“I don’t want to be holed up in this nowhere-town.”
“Come on, this is hardly a nowhere-town.”
“Yes it is! There is literally NOWHERE that feels anything like what “home” is supposed to feel like.”
“Really? Nowhere? What is home supposed to feel like then?”
“Ugh. I don’t know. It’s just stifling. They’re still stuck in the days of ice cream socials.”
“I thought you were into vintage.”
“There’s vintage, and then there’s antiquated, overly-restrictive traditionalism. I could take a match to this entire place and they would call all the neighbours to pump water from their wells.”
“First of all that is majorly disturbing that the thought even crossed your mind…”
“What comes second? Or last?”
I find it interesting how heads gravitate towards shoulders and how hands gravitate towards other hands.
The insane attraction to human touch in our loneliest and most vulnerable times. When we drift off into dreams, or feel that tight twist of fear or simple loneliness, there is always that compass guiding us towards familiar touch.
Shoulders curve perfectly for a dreamer’s head, I think.
I feel as though I’ve been broken of my one creative streak. I wish I could reach up and brush it ever so softly with my fingertips, coaxing it to come down…dancing like dandelions seeds on a lazy wind back into my grasp. And once again I would be given words of immense beauty and without trepidation I would create worlds and people who in their time and in turn would love and hate and pass by one another. People would live and die but only in my brain where I can feel their pain and their heartbreaks and disappointments because their hearts and my heart have become one. I would escape into lives only captured by words, but all the same as any other human being, not everything would be shared. Some secrets kept only in the words they would whisper to me. Secrets I would promise to keep, but all the same ones that would throw everything in their marvelous story into silent chaos. Secrets intertwined and woven into their cryptic comments and furious episodes of lengthy monologue.
Colliding together with an ungraceful thud. The improbably unconditional love that makes the one moment of reunion worth every other moment of solitude. In the unpoetic atmosphere of the arrival terminal, the departure is but a distant memory that was only ever leading towards the return. Nearly forgotten, as the simple longing for familiarity is satisfied in one embrace. One moment of comfortable sighs. And in the silence of the moment, everything is left behind in the wake of the beauty of just two hands, linked together, with the snug feeling of home.
I cannot breathe.
All this white
They surround me
You learn to hear every sound when you’re in
Oh dear. No no no
Leave me be.
This blackhole pushing through my lungs.
I am not crazy.
Leave me be.
Suck out the life force.
Moans and groans
And textbook tales.
I am not crazy.
I sing songs because I remember
I was eight only yesterday
Time did not pass as swift as you say
I dream of those days you told me were true.
But they aren’t real.
They jump like spots missing in the film reel.
And then I realize.
Just stop motion photographs.
That man showed me them.
Last time I saw him… No more gold band around his finger.
Finally given up.
Those crocodile tears don’t fool me.
He is not my husband.
Eight year olds don’t have husbands.
LEAVE ME BE.
There’s always that longing for someone to hold you and say you’re not alone and that you are worthy and that you can make whatever you want and man, will it ever be beautiful. All these strange words that are meaningless because as long as you’re here I’m just here to confuse you. So let me do my job and fill your head with nonsense and wishes because that’s contagious and so is love. I often wonder what it would be like to be in love because I don’t know and I’m a writer and I want to know if only to write about it and share yet another sappy love story for the world to enjoy and cry tears over because everyone has felt alone. I think. And if nothing else, love sells. People love reading about love and relationships they feel they can never have. They can never have that perfection, that so-called utter bliss of having a han to hold come Valentine’s day. Because maybe people think love is what is in cheap paperback romances, or the chick flicks that you watch, and who am I to say? I really don’t know, maybe it is. But as a world with a fascination with love…love just sells.
Drunk and angry in the midday sun
Get out of my country!
Your country you say?
I’ve been here longer than some of the people that
look just like
But you don’t actually care about that.
Does my skin offend you?
Don’t think I don’t see it taking every
of being in you
To not give in to thinking we’re terrorists
You still just give in.
Double-take at the security counter.
The thing is
If I was to get out of your country
I don’t know where I’d go
Your country is my country too.
Asked by thedandelionmovement-deactivate
I will definitely check it out, m’dear! I just saw your post about Asians discriminating against Asians and the same thing upsets me so much too, having been born in a southern Asian country. There, fair skin is considered almost the only type of beautiful, and while people in the Western world are tanning their skin, people are bleaching their skin in Asia. Lovely idea for a blog, I must say!
The cups of coffee, carefully balanced by hands no longer as steady as they used to be. He sits alone—the tremors visible as he reaches out to turn over the newspaper, the same way he did 30 years ago today, though at a very different scene. The kitchen that was once filled with homemade goodness has long since been empty of breakfast smells and smiles and joy. And the old man sits in the corner of a cheap fast-food chain, trying too bring back what was lost, from the recesses of a battered mind.