Sometimes I wonder about your true self.
I see many fragments of you in different situations, and my obstinate mind wants to believe that these incoherent pieces were once a whole. However, no matter how hard I read into your attitude, there are too many pronouns whose reference is missing. Verbs with no subject. Lines broken at unexpected points. Question marks sprayed all over the crumpled paper.
I refuse to believe that these layers of dissociated narratives can't be threaded into the warmest of quilts. There has to be a stitch strong enough to build you out of these disparate scraps. Or perhaps your pages were never meant to be bound in the first place, who knows.
I find you, not in the memory of your face, but in the recollection of every single moment you touched.
I find you in not having to rush to close the door.
I find you in the murmur of your sleeping breath.
I find you in the lavender flowers that remain uncut, expecting a visit from you.
I find you in the fresh grass under my feet, where you enjoyed lying during the sweltering summer days.
I find you in the uneven sound of your paws on the ground.
I find you when I walk to the end of the backyard, expecting to see you strutting back to your house triumphantly with some fruit as a prize.
I find you in the sunshine you loved, in your firm decision not to follow any of my commands, in the wetne...
Cool down, chill.
I want no problems, no trouble. I want no attachments.
I have suffered because of ties, of love, of exposing myself to others.
I will never love anybody else. I'm old. I'm surviving this way.
You love me. You knew I wouldn't love you back. Chill.
So you have loved me since we met? Ah, but you didn't have dinner with me the 7/8 times I invited you, when I was single, between the girlfriends I had. I believed in love back then. Too bad you didn't want to go out with me back then. You couldn't? Ah, bad luck. It doesn't matter, what matters is now. So chill. Don't get sad.
So you miss me. Yes I know you do. I need time to focus on myself though. On my trip. I will write ...
I was the one behind that request.
I thought that the picture would spark a chain reaction of thoughts in whose end we would meet.
The cherry blossom. The cherry tree.
The photos of the cherry tree I sent you once, as a floral excuse I made up to share a few words with you.
The cherries I secretely gifted you, as sweet as the budding feelings that were growing inadvertently beneath our friendship.
I remember you had a cherry tree, you said some time ago. I thought you would remember today, as well. But remembering has an expiry date, forgetting is forever.
I was the one behind that request, the one whose cherries remain perpetually ripe, awaiting your recollection in the fields of oblivion.
" I feel lonely and confused
At the same time
Analysts won't understand
I don't know what to say anymore
I don't know what else to do
All the world is crazy
And I, not being able to see you.
But if I insist, I know I will get.
But if I insist, I know I will get."
"Close to the Revolution" (Cerca de la revolución) By CHARLY GARCÍA (SINGER AND SONGWRITER)
A whole person I am.
The smirk and the wet cheeks.
The hurting and the elation.
The firmness and the insecurity.
The truth and the hidden.
The high heels and the bare feet.
The nude skin and the layers.
The open hand.
Let it rain words.
A summer storm. A downpour.
Let each syllable have its own weight,
its own cadence,
its own gravity.
Don't try to corset mother Nature,
as you are a human, and words are the only asset that makes you unique.
Let there be a deluge of thoughts in the shape of letters of all sizes. Listen to each verb hitting your tin roof deliberately, each noun aiming at the window, each adjective splashing its grand finale on the grass.
Flood your journal with rainbow ink.
Let it rain the words retained by the dam of society, and go back to square one.
One: you don't make me happy. I feel happy when you are near. Joyous. On cloud nine. But it is my duty to take care of my feelings.
Two: Our love adopts different shapes. I won't expect you to do the things I do for you. You have your own ways of expressing your thoughts and feelings.
Three: I'm no saviour/fixer/repairwoman. I'm here to build myself, not to build you. You aren't my architect either.
Four: You don' t complete me. I have no missing piece. We are no jigsaws. We grow from within, like full wild flowers evolve form a minuscule seed.
Five: I won't compare myself or you to other people. Our backgrounds are as different as day and night, so are many of our interests. And yet,...
Let's walk on the clouds, you said.
You had dragged me from routine,
From pain, from indifference.
The only clouds around were
Perpetually on my eyes
Ingrained in my every word.
Let's walk on the clouds, you said.
Your smile contrasted with the grey in my look,
Your voice painted rainbows as your words flowed calmly, but with no pause.
Let's walk on the clouds, you said,
And hand in had we were breeze, and peace, and might, and light.
How do i know?
How do I know that the bridges I leave behind will still be there when I look back from your side?
How do I know your side will not surrender to the will of our southern winds and alter its features entirely, as the dunes wantonly modify the beach every season?
How do I know that the beach we keep in our hand knit dreams will be the same beach we see once we arrive, the idyllic sun and sea we strive for each day?
How do I know you are not the sea and will tide away?
It was, and she was
Certainly aware that
In the forking paths
Laid before her
A chance hid
In the secret forest.
I once read that Samuel Beckett wrote 'Waiting for Godot' in French because it forced him to be more attentive to the lexicon and grammatical structures he employed in his masterpiece.
Some time ago I sent a friend of mine (who can speak English and who is also a colleague) a poem I wrote for them.
I had encased my chaotic thoughts in the finest glittery English words, knit as delicately as grandma would knit a lace shawl or a baby sweater.
I had checked once and twice that my poem felt smooth to the touch, that there were no yarn ends left loose, and that I hadn't forgotten a pin somewhere as I struggled against the needles to craft the gift.
When I finally presented my work to my frien...
A beginning and an ending.
An A and a Z.
An Alpha and an Omega.
The sparks in your eyes and my dreams.
The Big Bang and the Big Crush.
A welcoming hand and your indifference
The cover and the back
Your introduction and my epilogue
The ingredients and the banquet
The first and the last
Not the everything.
We created a world, you and I.
We invented a language and its syntax, its lights and its shadows, its satellites and its stars.
We created a world with our hands as we explored the boundaries of our past experiences, tinged with the complexity of our realities.
We created a world as we made sense of our feelings, of a love that made a sudden, unexpected entrance and has grown stronger ever since.
We created a world, you and I
I walk down these corridors and the place is empty. The sombre rooms, once brimming with joyful exchanges, are now devoid of meaning.
I wonder where all those spirits have gone. I wonder why they decided to abandon what had been built with so much effort.
I walk down these corridors and their words hang from walls neatly arranged by colours and moods, an assortment of feelings stranded deep where light doesn't reach.
Every now and then one of us comes back. After exploring the dusty kitchens, the silent living rooms, the dry gardens, this lone visitor sets off treading over past memories, wondering where all these spirits have gone and why they left their words behind.
Sunsets like you are meant to be free.
When your silky pastel shades pave the way for the sun to seek refuge at night, you tinge life with magic in the pinkest pink of cherry blossom and orchids.
Who am I to lay claim to your iridiscent smile or your gleaming eyes that spring out of the nothingness that surrounds us?
All I can do is treasure each transient ray of joy you mysteriously choose to gift to this project of being, and not wonder when, or why, or even how. All I can do is let myself bathe in your aureate light as you beam in every possible way.
When you focus on who you are
And what you have achieved,
Life seems easier.
The attentive ears
You used to borrow
Were for you
To grow from within
And not a mere
When I kiss your lips, I forget everything around and in this world that dissolves once our eyes turn irrelevant.
In your arms, the irrational becomes strictly logical, and the gaps left by incomplete stories become part of something meaningful, something greater than ourselves, structured from the prologue to the epilogue by unconditional love.
Earthling (me Charu)
My goal for this year is to strike a balance between work and the rest of my life, between myself and others, between duties and fun.
Believe me, it's a daunting challenge for someone like me.
Last day of holidays. Tomorrow I go back to work, where we are supposed to prepare our annual planning.
My plans to survive post holidays interrogation and fake compassion comments:
When the dramatis personae page of your life gets crowded with secondary characters mushrooming in every scene but having an insignificant role in the plot, it's time to rewrite the play and allot more lines for the protagonists who do make a difference.
What does 'holding on to you' mean?, you asked.
Well, basically it means that when I'm on the verge of tears at 3am and I write to you, you just help me put things in perspective.
Basically, it means that, although I'm not depending on you to solve my own problems, you are a positive presence by my side as I try to come up with solutions.
Basically, it means that I trust you, with all the weight of the term in mind.
I choose to trust myself to you, today and every day, in joy and in pain, not because you are my saviour, but because you're the best companion to share the journey of a lifetime.
For a long time I have
Erased and rewritten
On the same sheet of paper
Words that get refined and polished
Just to become vacuous
The moment I bring them to surface
Now this sheet threatens
To self destroy before my own eyes,
The language unclear
The lines blurred beyond hope of recognition.
A story worked and reworked
with feeble foundations
And a lost identity.
I'd better forge
With a blank page
And start from scratch
A more profound plot where
My name isn't nowhere near
The secondary character list.
'Don't leave me, please.'
' I love spending time with you'
'The hues of your hair are beautiful'
'I'm here for you'
And yet, these words were nothing but a dazzling costume designed to conceal the nothingness he had carefully woven in his soul, perfectly crafted to catch an unsuspicious passer-by.
Now that I'm on holidays, I have more opportunities to think about my life, where I am and where I'm heading to.
Sometimes I lose direction and fail to tell the relevant apart from the useless. On my last working day prior to the holidays, I was stressed out. For the first time in my career I had a managing position this year, which means endless work hours on bureaucratic school paperwork and angry and frustrated parents. I accepted this job thinking that I could make the difference, but time proved me wrong.
Like Oedipus, I hurled my voice to the winds, but my call echoed in the nothingness of the empty halls around my office. That last day my body, which isn't as fond of metaphors as m...
Sometimes memories strike you like a thunderbolt. Sometimes they don't tiptoe into your conscious state, they simply clear their way with a sledgehammer until they become visible.
That was grandma yesterday.