes?
- I don’t. But I guess there’s one way to find out.

* * *

I needed this, my friend. I want to find out. I am choosing to turn the corner. Thanks, M.



Two months pass by and it's getting cold
I know I'm not lost I'm just alone
But I won't cry, I won't give up, I can't go back now
Waking up is knowing who you really are
Here in the shadows
I'm safe, I'm free
I've nowhere else to go
But I cannot stay where I don't belong

~ Amy

In a city of strangers

Met new friends this weekend. Watched the rain. Explored several new coffee shops, one of which turned out to be a really creepy place. Got lost numerous times although the planning of this town is really simple. Was scared by too much rain on the freeway and must have slowed down the rest of the traffic. Experienced local nightlife and had some stereotypes shattered. Walked in the rain and took lots of pictures. Left muddy footprints on the carpet in the hallway. Stuck a political poster to the car. Took it off as it was obscuring the side view. Thought about putting it back on. Experienced a very unlikely outcome of winning a couple of games of pool. Read a book about writing. Went on a hike and saw striking sceneries at sunset. Danced for the first time in a long time. Decided to try vegetarianism and had tofu, soy milk and an overpriced vegan cookie… followed by a steak later that day. Climbed the house to take pictures of the roof, not sure why. Had an informal tour of the local school’s campus. Wrote. Talked the night away. Chased the neighbors’ dog out of the kitchen. Saw helicopters and tanks. Inhaled the rain. Had breakfast at 4 a.m. while listening to some good R&B and some funky 80s tunes.

* * *
Feeling empty inside.
Missing “old” friends incredibly.
Missing that lifestyle.
Thinking of certain things that are better off left behind for good.
Trying to forget and move on.
Trying not to be too upset about still remembering.
Trying to figure out where I’m going.
Trying to find a way there.

Still listening to Chasing Pavements by Adele
Image credit: hungerartist

Yesterday's rain (watering down memories)

Pain makes man think. Thought makes man wise. Wisdom makes life endurable. ~ John Patrick

You've got to make a conscious choice every day to shed the old - whatever 'the old' means for you. ~ Sarah Ban Breathnach

The scent of bathing grass and dust disturbed by water hits my nostrils. I open the window wider and inhale deeper, savoring the relief brought by rain. I close my eyes and a subtle tune wakes my thinking.

…I've seen your flag on the marble arch,
But love is not a victory march,
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah…

I used to make a step ahead and two back. Why did you hold on to me for so long? When was it, the moment you won over the control that I thought was mine? Was it the morning you wrote to say I was the first thought of your day? Was it the afternoon you yelled about your feeling out loud, making the world hear, making me blush and finally believe you? Was it the sunset on that violet hill, the one I naively imagined to be ours, until a simple note on the wall told me the opposite? I chose to close my eyes and pretend, for the longest time, that I saw a bad dream. I ran away and cried that night, but when you found me red-eyed, I lied about the cause of my tears. I shielded myself from the obvious for too long, fearing the pain it would bring. I let it in slowly, one day at a time, as if giving my body a chance to build up defense against your poison, as if letting my mind come to terms with the bitterness of it. How symbolic, I thought, when they closed our hangout place. I knew it was time for me to leave, long before I had the guts to do so.

…Well, maybe there's a God above,
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you…
It's not a cry that you hear at night,
It's not somebody who's seen the light,
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah…

I have written a short story, and it’s the first one I have ever finished. Short of inspiration, you were the cause of it. See, inspiration is too good of a word to be in one sentence with you. I have been debating for the longest time between posting it and not, and it’s still in the "not" stage. I don’t think I am ready quite yet, because I still remember.

…And the holy dove was moving too,
And every breath we drew was hallelujah…

I make two steps ahead and one back now, or maybe only half back. This summer has been cleansing, just like that rain. It’s slowly washing away every thought of you, every idea of “us.” It’s been a long time and I think I am ready to feel again.

Please, let me go now.

Currently listening: Chasing Pavements by Adele

Triumph of the Heart

There were swamps, slums, gottas, brunks, love songs,
Hidden pleasure, ignored passion, secret worship,
Quiet movement and undisclosed self loving,
Now I know God has brought me here for something

I take a quick glance around the arena as a grumpy bookie elbows me into decision making. The Heart is more likable, but I read weakness in its gentle gestures and innocent smiles. The Mind’s sturdy image emits confidence, and although its gloomy dark robe gives me goose-flesh, there’s no time for a second thought. I make a safe bet. What a chicken, I tell myself.

My head says I lost my way
But my heart knows that my life is destined in anyway
A long road running towards stops where I pay
Pay, pay for what I have taken and is got what I deserving

A few lonely drops run down my spine when I hear the crowd cheering. I wake up from this self-imposed hypnosis to see the Heart on the floor, motionless. Gaudy colors blend with piercing whistles as I escape for the door, ready for all of it to fade away, stay behind, dissolve in the night breeze, disappear and be forgotten.

Needed to search myself to go back
Had no signs of hope before lost in the darkness
Not knowing what my fate makes of me
And oh ignoring the fellowship accompanying me

The clingy hand grabs my sleeve and pulls me back into the noise. It’s not over, the bookie grins. There’s another dose of beating up, slipping down and bleeding away. The winner takes on the Pride. I silently examine the Mind leaping in the corner, dark hood sliding down unnoticed, revealing the confused gaze and moisture on the weary forehead. I am not a big fan of the Pride. Struggling to silent my instincts this time, I bet on the one I believe in, not the one I think looks more promising. I know this attempt to do the right thing comes too late in the game, but I can only make so many mistakes before they start contaminating my soul.

What is the mind without the heart
What am I without my shadow
What is life without knowing that death comes
What is a song without a melody

I feel every drop of blood touch the floor. They burn tiny holes in my head, devouring my thoughts and turning them into blankness. I feel no strength. She can’t afford to lose this one, I hear the coach yell as he throws in the towel. I feel relieved enough to get up and run. Across the isle, up the stairs, onto the ring floor, out of breath and lost for words, I stop and look down, puzzled. I feel nothing. My silence offers little compassion to the Mind. Sorry, I whisper before dashing back through the crowd, past panicky stares and out of their range.

Tell me, won’t you tell me, what your mind is without your heart
Tell me, do you feel, do you feel happiness
When you don’t feel pain
Your heart, your heart, your heart…
Your soul, your soul, your soul…
Say we must destroy in order to rebuild,
In order to rebuild, don’t you know, don’t you know
Your heart, polarity must be for you and me, for you and me...

Somewhere in the back room, I drop to my knees in front of a lonely figure, shattered in its quiet calamity. I give tribute to it and a promise to keep my freedom out of fear’s reach. From this battle on, I choose to tend to the Heart.

Lyrics in this post: Mind vs. Heart by Nneka
Currently listening: Mind vs. Heart by Nneka
Image credit: speak2josie

Have you ever

"If my hands are fully occupied in holding on to something, I can neither give nor receive." - Dorothee Solle

I’ve been wondering through the woods today, and another circle around the grove got me confused enough to sit down and look up hopelessly. I could smell the thirst of pine and the doubt coming from my lack of direction. I blamed the sky for little guidance while I knew my meager navigation skills were to blame, and my loyal following of rare birds in lieu of trail signs, and my odd apathy toward the idea of safety.

How many haircuts does it take to get back on track to something higher, purer, more real?

* * *
Currently listening: Have You Ever by Brandi Carlile
Picture credit: Arcipello

Cloud chaser

I’ve been waiting for some water for such a long time here, I bet those sunflowers drying up in the backyard knew how I felt. Since the rain didn’t come get me, I’ll go get the rain.

...off to the Emerald City.
...can’t wait to get inspired again.

Picture credit: RedFraction

Letting your art roam free?

I am convinced more and more that words have a life of their own. They have alert minds, unique personalities and quite a rebellious nature, always plotting the most intricate ways of surprising their carriers.

The last poem in its final form (never really final through my lenses) contains only about 20 percent of the words or ideas with which I started. They become so independent once I let that first wave hit, that at certain points I feel little control over them. They develop – some to bloom and some to whither – all in their own ways, and I only add a stroke of a pen here and there to guide the lost sheep of the group; to direct them back when they wander too far off the edge of the paper. It’s as if they know what’s on my mind and they know where I’d like them to go, but they choose their distinctive paths toward that destination. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes they grow strong enough to change the destination itself, and I let them.

I have asked a couple of friends who paint about their creative process, and it seems amazingly similar. They start with a basic idea and then they let the art take its own course. I am yet to ask my friends who compose music. You know who you are!

Then again, maybe it is similar precisely because we are friends (or we are friends because we have similar spirits, whichever comes first, you get the point). Maybe other people do it differently. Do you normally know exactly what you are about to create?


I’m floating above what I left on the ground
Two shadows bent over a veil of rage
Deception is sweet, yet in it one is bound
To smile through the bars of a miniature cage
I followed the recipe found in your writing
The passion was simmered, the fury got steamed
The mixture of evils was wrongly exiting
An eye for an eye... Stop. Can I be redeemed?

On blogging

"Inspiration is wonderful when it happens, but the writer must develop an approach for the rest of the time... The wait is simply too long."

 ~ Leonard Bernstein

You might have noticed I rarely step out of my creative writing shoes and post in any other way. It comes from trying to be consistent with one style, or be true to this blog. But then again you might have noticed I was gone for quite some time, and that definitely overwrites “being true to this blog” argument. So I wanted to put the style on pause, long enough to apologize to those of you who read the blog. I’ve been traveling, changing jobs, moving and I’m preparing to move again, and most importantly, I’ve been trying to leave some emotional baggage behind. I’ve been succeeding on some days and failing disastrously on others.

I’ve also had difficulties putting all of the above on paper, no matter how hard I tried. I keep going though a growing pile of drafts and nothing seems good enough. So I figured I’d just get over my editorial self and post whatever I have. Maybe once I’m though this rough patch, the words will start coming easier. In fact, as I was polishing today’s (way inadequate! – yells that annoying little censor in my head) post, I was suddenly flooded with ideas and jotted a lot of things down, which made for a creatively satisfying day. Again, sorry for being off the radar and – since you are still reading this :) – thanks for sticking with me.

Special thanks goes to Monique for her "I’m Just Going To Delete My Blog and Not Tell Anyone" post. It totally brought me back to reality. Blogging reality, that is :) Many news posts coming soon!

Love, peace & hope from me to you.

♥ ~ Jules

These months

I open the windows
It’s getting cold in here
Everything’s drying up
And the windows stay open
I used the word I know nothing of
I wanted to save, but I gave
I gave it away
And now
These months
These months are so still
These months
These months are so still

What’s in my head now
Needn’t be seen
Remember I called you
To see how you were
You hadn’t changed
Remember I ran into you in the dark
You hadn’t changed
And now in the leaves that drape the ground
The unwelcoming of your door
There’s a light that sees, I
I don’t think I love you anymore
But these months
These months are so still
These months
These months are so still

And there are times that I think about you
That I think surely still I must love you
Still know you…

~ Asha Ali

* * *

These months I am trying to snooze through an absolute inevitability of every new day without you. These thoughts are scattered across the room, surrounding me as I beg them for only some space, only some freedom to be. I keep organizing physical objects as if their awkward untouchable order will let me gather these emotions into some neat little pile of understanding, while they keep sliding and turning back into the shifting sand of which they were built.

These dreams march into my bed from the times and places where maybe one day I belonged, although it seems to have been a couple of lifetimes ago. These memories carry pain on their shoulders, the kind that fills my mind and leaves my heart empty. It’s only when thinking of you joins in however – or the absence of you right here in this room, where your shadow is needed by this lamp, and your ear by the song I am whispering, and your cheek by the brush of my arm, that accidental one, you know, in the midst of a dream – that I break down, and see the world spin, and lose myself in the dark, and never want to believe in light again. I lack you so much today, I get covered with cold and I drown in the feeling so overwhelming it sucks life out of me. It puts my strength into a shabby bag, the crude one with no holes in it, letting no sun reach my thinking.

I miss you today to the point where I’m determined to never miss you again. I am so tired of loving you, so, so tired. I wish you didn’t infiltrate me all the way to my blood, and dissolve in me, and uplift me to such heights only to drain me dry and leave me empty and throw me down so low, again and again.

I’d live for you, if only you were worth living for.

Hide and seek

I make the last weak attempt to get a flame out of these wet matches before my shaking hand lets go, the tiny carton getting a stronger grip of two thin pieces of wood in a cold puddle. My attempts to pick up the pace meet resistance of the sharp needles of water cutting into my cheeks and equally painfully protruding my mind.

I am sick of this crying-in-the-rain shit. I am sick of this determined turning-the-other-cheek situation. I am sick of friendship that loses its value faster than the houses on the market. I am tired of being kind for the sake of righteousness, helping for the sake of the higher goal, trying to step over the dirt thrown on my path and looking away for the sake of staying pure inside.

I woke up today and felt like seeing you. I threw on some clothes and ran a quick conversation scenario in my head. It didn’t glue itself together. Nothing with you and me in one sentence makes sense any more. Why would I even bother to show up, to show that I care? I changed back and got to work, which didn’t glue itself together either. I have to get though this on my own. I can not let myself slip, even occasionally.

Can you really befriend a purpose if the carrier of it contaminates its sanctity with his repeated (frequent enough for them to perhaps become intentional) mistakes? I am walking away, my friend, to a place where you, pretending to close your eyes and ears on anything under the top layer of my world, won’t matter. Once again, I am choosing to stay me.

6 a.m.

I long for other you
Unable to release
This grip
Of fingers turning blue
I act at ease
Then hide to weep
Under my skin
From hand of fate
Its painful scratch
For I have seen
Your falling state
Please stay and catch
Day's quiet cue
Please try to be
For sunrise longer
The other you
Hold on to me
Till I grow stronger
And leave behind
This place
Its dust
My lover’s mind
His fading grace
His lust

Your face
My past


I breath out the eluded spheres
Crystal balls of the dark remain
I’m surrounded by painless spears
Not a feeling in flesh, no pain
Running low under thickest shadows
Tribes enclose me in trance of motion
I race back through the naked meadows
Leave the firm for the vast of ocean
Rushed attempts to gulp in liberation
Suck me in with the vessel’s rubble
Cleansing dark under light temptation
Limbs are begging for right to struggle
Shiny mermaids forge absolution
Freeness vowed by comforting deep
I escape this reverse evolution
Back to shore with no face to weep...

Fire, fire

I see your sky is coming down
with the same color as mine
Oh, it seems to me
you and I are not safe to combine...

So you sit right in front of me, the pupils of your eyes bright, the flashes of your smile sincere, our thought exchange meaningful... once again. I can’t help but wonder, what should I do with you? Should I put you in my pocket and carry around like a notebook full of quotes from a read I want to remember even as I put it away? Can I keep the book itself or will the life library charge me life if I don’t return it 30 days from now? Should I close the book as soon as the words I want to hear become a distraction from what life says should be heard and done or can I flip the pages for just a few more bittersweet hours till the candle buns out and the dawn strikes my eyelids with the sharp awareness of reality that’s so unreal? Can the book be recycled after pages were torn out, torn apart, thrown in the trash and taken out just to be used as tablecloth in the attic of secrets, to cover things that would otherwise embarrass the collective perception with their nakedness?

Or maybe, just maybe, I can put it in the drawer by my bedside and make it my Bible, and take it out each day for a stroll on a path where flowers are grown not of seeds but of minds, and the rain is soaked not by skin but by spirit itself. Maybe I can keep it in the inner pocket of my jacket as I take a bus ride on my escape route from life, seeking the inexistent yet place where the hearts above guide the stalled ideas below, leading them away from being as told to be by life, reminding them to listen instead to the whisper of the single shivering leave on the tree that grew upside down in the most real of afternoon dreams.

Even though this chapter of us may be the shortest one yet, all that matters is how much meaning we are willing to put in each word, how loud we are eager to yell over the gray habitual buzz to help the world hear our voices, and how high we’ll strive to fly to touch the rainbows... even if only once.

...As thousand days roll by
Come for it
Come for it again.

Lyrics used in the post: Fire Fire by Asha Ali


Cold, cold water
Surrounds me
Lord, are you here now
Lord, are you here now
Or am I lost?

* * *

Time passes and you forget what you felt and how you felt it. Your mind blurs the edges of kind thoughts, takes the warmth out of feelings and mutes the innocence. It replaces them with cold sarcasm and piercing looks that say, "I don’t care." They are lies reflected in the sparkling mirrors of nightclubs, hurting your eyes more than those they don’t look at.

Sometimes you have to take yourself to the point of a light shock to realize there’s electricity in the waters. Sometimes you have to cross the line to see where the line is.

Neither following the rules of the game, nor refusing to do so after you got yourself into the very middle of it, nor coming up with your own rules that were already invented in the form of Russian roulette... none of that seems treacherous at first. You draw the line between pretentious and real. You know better than to let them get in each other’s way. As long as you keep your core strong, this too shall pass, right?

Or will it?

Can it stay and remind you there was time with nothing in it? Will having all of it on the surface and nothing inside eventually come back to haunt you? Will you even care by the time you are done having your fun, failing to recognize which parts of it were unreal?

It’s when the hollowness of the air around you gets into your lungs and stays for a moment, that you choke, and realize how dangerous it is to let it come this close to your heart. That is the time to stop snoozing through minutes and days and get back to the essence of things. That is the place to stop, clean the mess in your head, pack up some thoughts you didn’t need in the first place and put a box labeled ‘past’ into a remote storage, where you can’t reach it, were you won’t be able to use it, ever again, to validate your actions… to justify not being you.

Lyrics in this post: Cold Water by Damien Rice
Currently listening: to a friend talk :)

A wolf

I hold a wolf by the ears. Nor do I know by what means I can get rid of him, nor how I am to keep him. ~Terence

I wanted this wolf so bad but there was one thing I wanted more. I needed to stay free. I could not submit.

I wanted to be around and learn from him. I wanted to know him but even more so, I wanted to know myself. He sparked the little whys and hows that set my mind on fire. Why live? How love? Who are we? Whom do we become as we go? Whom do we take with us and what do we leave behind? How do we improve the chosen path and how does the path improve us?

Did you ever know it, this freedom? Did you ever feel a single raindrop fall on your goosebumped arm and dive in, through your skin, to the very essence of you? Did you ever get your wings soaked yet chose to keep flying till you couldn’t breath? Did you ever have your heel sink in the softness of the morning just to keep jumping and sinking deeper and playing with your toes in the mud? Did you ever walk on petals and realized that they are but blood on the pieces of broken glass, and closed your eyes and turned them into petals again, in your head, and kept walking, and bleeding? Did you ever want to be so absolutely free as to turn down passion and eagerness and immense desire, only to remain you?

I get nauseous when thinking of settling down-getting into a certain role-staying true to that role type of scenario. The mind put to sleep gets comfortable and comfortable mind is a dangerous one. It goes in, closes the door and stays put, hanging the gun over its porch, ready to scare off intruders.

I want my mind broken into, again and again. I want to keep its door open and let it wonder as far as it will go. I want to fly and crash and fall into pieces and get myself together again as many times as it takes to learn to fly higher and watch closer and truly see the tiny creases in the palms of the world. I know it’s about time to let my wolf go for good, but it is so difficult to let go of his mind. I will, eventually, because I know that this journey through the rain, make-believe scent of tulips, broken glass, muddy terrains and some crazy tunes in my head, toward freeness… is the journey I must take alone. Like a wolf.
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