contentment, embracing yourself, life, love, moments, thoughts, words

A Place of My Own


There is this place I like to go to, it is my safe place; this place belongs only to me, it is where my heart beats; no stress, no pain, no words, no refrain; I can laugh, I can cry, I can think, I can sleep; this place it is mine and where my emotions keep. There is place I like to go, it is where I heal; this place belongs only to me, it is where I live; its warm, its loving, its honest, its giving; I inhale, I exhale, I love, I feel; this place it really is mine and where I shall forever breathe.


embracing yourself, life, love, romance, words

Simply Telling You


And if I could tell you, through my unreasonable shyness and my antiquated values, just what I may have always wanted to say. And if I could show you, putting aside my fears and the self preservation, what physically translates into the words I struggle to find. You would know. That sometimes my heart does this thing, a rhythmic beating against its normal way. A sensation I dismiss only to find embraced. A gleeful smile across my everyday face. A fascination for every mundane exchange. All this and some, making me scarily happy. They say to find your soul mate, you need to discover your own soul first. The beauty of this is that in many ways you’ve helped me discover the depths of my own soul while being the soul mate I never believed existed. This is, once in acceptance, the greatest thing. This I believe is beyond just you and I. Because if I were to tell you, through the uncertainties and probabilities, just what it is this does to me. That sometimes my heart does this thing, a rhythmic beating against its normal way, a systemic shifting transforming me. Where it begins and where it shall end, we will never know. But whatever it is I will always be; grateful and indebted to have gotten the chance. To feel myself slowly becoming the person I’ve always wanted to be. But still if I could tell you, despite my timidness and trepidation, just what you’ve come to mean to me. You would know. That I love you, with no doubt in my silly mind.

contentment, existential crisis, lessons, life, ramblings, stories, twenty-somethings, Uncategorized, woman, words, writing

Broken Poetry


The severe cracks no one sees;
afraid to let him run his hands along the fractures of my being;
they say to be human is to be broken;
but to be broken is to be unwanted;
still the shrouded torments break with it;
my current will but also my current struggles;
seeking solace in the strings of companionship;
and the frayed ends of love;
to be human is to be broken;
but to be broken is to be life’s poetry.

Which Woman

Image by Anka Zhuravleva

Image by Anka Zhuravleva

There is something in the way that she moves. There is always something in the way she half smiles before every single sentence. Or when you see her swallow before speaking, like you make her nervous. Or the sparkle in her eye, and the way they squint before she uses her words. Sometimes when you feel like life has been hard, or you wallow in the guilt of your sins, you simply find comfort in the strands of her hair. The fragrance of the so many lives sheltered under her age old ways providing a distinguished sense of support and protection. They say shes been around the block, but her effect on you isn’t in any way diminished. With every single life she decides to be with, her beauty intensified by that additional length. No amount of visitors coming in and going out leaving any kind of taint on her unprecedented purity. She feels like shes built for you. Her arms shaped to fit your form, to embrace you close to her heart and join in her breath. Every inhalation and exhalation your vigor, your strength, your vice but also your elixir. You forget her sometimes when you get caught up in yourself. But then on a down trodden day, a battled you will remember the shape of her almond eyes and her lips. The way she will always anticipate your return and remembrance. Unselfish in her ways of accepting you in any of your brief and inconsistent visits and remembrance. The porcelain skin across the nape of her neck, your portal to disappear into a space so much greater than yourself. There is something in her unselfish ways. She loves you always just as much as you selfishly love her in your desperation. 


So you care?

Throwing pebbles by the roadside, dragging his worn little leather shoes in the dust, the child, no more than 3 stands there alone, playing in the dirt and grime. There is a prominent cut above his right eyebrow, like he’s been hit, so you care. You care enough that you put down your things by the side of the rain drain and sit down to keep him company. He is the neighborhood’s little boy. Not entirely sure who his family is but still you care, care enough to while away a few hours with him. Showing him how to play five stones and hop-scotch. His infectious laughter makes you forget that he’s hurt. That he could be in a violent situation. His beaming soul blinding you, fuzzing out the pain and the worries. Almost making you believe in a bright and sterling future. You walk together to the corner shop for juice boxes and potato chips. He tells you about his grandmother who makes the yummiest meals. You think maybe he at least is being fed and clothed. But still you care, care that there is that precarious cut above his right eyebrow and conspicuous bruised on his upper arms. He asks you to race him back to where you were playing before, and you do, despite your uncomfortable formal work shoes. You heave and sigh from being so out of shape and he laughs his mirthful laughter. “But you’re not fat,” he says, amazed at your inability to run. You laugh and you care that you are making him laugh. You think maybe you could take care of him.
Lights dim down, and the darkness of nightfall threatens to end your time with this beautiful soul. He realizes it as he shudders closer into your lap when you sit down to tell him the one local folktale you remember in full. You care so you kiss him right above the little cut above his right eyebrow. Then comes his mothers call. A little angry, a little scary. You wonder if its because you think he is being abused or if she really did sound that furious.
He jumps out of your lap. Looks at you and smiles. You hold his little hands in yours and tell him to take care. Another bellow and hes gone. You watch his tiny figure disappearing into the subtle darkness. You stand there and keep watching because you care. Helpless but you care. Unsure but you care. So I care, but cannot do anything about it. So what if I really care?


Proliferating this love


A woman, two men. Each one so diverse in existence. In personalities, in manifestations, in experiences, in kindness, in hopes and dreams. But, each one in love. One man providing the security, guidance and encouragement she seeks. The other a fireball of passion and palpable strength that heroes are made of. Each one so diverse in their being. She chooses not for the fear of being left again in that dark corner, just one woman. One woman. Solitary and unappreciated. Fearful and lonely. Analysis paralysis. Each tiny step each day with the first man only surpassed and succeeded by the other. Like they knew, like they were in competition with each other. But of course that was not true. Neither knew the existence of the other. Each one thinking every additional swell of emotion marked the proliferation of their love. She is in her selfishness and fear for the most part, aware of the beautiful disaster she was creating. Just like the strokes of her brushes, one stroke, two stroke, each one adding to the chaos on the canvas. Each one so diverse in their existence. Each one brilliant on their own, but each one so aggrandized by the other. She knew that. There was always some joy in knowing herself as the cause of such a beautiful web. One woman, two men. Each one so diverse in existence, each one so complemented by the flaws each other. Each one non-existent were it not for the other.


Trying to get into poetry, and this one seems like a good place to start

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night
   Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
   Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
   Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
   Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
   Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
   How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
   So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
   But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
   A heart whose love is innocent!