Winter's invite

An aging night
breathes its last
Gives way to a weekday morning
The doorbell rings.
On the porch,
a parch white envelope sleeps
The last of Autumn
addressed to me
Winter's early invitation.
That decorous lady,
the perfect host
In keeping with my ways,
she sends along
a hint of mist,
the touch of chill
year after year
everyday until I'm ready;
Wrapping around me,
pulling my sullen moods
off all the hangers in the house

Apathy comes

Apathy comes in twin ponytails,
irony in her little bounce
She comes wearing a red dress
Distress.
Out for a stroll, she captivates
A sight for sore eyes, a warning
The clouds turn grey
in vindication of her mood
Cold drizzle.
She parts her lips,
drowning out the soft song
that makes the backdrop,
the only substantial magic
in this frail human life
She takes my hand, firmly
all beauty falling into disarray
She pulls me into her embrace
and it is more than my belief can bear

Notes to the insomniac

When you're up at 4am yet again and you feel like life is in shambles and that you'll never be able to pull the pieces together, remind yourself that routine is over rated. Tell yourself you don't conform, and if post midnight is your time to reign, so be it. Don't fall apart because you can't fall asleep; you're too inspired by what you just read or watched or because you can't stop playing a song on repeat. You're anxious and a little high strung and very fidgety but you're also at your most creative, emotionally transformative self. Write yourself a tutorial on how to glow; don't fret about the murdered naps. Tell yourself you're an artist, a philosopher, a thinker and maybe your best ideas come out of your most vulnerable self, out of the spiting darkness. Have a little faith, and a little more courage because what is breathing if not the thin string of connection to this world. Tell yourself that you don't need to feel safe and believe it; who has ever conquered the world from behind gates? Find your own version of normal; resist the temptation to reprimand yourself. Remember that you're at war and it's your time to tear off the bandages. 

I used to think all months had personality traits, characteristics defining them. October was for fine weather, August was when the smog disappeared, September was for crimson, murky red sunsets.
November was always numb, the month when you needed a little darkness to get you going.A month representing a transitory life; a work in progress; spinning out ignorant tales that made you lonesome for a storm - covering up footprints that you did not leave. The cold seeping in through the blankets, lurking behind the curtains, resting cautiously on the outskirts of your life, waiting for its window of opportunity. It was the month when snakes shed their skin, dreams fell like dried leaves. I forgot though, that it's where the sparks fly, the fire catches.

Querencia

(taken from http://wordstuck.co.vu/)

I often get the distinct feeling that time is catching up on me. Or rather that I am not catching up with time, a billion black oceans between us if I choose to paint a picture. I'm always two steps behind, but not in the way that offers solace. Contrast waking up rested and with the sun, to the feeling of having hit the snooze button one too many times.
It is slowly dawning upon me that now is the time when I really have to decide what type of adult I'm going to be. Am I going to be someone who writes letters and postcards to distant relatives and friends, going out of my way to buy stamps at the post office or do I let it go because I can say as much in a whatsapp message. Am I going to be the kind of person who still makes birthday cards for the people I care about or do I drop it because it is acceptable to be busy and because a phone call would suffice. It hits me suddenly on my way back home, on the bus, that my mother isn't going to handle relationships on my behalf anymore; I have to define my own manners, my own standards of what a human interaction must be like. Should I give up on getting something back from my trip overseas for my father because he's always projected that he doesn't need anything, laugh it off with a shrug because my spiritually inclined brother is so difficult to shop for or do I decorate his walls, his cupboards, his fridge, my parents' home ... my home with memories that I made alone but which have the whiff of me wishing they were there, that I always remember them. Will I get a cook and order take away when he takes a leave or will I let my house fill up with the aroma of my mother's recipe, let my friends and family savour the taste of her indulgent care, labor of love. Will I be able to protect and preserve the rituals that I grew up with, will I be able to create habits that could be of sacramental value, create a life peppered with beautiful metaphors.
Everyday, there is a future to be zealously vaguer about, that could just turn out to be like the salt accident in my coffee this morning if Im not careful; I hang in a precarious balance, leaning against a flimsy wall. The fact that I continue to densely treasure my loneliness, peek from under the luxury of my pessimism, and justify myself because I've just begun reading Nietzshe doesn't help. 

Then

When we were very very young, so young that life just meant today and it was like a pop song turned on in my head. We were bewildered and chaotic and clumsy and had muck everywhere and food spilled on our shirts and only knew how to join sentences with 'and'. 
With rain in our hair, the sun beckoned, and we turned, smiling. I was warm and you felt like kin. We surrendered to the outside, with a mouthful of joy that we sucked out of a straw. It was a day for lingering and lounging in the sand. You called me a wackadoo and we giggled until we were warm.

What I did today

What did you do today, darling?

Well, let me see. I woke up to the sound of hammering in my head and pulled the curtains close to stop the bright light that was hurting my eyes. After an hour of convincing myself to get up from the bed, I dragged myself over to the refrigerator, craving for some cold milk, which was surprising because I don't crave anything these days. When it's horrendously dark, I don't crave the light. When it's painstakingly quite, I don't crave the sound of music, or people talking or the sound of my thoughts. But today I craved cold milk. In my world, this marked a turning point. I decided this was some sort of sign the universe was sending my way, so I pulled on my robe and walked out of my little apartment. You'll be glad to know I didn't lock the door.

What did you do today, darling ?

Well hold on. So I walked out into the bright light and somehow managed to reach the little shop on the corner of the street. He was out of milk. I realized something about the world today, mid day is a bad time to crave milk. Apparently, most of the world has already been to the moon and back, circled the Earth three times, enjoyed their breakfast and made love by the time you've woken up, groggy from sleep. They are ahead of you. After this, I felt abandoned on those busy streets, and I shut my eyes and walked back as fast as I could. The one idea I'd had in the day and it was a bad one. The world had indeed become heavier, don't you think? Dull as concrete.

What did you do today, darling ?

Well, if you must know, I think I died ninety seven times. You haven't been listening.

Personal Histories

Time passes by in lurches, not like water out of a leaky tap that keeps dripping at a constant rate but like the winds of this city, unbearably static at times and violently strong at others. It depends on the mood of the weather and things remembered. There are those that find themselves too busy to be courteous. How could they possibly find the meaning of love ? Left only with a trace of a memory that cant be remembered, left staring at a rocking chair still moving to the heartbeat of someone who left, never to return. I always thought those brain molds were not to be trusted. Every time I step out, the first hot gush of air seems familiar, like someone's breath on a summer night - puff, puff. I try to imagine my days without this familiar, barely discernible presence, without that depth of feeling. How could I though, when it is the only thing that gets me through the day.

Dis-illusioned

Was it really so hard for you to be real? I spent my time counting stars, writing letters that I never posted, sipping coffee that was already too cold. Just not the right temperature. Just never the right temperament. I spent my time walking on tiles, careful to place my awkward feet right in between, careful not to touch the boundaries. Always too careful not to touch the boundaries. I wish you had been more prudent about my obsessiveness. But you went right ahead and spilled water over the lines I had drawn. Now I don't know where my heart lies, nor my mind. I don't pay heed to your words, or mine. There's no way to make out one thing from the other; the sweet words from the poisonous; the real from illusion; the hot from the cold. I burnt my hand. But the coffee had already grown cold. The cigarette you carried around was finally put off and now the butt lies like a big black spot on my little blank life. I had begged for years, it makes me happy that you finally put it off. I envy you your shallowness dear. I have come to realize it is a terrible thing to dig deeper meaning into things that mean so little and are tossed aside by the rest.

The room is full of the cries of a baby, loud enough to match the splattering of the rain on the window panes outside. A little angel brought down into a world already hurling towards emotional destruction. Outside, there lie stacks of stones – towers assembled carefully in prayer. The hint of a disturbance is all it would take to dismantle them. To tear apart the families of the hands' that placed them atop each other.

Now, she wears clammy clothing that stays damp for days. A shy tuck of hair behind the ear; a lunar voice throwing venomous insults, filling the empty sky's ears; a permanent sort of shadow casts her face - dusty with a caked layer of fear and anguish. No secrets to reveal and tears that have almost lost their fluidity. She tries to struggle inside the house on the off chance of dreamy nights - her nook for days when the rain is just not stopping; the most real thing she possesses. But there is a long, long queue outside that little hut. There are a million in line, ahead of her. God’s mighty army; those grown up angels. Or a forgotten debris of the crushed hope of countless? They light up what is left of their lives, and hold it up. Will the flame quicken? Or spiral towards its end, blown out by the stirring wind.
The tiny one inside cries out, and it seems like for now, the world is still intact.

Listen

The Chinese (Red) String Theory is based on this simple proverb: 

‘An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstances. The thread may stretch or tangle but will never break.’

I loved ‘The Lunchbox’ for multiple reasons. To state one – the anticipation of a letter, of what the returned lunchbox container would contain, a woman’s joy at seeing it empty, her courage in thanking the receiver of her sincere cooking for having liked her food, unconventional friendships, the slow discovery of another’s secrets – these things to me are what, for an eloquent word, magic is. In a world where most of us continuously look for glamour, are attracted by glitz and out of the world things, extreme highs or lows, where we despise ordinary things – it is a movie which wonderfully makes you long to be simple, to regain the ability to be made happy by small things, to believe in kinship and the power of honest thoughts. It makes one nostalgic for written notes, labours of love; for pieces of paper to hang on to as keepsakes.
Most of all, it lets you believe that there is someone among the 7 billion people in the world, despite the messy maps created by those unskilled at drawing borders,  who longs to hear what you have to say; it lets you believe in the Red String Theory.

"Listen. Some things Nino, some things are like this. Pay attention to them. What the whiff of dried bouquet in the air tells you, what soothes you amidst the blinding lights on the road. Pay attention to the things you miss in half beats.
Imagine. You are the empress of a wild kingdom. Let the castle of your heart be unguarded because what would life be without crenellations, without a risky angle?"