I could kiss you in every language,
Love you in every way,
Tell the world that you’re the only one who matters.
Fill my mouth with your name,
But,
4 years and no future,
That’s a summary of us.
If only this reality was inaccurate; instead,
It’s not even adequate.
I aspire to inspire before I expire,
To reach the stars fueled by desire,
To tell the truth even if it’s easier to be a liar,
They’re selling easier options, but I’m not their buyer,
To fail honorably rather than being labelled a quitter; not a trier.
The depths of the ocean could not douse my passion’s fire,
I strive, I seek, I soar no matter how dire
the situation, for I cannot be broken, I am not a crier.
I shall rise from the depths and go higher. Higher, HIGHER. 
I tasted the rain today and remembered your kiss during the first rain of last summer.
I watched the clouds pass, tracing your skin across their depths.
I watched the flame from a lighter burn a cigarette and remembered how we burned in the fire of our passion.
I left a crossword spot blank because the answer was love and our love could never fit into a puzzle; it had no rationale, no explanation, no solution.
I wanted to write this for you, but the words told me ‘no, no, no, do not write us, we do not want to be written just yet.’ So I sojourned patiently, as I did when I waited for you.
And then I saw leaves fall as the season changed. I saw them crumple and I saw people walk past them, ignorant and uncaring. Just as we walked past the world we had so delicately nourished only a season ago.
They say love can mend everything. They forgot to say love can destroy anything.
“And again he thought the thought we already know: Human life occurs only once, and the reason we cannot determine which of our decisions are good and which are bad is that in a given situation we can only make one decision; we are not granted a second, third, or fourth life in which to compare various decisions. History is similar to individual lives in this respect. There is only one history of the Czechs. One day it will come to an end, as surely as Tomas’ life, never to be repeated again”
- The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera
I’m not one to write in the first person because being introspective on a public forum is an uncomfortable endeavor for me. There’s something very explicit about writing as yourself on a page that always unnerves me and I’ve heard many different theories about why this is the case. First there’s the “those who are generally reserved and repressive in reality translate that personality into their work” argument. Then there’s the “people have better things to do (and read) then my thoughts and emotions” counter-argument that I am the biggest advocate of. Finally there’s the “it doesn’t matter” theory because “there’s always a better way to tell your story then using the pronoun ‘I’.” However in less then two months I will be turning 21 which, according to the human condition, dictates for some introspection which I lay out here just in case anyone else is looking for some insight or some perspective like me.
I live in Canada which has a life expectancy of 80 years, which means that I’m a quarter of a way through life. By the sub-continent’s standards (65 years) a third of my life is over and done with. My problem with this realisation is not that I haven’t done anything with life (to those who do think that i say the whole point of the first third/quarter of life is to revel in the learning, growing, confusion and uncertainty. Profoundness and achievement come in time) or how the wish-list of things that could have been different. Neither am I worried about growing up because it’s not something I can stop from happening.
My problem is with the “what-if’s” that are knocking on my door. What-if i don’t get get accepted into my profession of choice? What if I haven’t done enough? What if I had done that instead? What if I screw up? You could argue these are products of the harsh, competitive, economically difficult, and just plain hard climate our generation is a part of, or that I’m just being insecure. Yet the mere reality is that its just that time for me to be worrying about these things now. I think its natural because as a kid who has always dreamed much bigger then she should, some of them are at hand’s reach. But what Disney forgot to tell us is that even when you’re so close, there are all these barriers and locked doors and thorny paths you still have to cross.
I know that it’s doable. Rather I believe that its doable and I hope that this idealism and optimism will get me (and all of you) there. But still I second guess. Milan Kundera says its a part of the reality of being human because we only have one chance at life so we wonder and worry and let the “what-ifs” in our homes. Its something to do with legacies. Wanting to say “I did that” or “I’ve done something with my life” that makes us wonder about this. Something about history – making it, writing it, being part of it – that forces us to question our decisions and motives.
I think that when you reach this stage you need to instill in yourself a certain confidence to self-ascertain that you’re doing everything right, or everything you possible can, or everything the best that you can. You have to have a lot of faith, even more perseverance a little strength and some love too. I don’t have all of that yet, but I’m trying which is the first step in some ways. The thing about legacies and histories are that even though they belong to you they cannot be created alone; there are some people in the world who have so much trust in you and all you do and will do, that sometimes its doesn’t make sense how and why their confidence never wavers. Maybe they see something you don’t so you trust them and hope and pray and believe with them.
I don’t think the next 20 years will always be easy, but they’ll be fun I hope. My dad says that “life is about how you react,” so to whatever life’s sending my way I say to it this: “I have worked hard, I have dreamed big, and I have made mistakes. And so I will continue to work hard and dream big and make mistakes.” Everything’s uncertain now, but like that moment before the curtain goes up in a theater, it’s only the beginning, right?
One day I’ll find the right words,
And it will be simple.
I’ll put them in a specific order,
And it will be simple.
I’ll give them limited but precise grammar,
And it will be simple.
I’ll create a noteworthy quote,
And it will be simple.
I’ll be a creator, a destroyer
And it will be simple.
Or…
One day I’ll tell the truth,
And it will be difficult.
The enigma of a foggy night lies in its ability to make us forget that there exists such a thing as space or surroundings. In a never-ending bubble of mist, all senses of direction, destination and clarity die. Instead, what prevails is a perpetual fear of unknowingly stepping on the wrong path, amplifying that feeling of being lost even more. Blindfolded from the reality, our greatest weapon becomes our mind. Intuition becomes our guide deciding our every step. Imagination becomes our map in our attempts to reach a destination. Together, they force us to find our way even in the dark.
In such situations intuition and imagination seem to be gifts without which we would remain evermore lost. Yet in the unknown, the same two powers of the mind can become curses, bringing forth a tirade of doubts and uncertainties that make taking a step forward seemingly more frightening. Intuition could be the voice bringing forward the what-ifs and where-nows that paralyze our movements completely. Imagination could become an echo of images from the deepest and darkest corners of our memories of things seen, heard, experienced gone painstakingly wrong. Like the fog, the mind becomes a mystery – unknowable, unpredictable and uncontrollable even to ourselves.
So what do you do?
Do you believe that within your mind lies the powers to transport you out of the mist towards a clear space? Do you fight all the fears and doubts your intuition throws your way to choose which direction to move your feet towards? Do you trust that your imagination will stay true to the reality of the surroundings you are destitute from seeing?
Or do you just shut your eyes and take a step forward?
Life is like a foggy night. Blindfolded you enter with fear in your heart; clearly you step out, transformed.
As the sunsets over many a place,
Smiles remain on many a face.
The day may darken,
With your loved ones near
Don’t let the night be silent,
Sing along with the angels.
Color in the Dark
And enjoy the Holiday cheer.
“… you just get better with time,
want you to write a book about us”
It was closing in on 3 am in the morning but the smile on his face could have replaced the impending sunrise. A few clicks later his word document was open and for an hour his fingers danced, waltzing memories across the keyboard, tap dancing in punctuation and a bit of free-styling emotion.
At the end of the hour, his heart beating like the rhythm of tribal drums, he inserted a full stop and reclined in his seat. Having read over what he had written, his recent emotional high seemed like a distant memory. The pages he had written were not part of a story, they were not an epic tale consisting of a myriad of memories, they were simply an enduring love letter.
It seemed as if he was under the illusion that he could never truly lose someone if he wrote about them enough. However, by inking her into eternity, he was simply making love to her with prose and in doing so, his writing in those pages showed him how much he had lost.
He took his glasses off and laid them over the keyboard, a sign of resignation. Remembering what she said, he shut his eyes and drifted away.
You never know the outcome.
I want the world to know… to know
Our story.
Christmas in the desert of grief,
Fruitless, baron but thankfully brief.
Seems like I was inserted within quotations marks
In a story full of exclamations and artificial parks.
Metallic buildings hiding badly constructed personalities
Price tags and brand labels dressing up naked and scarred realities.
I’ve been told lies by prettier places,
with towers longer than a prisoner’s last night on death row.
I’ve seen many prettier faces,
But none like yours, with your perpetually electric glow.
You there, you’re a dirty car
Making your way to that glittery bar
With those wheels, you won’t ever need
Catastrophes, what attracted you here will be the reason for your discontent
The place you thought you’d love, you will come to resent.
You’ll get cheated on like some high school test,
To keep you ignorant, you’ll be worked without any prospect of rest.
But the weather is good and you’ll continue to smile,
You’ll go to the beach and sip your designer coffee for a while.
Enjoy your Christmas in this desert of grief,
You’ll be gone soon.
Staring out over an overcast yet magnificent vista, I wished for a miracle that would freeze time and allow me to remain transfixed. My mind was full of appreciation for the beauty ahead of me, both natural and man made. However, wishes weren’t sufficient enough floats and the ticking clock drowned me, submerging me in the pool of reality. The doubts and uncertainties came flooding back, wave after unrelenting wave.
Perhaps, you were just my el nino; wild win and rain too big to handle but too powerful to escape. My desire to find solace with you, within you was setting me on fire because you belonged elsewhere. You were just a passing experience, so beautiful that the destruction you left in your wake was mistakenly assumed by your victims to be self inflicted.
To lavish you with gifts and to enjoy you was to bankrupt one of their long-term happiness. But then, maybe it would be wise to simply embrace relational uncertainty. It’s called romance.
…Even if it’s not for me to indulge in.
