waiting for a bearded fella

There are a lot of customs a girl my background and culture must follow in life. The likes of Christmas, Easter, name days spring to mind. But I’ve been given freedom when it comes to celebrating my birthday. Well, almost, provided it’s with family. The where is my choice. The how is my choice. So I’ve come up with a plan a few years back, almost six as I recall, to make a point of writing something for my friends who are close and who are not so much, to take with them on this day that marks my entrance into the world. Mine and many others’, but allow me to take this moment to fulfil every narcissistic desire in my body and gracefully succumb. And please, never think for a moment that I try to fan a wholly unfounded notion of accumulated wisdom over 26 years because even suggesting that would be silly. I am no preacher or knower of truth. I am no giver or selfless saint. I am no example to follow. I just have words. I cleverly borrow words to fit the occasion.

I won’t begin a tale now, I’ve no time or ideas, but I will try to make sense in these coming lines as best I can. What I know about myself and the world would come as no surprise to any of you my learned friends. The realities that I have discovered over the years pale in comparison to the ones I’m yet to find out. You’ve seen them I’m sure. You’ve lived through them I know. But when be hopeful, if not now? When have the courage, if not now? When have the wisdom and the bravery to admit to the broken parts, if not now?

A lot of things are hazy for me right now. I’m half way into finding out what it’s like to have a piece of this world, to claim as my own. What it’s like to work hard for something concrete. To use my experiences not to get fooled by bureaucracy. And it’s hard. Has been hard and will continue to be hard. But I meet these every day challenges with enthusiasm and excitement. I’m slowly also finding out how different I am now to how I was when the people who brought out the best in me were around. But this never scares me, just cautions for a wiser choice next time. I know what it’s like to miss time. I’ve personified time so many occasions in writings that now I think it’s just a good-turned-evil friend of mine from a while back. Someone I used to know well.

But before I trip and fall into the pitfalls of life’s winding and sometimes dark road, I know what I still want. These things drive me to do better and try harder. To think about change, even if implementing them would be somewhat difficult. I know that there are things I can never have and feelings that I will never know. There are places I will visit and there are people I’m yet to meet. I will make friends and I will lose some in the years to come. I will build and destruct with ease. I will forever wish for more love… but time’s tricky with that.

Before I turn a year older, I will just sit here and wait for a bearded fella. He with a heartache and a song to turn even the most desperate of days into a flood of joyful tears. I know that him I will love and I already love the way he gently loves.

Another note.

Far from the blinding lights of happiness comes a clear cry that speaks volumes on a gloomy night, a clearly dark night, on the desperateness of a failed attempt, on a futile effort to gratify the soul with hollow regret. There is time to hide for everyone who feels weak in the knees. Focus the mind on the kind spring awakening and reassure the spirit of a boundless journey through the haphazard maze of time’s fortress. Somehow we will all fly.

My new bag will carry my burden of regret, shame and even indecisiveness. In the meantime I have the chance to delude my susceptible heart into thinking of the imminent change around as the sole cause of an eventual happy ending. Change is not kind. Not to me. Not now. Not yet. Folded arms cannot reach towards the hill of forgiveness. My unwillingness to change much of my situation leaves my senses paralysed and my will helpless, stuck in an innate body and a discommendable mind. Here within lies the challenge. My challenge.

I keep wishing. I let the troubles fall off the tip of my fingers with one hasty shake, escaping the traps of the deep wrinkles of my palms. Let the sun catch them and lift their fragile bodies onto someone new. I know not how to deal with them. To me they are like children with no direction or need for care. The early April breeze keeps my hands clean, blown off it are the simple troubles of a tragic life. A kingdom with no savoury hallucinations, just images of horror that appear kind in the daylight. Smile. Write. Confused words appear and demand to be recorded on paper. The fingers lie disconnected from the mind. Excommunicate.

I need him to love me back. Now. With his sensitive heart and gentle mind. I need to know that we can survive a stormy sea that lies between us. In change I will become more of me. You will have most of me. All most of me.

My gasping soul needs you to give it time to regain its composure and grace before it can leap toward another hopeful wanderer of the night. Hold me close for now since the rain falls, cold brushes against me, dark seduced the light, the hollow shelter frightens me more than it used to comfort. Alone I have no chance to survive, even with the colours that flow from the words I steal from others. My empty cave is damp and sombre, your hand can make it a little less cruel.

I need to keep writing. Writing notes. Not just for now, but until I know I found the one that needs no more writing on the wall. It may be years still or that time may never come. I may need to write countless notes before I can finally write the one that says now I love.

a lighter load

I am uneasy. Things happen around me that make me uneasy, frightened, uncomfortable. I realize that most of the time I do exactly the same with my words. I make the reader feel uneasy, uncomfortable. But deeper do the roots of my despair lie. I feel not the fickle uneasiness of a few well chosen, painfully perfect, sharp letters. Words on paper are just wiggles of lines, succumbed to the writer’s every narcissistic effort. Their truth only shows once the writer has realised their freedom. Rarely does this happen and the reader must never end the quest and the questioning. Why. But this is not what sends me screaming into an empty corner. I fail to understand the simple things, like songs that say goodbye, like a bird almost motionless trying to glide. Love. Death. Life. Disapperance and regret, loneliness. The power that only a moment has. There is no other power like it. There is no power but it.

With every bone in my body, I wish that love can somehow be enough. That it can erect bridges between lost parts of the soul and that it can conquer the undiscovered places of the mind. Every night I pray for the unwanted love to find home. For all loves to finally find home. I ignore instances that present the fact in clear light: love is seldom enough. A teardrop cannot capture the vanity of its existence. Whilst waiting for an imperfect love I forget to calculate the time that passes in loneliness. There’s apprehension and tension, there’s eagerness and enthusiasm, but ultimately all with a bitter end for time all along has been passing mercilessly. And if love can never find the empty heart then all that is left is time gnawing away at the soul. Mercilessly.

I don’t know why some people leave and some stay behind. I don’t understand the moment everything shifts. Life into oblivion. Present into past. Love into prayer. Laughter into tears. Sadness into pain.

The only power I have is the power to whisper sincerely please don’t go.

Sharp enough to teach a lesson, soft enough to never make me bleed. But the world is cruel and cruelly it takes that which is most precious to us. Each other…

I’ve not made amends with time. I cannot forgive its nonchalance and mighty power over all. I stay away as much as I can. I remind myself that I am in awe only when I see seasons changing, when I see progression, when I see change. But I grow fearful when I see the past recorded on paper. When I see the wrinkles on my hands. When I see that those who should be here have been called away. Forever. Time has played many tricks on me, still, I murmur in this peaceful night: I can wait.