Sometimes, I regret I told 2019 that I couldn't wait to meet you. I've changed my mind in May.
If only there is a secret shortcut somewhere, I'd be sashaying my way out now, never mind passing through your grand exit doors. But then, thank you for letting me dip my toes into November, alive and kicking.
Breathing fine, despite the mask.
Back in December, I imagined myself strolling in your alleys, peek through your windows like a child who's starry-eyed with too much anticipation of the magic that you promised, hidden in your pockets. But, lo and behold it's not the kind of magic I was anticipating at all! I asked for the one with rainbows but you came with black magic fifty shades darker!
Sometimes when I am alone, the thought of looking at you in the eye makes my stomach churn itself in a manner that makes my skin crawl. You took us all by storm and you made sure you'd take the center stage looking like a million-dollar movie star, all eyes on you. In the spotlight.
You showed us who the real master of the game is and you're out to teach us lessons the hard and funny ways.
I'm sorry to say this but you're too much 2020. I'm tired of the things that came along with you. There are nights that sleep is elusive and I'm left staring into the unknown at odd hours, thinking how the rest of you is going to unfold.
But if the universe can hear the silent whispers of my heart, I'm sending a wish to the skies that all of this will end soon, in a gentler way if not beautifully.
You knew mornings don't always show up with dramatic sunrises. Every time you wake up to a new day, faint hope peeps through the veils of your eyes eager to greet the sunshine, wishing it will give you its customary salute in all hues of the rainbow with sprinkles of gold pixie dust on the side.
But then, even if it won't come with a glorious entrance and the clouds double the burden on your shoulders, you woke up today (while others didn't make it) breathing on yesterday's lessons and regrets, tinged with frozen nostalgia hugging you from behind. Though it lingers there for a while, somehow you smile and take it all.
"Are you an introvert or an extrovert?", someone asked me out of nowhere.
That caught me off guard. To some, it may not require a lot of thinking because Yes or No would suffice. But, not me. It made me think and scrutinize myself a bit more than I should.
I could have chosen to ignore the question but I couldn't get it off my head. I couldn't decide because I know I'm neither an introvert-introvert nor an extrovert- extrovert. So, should I say I'm 50/50? After some pondering, I came up with something I hope sensible enough.
Let's put it this way, if I am comfortable with the company I have, I feel like I'm Queen of the show. If not, I am a wallflower and flower pot combined. And that my friend, is only tip of the iceberg. How about you?
Stranded, That's what we are In the vast sea Of uncertainties Life's put on hold, Turned upside down Never knowing What lies ahead Of this turbulent ride, Propelling our unsteady boats Into doldrums, we're bound. Will tomorrow's sailing Be calmer than today's? Amidst the turmoil, Human as we are We struggle to survive And come out of this Kicking alive.
Stranded, That's what we are In life's high tides And rough seas Tossing us into Powerful surges We attempt to ride. Together, Side by side Hand in hand, We surf through Mighty waves Striving to Emerge as victors Of this warfare we're Unexpectedly, All thrown in.
Oftentimes, when I am alone and have nothing to do, I'd go over the many pictures in my gallery, or read again the messages in my inbox from people dear to me or from those whom I've met in social media and had meaningful conversations with.
I don't know about you but I have this weird habit of not deleting old messages and photos even if it takes most of the space in my phone's memory. I ask myself time and again why I have this tendency of holding on to people and things. Could it be that I have issues with letting go?
I know there is beauty in letting go of something precious to us, knowing that it can make someone else happy but I am yet to reconcile with myself. Because I realized that I cling on to things and people for reasons I can't even explain.
Yes, it's hard for me to let go. There is no secret to it, and it is never a wonder. Maybe it all boils down to my fear of being left alone. OF. ME. BEING. ALONE.
I woke up today to the soothing pitter-patter of the rain outside and suddenly, I'm in a trance. I struggled to recall what day it is, and it took me a few moments to convince myself that it's Wednesday, not Saturday. With eyes closed, I soaked in the peace and quiet around me, all mine to enjoy in a while.
For no apparent reason, tears stung the corners of my eyes. lt unlocked the door to the secret closet where I've hidden my bottled up woes and anxieties. Sadness sat at the base of my throat like an unwelcome guest. Something that we sometimes don't want to acknowledge, but we have to deal with, anyway.
I dragged myself out of bed and fixed a cup of black coffee. No sugar this time. Pure and intense, like how I feel inside. Sipping on the bitter goodness, I let sadness linger for a while as I watched the rain with you on my mind.
1.a vast field of love that is free 2.a brook of acceptance that life changes. 3.a hill of realisation that we can be broken. 4.a sky of empathy that has no trade value 5.a blanket of curiousity for our own pulsing desire 6.a heart of gratitude that does not carry remorse. Mix the field of love with the brook of acceptance while trying to sift through the noise in the mind. Gently place the hill of realisation in the field despite the constant nagging of the world that asks you to believe only in perfection. While letting the hill settle into the field, stir the sky of empathy into the mixture with gentle understanding that we are all beneath the same blue unknown reality. While covering the delicious mixture with the blanket of curiousity remember to tell your self that there is still a lot of life left inside your heart, to be alive for despite every circumstance that makes you believe that it might be the end. And in the end , never forget to sprinkle the heart of gratitude for without it everything seems without a purpose really. Now place the field in the light of your awareness and let it sink in. When it sinks deep inside the cracks of your hurting wounds, let out of a sigh of relief and thank yourself for having the kindness to feed your own aching soul. And When your soul is fed, remember to serve your love and kindness to the hungry world too. You will realise that doing this heals your heart faster. Because in the end, we are all just aching to be fulfilled.
I'm still remaining inactive for a brief break (main account is deactivated), but I really wanted to post something in honor of my handsome husband Edwards's 50th birthday today. This piece was inspired by him when I penned it back in December of 2017. Thank you for reading.
MY LOVER AND I by Carolyn Glackin In a thousand different ways, my lover comes to me. As often as the waves meet the shore does he come, and cover me with unending kisses which fall softly upon me like the gentle rains that water the Earth. He warms me with his fiery passion like the hottest of suns, then cools me in his depths like the vast ocean. He is everything to me as I am to him, because in our truth, we hold nothing back from the other. We offer it all in our devotion, devoid of fear; for what is there to fear of the other when we are cut from the same cloth? We two are one, as our hearts join and beat together, our minds meld into the same thoughts, our souls merge into the same eternal flowering. No amount of time or space could ever separate us, for in our love we are joined forever in such a way that no magic, no evil, and no artifice of the human world could ever cause to be torn asunder. We are everything and we are nothing. We are all people and we are no one. I am he, as he is I, and onward we go like this, always united as one in our love that has no end, forever and ever, we two. Copyright Carolyn Glackin 12/7/2017.
Oh ,to lie in a backyard thinking about you among the roses and sunflowers has always been a dream. Instead my house is a roof over and 4 walls, that smells of grief. I have roses that bloom of melancholy and to love them when they wither isn't a sin.
After all, death necessarily means sad.
Our love never came to me as words with shining hopes on a friday night with pockets filled with lilac skies and everything happy.
To me, love comes with roses that pricked sharp thorns but held me warm in those buds under the grey sky. They bleed from poems that didn't rhyme and lovers who lived in a numbered forevers.
To hold hands and grow was never known instead to let your hand go when mine wanted to rest between those lines and fingertips and build a home within.
Goodbyes were never meant to be good ,but you my love have built a home within .
Do they sit beside me every night and sing lullabies of love?
Or Do they sit beside me every night and weep at my sorrows?
Words. Funerals for my thoughts. That's what they are.
A farewell that sometimes makes me happy and sometimes burrows my happiness under the thick sheet of melancholia. Crestfallen braces call my name when i put the grey curtains down. Every night when I'm about to fall asleep, i hear the void coughing. I look for it beneath my bed, beside my orange lamp and even in my half wedged drawers. But the voice seems to move further, further beyond my reach.
I hate that i no longer hanker for the mornings like i used to. Everyday i wake up more tired and more sick. My heart longs for drowsy summer evenings and rainy afternoons. It longs for peace that i once had when my mind ran filter-less on the clouds of a shimmering world. It longs for some fresh breath, out and away from the suffocating crowds. It longs more for something less.
Once a day, nostalgia overtakes my vision and i fail again and again to see what is in front of me. The past seems like a sweet fruit grown on a plum tree near a grassy orchard, alluring and enticing. Hope becomes fragile and delicate, it soon dilutes into the void and renders me with a home devoid of anything except it.
Sometimes it is a hassle to write. So i read. I end up reading writers that are well versed in narrating tales. But reading them doesn't fill my heart. Maybe it never will...I was on a train which was heading far away from my home. It took my heart some courage to sit down and pick up a book again, but i did. I started reading it. It was not a book of an adept writer, but of a writer with a shattered soul. Broken, like me. Her words screeched what my heart crumpled to convey. So I read it again and again until i could no longer hold my tears and i wept and then I left the train with a wet handkerchief and weepy hisses and ended up around a park. I sat on a bench which was beneath a pine tree. The weather was warm, it was as if winter had just departed and spring had just arrived. The trestle was slightly tepid too, as if someone was just sitting there and left it a few minutes ago. I glanced at the sky and wondered if the writer of the book felt the same way i did.
"Maybe emotions cannot be read like words nor can they be disposed like books" I thought..
That night, i could feel the void shrinking and collapsing like a balloon which was punctured with a tiny toothpick. Slow and steady it deflated. It felt more painful than ever but i knew that this pain didn't signify destruction. It signified healing. I just knew it.
Doves are like death my poems are like you burning in agonized fire woods enshrouded promises buried beneath the cobblestone street of an overcrowded city will you save the breathless words or will you sell the stock of their heartbeats to the scavengers of time the raucous cry of bellbirds erupting across the magenta sky is a perfect classical chorus to match the words of my crestfallen poetry I stare at the station of sky through which several train of clouds move gently towards self destructive path at times the empty spaces lying between them stares back at me with shunned eyes what's more empty than a calloused heart dripping hope a saint once looking at the massive tombstone stiched on my forehead preached that this world is a beautiful disaster I told him that I was a dying soul and you were an igniting flame full of sparks and smoke grief isn't as soothing as it feels on a wrinkled piece of paper maybe I should write another poem in the name of love but tell me will you come to read?