Sometimes I wonder if it’s better to imagine things than to actually live them. Since your imagination can run wild and conjure up things that your life can’t. I guess I didn’t mean for that to sound so dark, but I’m truly curious, you know?
It is in the last falling drop of rain that I remember the reasons between transitions. The last few molecules are the ones that mix between the coolness of the water and the warmth of the sun finally starting to peek through the clouds. It is those dissipating pieces of fluff that connect you to the world above and that one below all within the layers of the atmosphere—so think…which route will you take?
Many of these moments are combined with tantalizing thoughts of what is and what has been, thoughts of what will be quietly hidden away in the breaths that I take. I find myself waiting for a lightning strike to shake me into action. I find myself seeking out fast-moving clouds in a late morning sky where all that you see is gray and movement even though you know the sun should have been visible by now. It is I who waits like the hydrated ground while the raindrops falling from the leaves gently pummel my surface like a persistent knock at my door—the truth is waiting to get in.
Today I smiled at the thought of deserts consuming entire cities.
It’s not up to you to fix what you did not break. It’s not up to you to chase what does not want to be followed nor to lose your peace for those with no peace in their hearts.
What you’re meant to do is to live well and freely without shackles imposed on you by others. You are meant to cut the threads connecting their words to your head so that you may think truly without their hidden agendas influencing your actions.
You don’t deserve a half-baked innocence.
From where enters your strength, your will to live? It reminded of how battered and bruised I have been. A memory of black clouds coming down onto me haunts my head and I had hoped that I had healed that trauma, but they asked me: where does that strength come from? There were no good answers to that question. Perhaps it was this ancestral DNA or my mother’s mitochondrial DNA that let me live though the struggle. How ungrateful I must seem, to have that survivor’s will and to hate the act of having to survive. She must look at me with disdain or maybe with pity at knowing that her scars are inscribed into my genetic makeup too.
Why have you stayed? I am asked this question, not in so many words. Sadly, no responses escape because I hold the gates tightly shut for fear of being seen as the fool. Who could have thought that this would be the woman striving to bear the fruits of my labor—so hindered by a simple soul?
It’s so sad to be so intelligent yet to not know when to pull back. So disappointing to keep it so still—in many ways, you wish things would change—yet all remains like bones preserved at a dig site. Who would have thought it would be this fucked up to the point where it doesn’t mean anything (what do you represent?) or make any sense (how did this happen?) because it all means too much. I’m puzzled when I look in the mirror and see these brown eyes staring back blankly, but they are oceans of hurt. These eyes are like empty cups that nothing can fill or will dare to try—bottomless like the space between planets. She asked who sees what I write, I told her that I would, and she must pity me. She must think, look at that poor woman who hasn’t learned how to swallow sorrow the way we all have. She doesn’t know that sorrow ebbs out from a mouth that has said all she could only to have it fall on deaf ears. He wants to process, but he doesn’t understand that process is all that I do and so my thoughts change quickly, but I said I wasn’t fickle. Perhaps I lie because that’s what I want to be, intransient. I feel like this world made me to flow with suffocating feelings and with impermanence so I could never believe in a god that would go so deeply against my wishes, who further guides me to dig my grave. Desamparada is the word that captivates the feeling inside my chest, and I wish I could scream it out of my body but if she screams in the middle of the woods and there’s no one left to hear her, did she ever really scream?
I’ve got 15 questions.
14 Ways to tell a lie with 13 minutes left to go in which I wait 12 hours to receive a response.
Where have you been and where are you going? This is because you’re certainly not here with me.
It feels as if 10 years of friendship are a child’s story, full of hope and naivety.
Why haven’t you messaged or called yet?
There are 9 truths that you keep behind your lips with 8 tales and 7 countries but none revolve around me.
When will you come back so that you can see me? I’ll miss you for 6 months in which you’ll be unattainable. There will be six months and much over 5 times in which I’ll remind you that I still love you.
Do you still love me too, my old friend?
In 4 fingers of my hand I can count the hours left to which I’ll have more dreams about you.
There are 3 words that will convey my sentiments towards you. There will always be 2 variations of those three words because they run on the same spectrum.
Did you know that the opposite was indifference?
There is 1 fly that sends wails into my ear like the long dead hopes that I housed with your name.
Did you know that I miss you dearly?
Have you been thinking of me?
Are you doing well, are you safe?
Does your heart still hurt?
Do you know that I feel exhausted?
Did you forget that I have little patience?
Can you feel my spirit trying to touch yours at night?
Are you as alone in bed as am I?
Will you be back soon?
Did you read these fifteen questions?