works of fiction

in some blithe fictional work i might start and finish, there's a cafe down the street that serves tea with milk and honey. they always have fresh flowers and paintings on the wall (which are, in turn, painted pink).
i also knew a young man, who, every weekend and public holiday, would go to visit his sick mother who suffered from alzeimer's. although she did not recognize him nor remember his face, he brought her flowers each time, and after each visit graciously kissed her hand and said til next time mom.

there is a forest down the road from my house. when i was little i believed the fairies lived there, and at night would come to whisper secrets into my ear while i slept. the trees in that forest are so tall they reach up into the heavens, silent, ancient and incomprehensible. a child would believe in the elven kingdoms of literature, crystal pools of water that become the wintry voices of myth, resounding through the wood. these were the fabled songs of the tall and hooded peoples of the wood. i used to believe this.

there are many things i used to believe that have become marred by the death of make-believe. pretending cannot redefine my world because i know too much. childish whims and pleasures are no longer such diversions.

places i'd like to go to:

Tel Aviv, Israel
Havana, Cuba
Great Britain
Barcelona
Ireland
New York City
Mozambique
Thailand
Milan
The French Riviera
Cannes
Paris
Casablanca, Morocco
Sicily
Santorini
New Mexico
Mexico
Los Angeles, California

fools who fall in love

for the past few days I have not managed to feel much better, and besides crying until i wondered if it was even possible anyone had so many tears to cry, I have realized that broken hearts are as commonplace as a bout of flu, or catching a cold. love is part of the human condition (an abstract and rather un-definable word) and with love comes hurt. love is the most beautiful and pure emotion, which tragically goes hand in hand with hatred and brokenness. I suppose once we invest everything we've got into the enigma called love, we find that if we lose it we have nothing. i feel alone because he has left me, but i am not alone in the world, because every human being will feel this sometime. it is part of our fallen world and our capacity has mere humans, mortals and fools
who
fall
in
love.

i was waiting at the station but i didn't want the train to come. i knew what was coming, i saw it coming, but, in vain i tried to pretend it would bring you closer to me. instead, the train arrived, and it took you away on its next departure. i am sorry i tried to fix you, because i know that i can't. i wish you well, in all your endevours. i had looked forward to seeing you on your birthday. but still there has been no word.

the playlist for the broken-hearted

20 Best Break-Up Songs


Broken - Amy Lee ft. Seether
Piece of my Heart - Janis Joplin
The Potential Break-up Song - Aly & Aj
Cruel Summer - Ace of Base
Love is a Losing Game - Amy Winehouse
Just Friends - Amy Winehouse
Since U Been Gone - Kelly Clarkson
stay golden - Au Revoir Simone
Happy Ending - Avril Lavigne
Parachutes - Coldplay
If I Can't Have You - Yvonne Elliman
Call Me When You're Sober - Evanescence
The Dumbing Down of Love - Frou Frou
Hide and Seek - Imogen Heap
Goodbye my Lover - James Blunt
Slow Dancing in a Burning Room - John Mayer
Grace - Kate Havenvik
Nothing Better - Postal Service
Fell in Love Without You - Motion City Soundtrack
Don't Forget Me - Way Out West


epilogue

i wanted you to know that i love the way you laugh.
i keep your photograph and i know it serves me well
i wanna hold you high and steal your pain away.

hmm whatcha say?

Plans

This night is damn cold. It's kind of chilly out there tonight. We had plans, I thought. I was with you. Right now, there's nobody here I know. Let me just cry in front of you, without talking about it because I don't want to. What happened to 'i love you' ? my head is held heavy. the dust has only just begun to fall. oily marks have appeared on the walls, where pleasure moments hung before. these pleasures are now only memories. my seperation grief is such that i cannot go back. I grieve that those days are over, and now I do not know where to go.

Write me love letters, like Mr. Big to Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City. In the end what can we do but sit around a table with our girlfriends and drink cosmopolitans? Today it still feels like all I have to wear is my wedding gown, with nowhere to live because I've sold my apartment. Once I have found my love I will pass it on to you and wish you well.

I would like to go to the ballet.
I would like to visit the bookshop.
I am going to make a documentary.
I am not going to sit around waiting for a man.
I am going to sit drinking on the porch.
I am going to read poetry aloud.
I am going to go to work.
I am going to write everyday.
I shall pick myself up off the ground.
I am going to pray, because I never do.
I will not feel sorry for myself.
I will allow myself to cry.
Don't take crap from anyone.
Make yourself useful.
Do not dread the day when dreaming ends.
Stick to schedules.
Wash your hair everyday in order to wash away any feelings of guilt and sorrow.
Eye out the personal trainer guys at the gym.
Get coffee into your system
Change out of your pyjamas.
Quit always falling asleep in all situations.
Stop talking as I think, thus blurting out stuff that makes no sense.
Clean cracked polish off nails.
Say a prayer.
Don't make excuses.
Drown him in champs with your girlfriends.
Carry tissues
Write it!
I will listen to ridiculous break-up songs.
And silly love songs.

I am who i am.

and if I tell you, lover alone without love?

These past days she has cried bucketfuls. Her eyes have been red for days. Food becomes dust in her mouth. Songs seem to play over and over in her head, without pause. It pains her to think how true the words are. heartbreak is a universal hurt.

I have not had the chance to say everything to you. I suppose we did not talk enough. I have visited the bookstore where they play classical music and nobody can judge me. I could get lost in the publications of authors, strangers. None so strange as you. I saw the sadness in your eyes. I knew there was unfinished business. there were still things to say but I put up all pretences and, foolishly, put too much hope in you. At first I believed I was the one who was not worthy of your love, or anybody's love for that matter. But as I think of it now, I know that it wasn't me. It was you. I hold no anger, bitterness or hatred against your name. Disappointment, yes. I saw you were lost, but I stuck around to hold your hand. If only things had been different. You are now treading thin. Let me speak, let me finish this sentence! Don't come any closer. Don't do that again. True, our passion was well-painted. Our love was 'underwhelmed.' If you knew what was good for me why would I be loving you?

"And if I tell you, lover alone without love? What will happen, lover alone without love?

Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.
Proverbs 3:5-6

"The LORD is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge. He is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold. I call to the LORD, who is worthy of praise, and I am saved from my enemies. The cords of death entangled me; the torrents of destruction overwhelmed me. The cords of the grave coiled around me; the snares of death confronted me. In my distress I called to the LORD; I cried to my God for help. From his temple he heard my voice; my cry came before him, into his ears."
Psalm 18:2-6

Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you."
Deuteronomy 31:6

and with every goodbye, i learn.

After a While

After a while you learn
The subtle difference between
Holding a hand and chaining a soul
And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning
And company doesn't always mean security.
And you begin to learn
That kisses aren't contracts
And presents aren't promises
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes ahead
With the grace of a woman
Not the grief of a child
And you learn
To build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow's ground is
Too uncertain for plans
And futures have a way
Of falling down in mid flightAfter a while you learn
That even sunshine burns if you get too much
So you plant your own garden
And decorate your own soul
Instead of waiting
For someone to bring you flowers
And you learn
That you really can endure
That you are really strong
And you really do have worth
And you learn and you learn
With every good bye you learn.

Veronica A. Shoffstall

why didn't you write me?

In times of sorrow and tears, I find myself with more time to be alone, and sit, like I am doing now, to write down how I feel. I feel it is better to write, because words are silent and you can think about them before saying them. These words are private and dearly bought. I have felt a strange sensation in my chest for the last twenty-four hours. It's a hollow feeling.
"It hurts here," I say, pressing my hand to my chest.
"It's your heart. It is hurt, but it will heal. Believe me, it will heal."

Still, I will not forget you. You touched my heart, which I then gave to you. I've cared for you. You've been my friend. I am broken because I have not said a good goodbye.

I do not see much light ahead, but then, strangely, I think of God. I don't often think of Him but in instances of grief and madness and pain we seek for divine help, because our human fellows just cannot suffice. I feel I need a prayer, to watch over me in the sudden vast and empty place.

He was a good boy, but my daddy is a better man.
He was just a boy, not grown up or ready. I was in it, but he was out.

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intentto be lost that their loss is no disaster,
Lose something every day.
Accept the flusterof lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.I lost my mother's watch.
And look! my last, ornext-to-last, of three beloved houses went.The art of losing isn't hard to master.I lost two cities, lovely ones.
And, vaster,some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gestureI love)
I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop

split screen sadness

i thought that i'd let you know i'm feeling better everyday.

true, there will be many things to so mercilessly remind me of you. i will not be in peace, for a while it would seem. i will be restless. there will be songs that remind me of you. ill never really forget. for a while there'll be nobody to hold me, nor my hand, or call me baby. no flowers when i'm sick. no late night movies or dancing in the street. but still i will carry on, with or without you. i said i would wait, but not for long. that waiting is over.

At first I wanted to run away, but i've decided I have to hold on. i was not ready but i saw it coming all along. when will be the day when i can meet with the world? I am so isolated from it all.

please, it's better to say too much than never say what you need to say.
my hands are shaken and my faith is broken.
i need space to swing my arms around.

the third degree.

war movies are often viewed from the perspective of the victim, often gazing down onto a street from a high window. often, what happens on the street below ends in bloodshed. perhaps, the execution line of heavy-coated families, interrupted during dinner and thrown out into the street, where a German soldier shoots each one in the back. how come, how can it come to pass? he does not even have the courage to look his victims in the eyes before he shoots them down? such is the cowardice.

why is it that in these terrible times we see the worst, and best, in humanity. the human condition becomes untamed, survival is key, and each man is for himself. there is no time to help your neighbour when the neighbourhood is out to get you. ordinary people, young, old, sickly or well, become starved, not only of bread, but of substance, life, hope and diginity. they become crawling animations, alive but cold without breath, gasping for breath in the dust, blood and mud in the streets. the man who was once an honorable husband and father is forced to hide, like a dog cast out. a mother smothers her baby so that its cries do not reveal those in hiding. the soldiers beat the jews for new years; a cheerless song in the streets is sung by the downtrodden while the oppressors drink to their supposed victories.

after i watched the pianist i could only think of how my heart goes out for the jews, and for all of those who were ever humiliated, oppressed, destroyed, exploited and discriminated against. to think these horrors happened only 70 years ago.
the world is still recovering.

saint patrick of AD 387

Declared a Saint in Heaven by various Christian churches, scholar, slave, missionary and patron saint of Ireland, Saint Patrick has his very own day dedicated to his legacy. well. tis a working day to say the least, and (disgracefully) I had no idea tuesday today on march 17 was the man's commemorative day.

legend has it that st patrick drove away every snake on the island of Eire, thus cleansing the country of Satan's serpant, according to Druidism and pagan superstition.
the irish shamrock, the four-leafed clover that supposedly represents a spell of luck to its finder, was used by the saint of legend to demonstrate the concept of the Holy Trinity to pagans. such did the christians burn with disdain for those of folk religion, those who believed in the Tuatha Dé Danann, the peoples of the sacred oak tree. those of good harvest, mischief, fair face and makers of natural medicine were the sky people, those born of the sidhe mounds. the fair folk, the wee people.
the fairies.

witchhunts raged throughout europe as the Church sought to destroy all that opposed the deity of God in Heaven, and the sworn Biblical truth of Christianity.

thursday's deliberations

There is a tempest brooding in me. I am a brooding lover, perhaps expendable, slowly becoming a vacant apparition of the subway. When will the eventual time come when I am superfluous? I’m too low to find my way, too high to wonder why.
Often I come to think that true happiness can never be achieved. It is out of the reach of the familiar mortality in all of us. The impossible state of happiness is a merciless enigma, one which we try in vain to achieve - be it by means of chemicals, prescription, hypnosis, calculation or pseudo pleasure-making. The human condition does not allow us to achieve true, pure, existential happiness, natural and unaltered. We always want more; such is our insatiable human desire for betterment.

This is the love that we’ve been working on. We’re going down and you can see it too. Love should be an encore! What of the intermission? Or, forbid, the curtain's call for the finale?
I am disinclined to confess that I am a fool to want you. Nothing but a silly little girl who tripped over her heart. As you walk away I look back and see you’ve turned your back. Your footsteps echo in the growing distance between us, leaving me watching you go. I stand under the chemical flood lights and concrete walls of the late night metro.

Tell me? If not the sun and moon rise in my eyes, but at least that my belief is your belief, or that my cheeks are warm to yours. My eyes are pools of recognition. So what would you like? What would you have of me? My hands face palms up. I’ll wait, but not for long.

how deep is your love (how deep is your love?)

as the bee gees said back then, how deep is yours? we're living in a world of fools breaking us down when they all should let us be.

the reason i was thinking of china the other day has just occurred to me, rather timely too, because i am feeling as though i were made in china/manufactured, mass produced. you can see i am surely losing my mind. losing control may be the very reason for loss of reason, as when we're spinning loose and infinite we become blurred by blind panic. that's a mouthful for me at the moment. i am simply a mouthful and i'm sure everyone has had just about enough of me. how are you?
let's not go there, okay.
how are you really? (as if you really care)
i don't know. i think i'm just accustomed to being unhappy all the time, which is hazardous for myself and those around me. people seem to think i'm miserable all the time and raining inside of my head. people seem to think a lot, maybe about me, maybe not. usually not such lovely things , too. i am left feeling like i did something terribly wrong ( screw them )

Do you want a spoonful of rejection? A dose as bitter as wormwood and medicine. When I think of the boy I love I feel that sickly feeling that I may lose him. Not to another, but to his own. I, conversely, would set aside my own selfishness for him; give him my cup and inhibitions. Without appearing weak I must still say that I feel his rejection and disappointment in me that I cannot understand. Why? I ask again. He cannot answer me. While I miss him days over he sleeps soundly. I miss his hands but he can go on just fine without me. He kisses me with no meaning. I am knock, knock, knocking. I’ll just be waiting here, right here.
Baby, he’ll say. I don‘t always love you.
(Don’t talk. Don’t try that with me. Don’t speak, please, don’t say it. Nobody means anymore to me than you.)
Baby. Sometimes, perhaps. But not everyday.
(Tread carefully. I’m nearly over the edge.) Sometimes he means it, but other days he does not. Why can’t you love me everyday? Does Everyday seem too infinite? I think you are afraid. So hush, let me fix you.

minefields.

I feel like he doesn’t love me like he should.

Tell me, tell me everything you feel? Why is the road like a minefield?

Heavens, I do not know! Hell, how could I? I hardly know myself. Yet all I ponder now is his being and his contentment. I found that I couldn't speak, so I wrote this letter, sealing it with a kiss.

"I left everything at the door, and put him first. Left baggage on the doorstep so I could give him everything I could offer. Everything good in me, in any form, whichever it was. I couldn’t bear to lose you, to lose control. You’re all I see. If you stopped loving me, I don’t think I would stop loving you. Seems ridiculous, doesn’t make any sense. It’s like we balance a bomb between our two faces...putting out the stars, though I feel found when you’re near. Am I not good for you? Or have you not found yourself? Puzzled boy. Bitter, angry, tragic boy. Road is a minefield. I tucked away my fears, inhibitions, doubts, all in hope for your enlightening. Do you not love me? Why don’t you miss me when we are apart? I am a fool, to want you. I am a fool to love someone who does not return this. I gaze up at the sky; shadows are all I can see. I cannot lose you, love and have lost, but for the best part, to have loved at all. I have loved, and I am grateful to you that you have been the one which I adored. Should this be the end, I promise you this; I won’t forget. I couldn’t. I’m too far in now, waving, drowning, too far gone, that I couldn’t turn back. Except to you, if you’d have me still? Why do you not look at me? Why can you not speak? I am afraid; love, so afraid, that you cannot know. Because what was a mere infatuation has become a life’s love in my soul, a love that drives and feeds my soul, and if I have frightened you by my intensities. I am sorry. I have not meant to make you feel imprisoned by a silly girl’s few feelings of young romance. She fell hard, when you barely looked up. She thought you‘d picked her, because she’d already picked you, that very night she fell in love without you. Thank you for what you have taught me. I have had lessons hard learned. I am feeling the world’ emptiness now. I know there is malice in this life, a crazy life, but let’s hold hands instead of breaking apart. Let me help you, let me be your rock. I know you’d do the same. If only you could. Just don’t shut the door on me, or burn out the light. All my love. "

a trip to watch the silent picture

Silent picture, oh! we’re playing out ourselves in black and white. The projections rolls, we’re on the screen in the midst of noiseless crowds. Our dialogue is silent and although we’re shouting over our lungs, neither of us can hear what the other is saying.

My head becomes bothered by the activities of others. If I must accept what I cannot change, should I just give up entirely? Surely there is some change that can occur? I would like to have that good time that everyone seems to strive for with such zeal, only, I cannot betray my serious, unquiet mind. They are trying to extract me from myself. I am plagued by daily thoughts of inconsistency, of disapproval -judgments I know they’re making, perhaps without saying. I do not need your whims to live my life.
I refuse to feel this heaviness in my chest because I am afraid of not being the person they’re trying to force me to be. I am my own breed of person, not one for drinking, not one for bars and smoky rooms, card games and backstreet kissing, sex and drugs, not one for living by each day; this madness is all around me. All I can see is a mad world.

Forgive me if I cannot fit, forgive me if you cannot fix me, or if I am simply just a strange little girl. We all know that those who are different are those who are the loneliest. I seem to worry too much about my hair, my shoes, what I’ve, as I often speak without thinking. My fear is unreasonable. There is little reason to my fears, though they remain real and real and real, so real! People can be cruel to those who are different, perhaps because the new kid makes you recognize your own insecurities, playing upon your faults, showing you up. It’s so much easier when the next person is just like you. Then I come along? And you push me away? Yes, all of you people! Why do I feel like a lonely island, sub-continental and drifting between cold people who are no better than my enemies?


have mercy. because you'll sure need it soon.

made in china

Rather than talking about myself all the time and using such self-interested pronouns such as I and me, I am rather going to discuss the world economy.
our every day purchases are products of Eastern labour, violated child labour laws and low standards of living for millions.

made in china?

think, plastic, think, mass production. sweatshops are working conditions that may prove hazardous to workers, blue collared workers whose standards of living are that of pure industrial conditions, minimum wage and exploitation of many a laboured hand. factories drain the sweat from the brows of millions, mere workers who have but one goal and that is to feed their families. the Eastern mind set of consistent toil is used as the greatest manufacturing secret for the satiation of the West's hunger for consumables, and the monetary and material desires of capitalist societies. the sweat runs down their brows in floods, gathers in pools on the factory floors and gushes from the darkened windows, through floor gratings and under door frames. the hours are long, there is noise, smoke and heat, and still the factories produce reels by the tonnage, until the exhaustion of one comes and the next replaces. their bodies are lined in assembly lines. shops for bodies and blood create the industry of human trafficking in return for your retail therapy.