You are cloudy days
Overcast skies

You are the promise of rain
When it's coming
But you know not when

You are confusion
Contradiction
Thunder and lightning
Fire and electricity
Powerful

You are a hurricane
Of doubts and fears
Devastating
Punishing

You are a black hole
All-consuming
Famished
Yearning
Needing

Yet human
Imperfect and flawed

You are everything
And nothing

Me.
Mine.

Comfortable

I tend to think in pictures. And there are certain pictures that are constantly in my head. That I tend to hold on to, that I wish I could translate to reality. They are extremely cliched, but for me they are important. It's a paradox, seeing as how I hate being cliched, but hey, sometimes it's allowed.

A sheet under a tree on a breezy evening. Me, leaning against said tree, reading. Or proofing/editing what could possibly be the next big bestseller. You lying with your head on my lap. Dozing or reading or listening to music. Or even just daydreaming.

A comfortable four-poster bed. With a massive and extremely soft blanket. Us cozy under said blanket, watching something on a laptop or on the BIG TV.

You are lounging on a sofa. Channel surfing. And I am on the floor, resting against the sofa, reading or working. Your hand is lazily playing with my hair.

The one thing common in all these things is how comfortable it all is. Feels as natural as breathing. It's just the presence of you that is important. What you are doing is irrelevant. It's familiar, it's warm, it's a feeling of home.

Because being with you, is like being home.

Naked

Naked
Powerless
Beautiful
Raw

Stripped
Of defences
Of masks
Of walls
Of pretences

Completely, truly vulnerable
Trusting
Scared
Honest
Frail
Human

Giving
Surrendering
Entirely
All one has
All one is

No protection
No guards
No lies

You might see me without my clothes.
But only I can choose when you can truly see me naked.

Two Double O

So it's that time again. When I try to come up with something genius to signify this milestone in my life, because a milestone it is.

Two hundred posts. And four years of writing. About fifty posts per year, four posts per month, on average. That's quite a bit if you break it down.

And again, after thinking about it for the longest time and drawing a complete blank, I am just going to say that I am thankful.

For books. For language. For the ability to translate to writing all, okay, most of the thoughts that swirl around in this head of mine; for the ability to string together a coherent sentence. For an outlet. For communication and conversation. For poetry and art. For inspiration. For thought itself. For great thinkers and authors. For the ability to remember and record. For memory. For colour and light. For pictures. For technology.

I am thankful, for words. They are all I have. All I ever will have.

Four years, two hundred posts, and a never-ending journey of discovery.

Here is to you, dear blog.

Here is to me.

Full opposite

Holidays are supposed to rejuvenate and revitalize. Recharge your batteries so that you can get back to work better and refreshed. They are a break from the drudgery of every day life and they equip you to handle it better when you get back. They give you great stories to tell and write about. Maybe even a few adventures.

At least they're supposed to.

Then, why do I end up feeling even worse than before after I get back from a holiday? They're never long enough and the goodbyes just keep getting more difficult. You would think that the more you take, the better you end up feeling, but it seems to be working in reverse for me because all it shows me is that what I am coming back to just doesn't fit right anymore. It just ends up being a horrible jolt into a very depressing reality. Where the escape ends up being a trap in itself.

Holidays seem to end up messing me up even more than I was before I went on them.

Sigh.

Talk about fail.

Give in

Give in to the darkness
Succumb

The doubts and fears
Those nagging questions
The nightmares
Surrender to them
Give in to the darkness

Why fight?
You'll lose
Why struggle?
You'll fail
Give in to the darkness

Curl into a ball
Don't push it away
Let it take over
Let it win
Give in to the darkness

Lose yourself
Forget the world
Broken and defeated
Don't hold on so tight
Give in to the darkness

It's cold
It's scary
But it's easier than failing
Falling
Give in to the darkness

Let go
Disappear
Alone
And powerless
Give in to the darkness

Him

This is a different version of something I wrote a few years back. I tried reworking around the same basic idea to see if I could do something new with it. That was called "Her". You can read it here


I close my eyes
And I find him

Beautiful
Perfect.
Mine.

At least he was
For a little while.

The memories might have faded
The colours not as bright
But even when he left
His pictures stayed

I grew to love him
And I believed,
And hoped.

I poured my words into him
Wrote him poems of longing and love
With my stubby inadequate fingers
I wrote him my thoughts.

But he left,
When he had promised to stay.

And all I have now
Are his pictures.
His smile, his eyes
Etched into my brain.

Pictures where once was laughter
Dust, where once were sandcastles

I created him
After he left
I created us.
From the crumpled sheets and the books
From his scent on my pillows
From the strands of hair on the floor

I kept his pictures and created more.

I created him.

And he...
He destroyed me.