Gerasa

In Gerasa of Antiquity, the crossroads of valleys imprinted with footprints of Alexander the Great. Broken pieces of cobblestone steps, in an oval plaza once held promises of prosperity. Yet, the most humble and arrogant of men know - that promises are often made to be broken. With every pillar in my view, once intricately carved with Hellenistic perfection each stands fractured now, distressing lines of frailty.

I can only wonder whose footsteps I trail, centuries after. And imagine the realm of Greek and Roman empires preceding me. Temples of Jupiter and Diana overlooking the remnants of a kingdom - a display of pride once lingered. What kind frailty would Jupiter feel, to once be the King of Gods, but he now no longer reigns? And what sorrow would Diana feel, to summon the moon over this sight of eternal silence, dusted and deserted dynasty?

And I, the solo wanderer unkempt with my imagination. Am left to believe that everything is but a dream, and everything has been created to be left and remain a dream. 

Two Rivers

Maybe my mind is a minefield, but somehow the crickets soothingly sound. Somehow, in the corner of this canvas ground, in this territory of familiarity. I feel slightly found. As if I am picking up again pieces of nostalgia worth six years of stitches healed.

Many nights ago, this was where sleepless nights began. I remember stolen glances across fires, where kamikaze bugs flew - between subtle guitar tunes and secret smiles. And sneaking to the beach when everybody was asleep to catch the sky full of millions of stars light up the lake where two rivers merge. We used to walk in the dark intimately giggling at sweet nothings. And holding hands have never felt sweeter. I remember conspiring lame excuses to find yours, during hikes and rock climbs. Even under picnic tables our fingers clandestinely intertwined,  thinking nobody would notice. But they probably knew, anyway.

We were so young. And I have never felt so much more in love as I did then. With how I was with my life and even more, with you.

...yet here I am, six years too late. As I lay on this canvas ground, listening to the wind whispering memories the trees were once privy to witnessing. The same unceded territory of familiarity. Little did I know then, that this is how it would unfold.

sound -

i would tell you
that i miss the sound of your heartbeat against my own,
woven in and out like threads.

especially when i am drowned
by the sound

of my own heavy thoughts

the attic

& on an attic of sort
in stillness on the last night
somewhere i never thought we'd be
he turned and said -
"don't doubt yourself,"
as the Sao Jorge witnessed before me

Serendipity, in a city

Here we are, in the most quaint corner. Dotted on the point of the map. Across the Atlantic - in a city so rich in history. This is me - and you, in a quarter among colourful houses and a fountain. Sipping drinks over lunch in Alfama. Where even hanging laundries seemed so pretty. Where narrow alley-ways and true blue skies meet. Where hills and paths of streets shyly reveal views of the sea. Bookmarking frames in my memory.

Here, aimlessly we wander the streets into the night. Among tourists and locals alike. While acoustic strings and wonderful men sing to midnight. While I trail away pieces of me - like breadcrumbs on these cobblestone steps.

Here, where violins and strings made me stop on my tracks. Sitting on the white balcony of a closed Camo Convent, we arrived a little too late. Yet as if it was meant to happen. The sound of "The Prayer" tugged away from the air melodically, and straight to my heart, as it trickled its way down my cheek.

Here, we missed the sunset - overlooking cliffs. Yet, the waves and wind that rushed before me, made me feel a familiarity of tininess I have felt once before this. Remember kayaking under the grotto hours before? How perfectly nature arches itself. How lively the sky seemed - reminding me to breathe when I feel restless and breathless by such beauty.

Here, under the stars of a breezy night. Tell me things. Of family. Alluding to unconditional love I know you are capable of. Of which maybe I will never have, but I may have glimpsed briefly.

Here, in transit - in between reflections. In silence. Between stolen glances you sneak, until our eyes meet. Make me believe again, that I can be less alone. Make me believe again, that I am home - even though I am far away from where I should be.

Here, where many fado singers echo the voices of the country. Little did we know that they would serenade us, while my hands clasped between yours - and my heart, soul, breath feel as full as the moon above me.  As we sit in the attic of the hostel on our last night, overlooking the castelo - already reminiscing the mysterious paths and moments of wandering lost in this city. Sighing away, sharing secrets and stories.

Here, for a moment, I was able to see and feel everything before me. It was as if wandering lost, allowed me to collect myself - and find all of me.

tongues

you can learn many different languages

be fluent in many tongues,

yet still lose words to describe what you are feeling.

thirtieth

i used to feel like i was treading in sea, slightly drowning inside. i used to feel my pulse beat like thunder in my own head. through, and through, and thoroughly against. like vastness of waves crashing to the shores of reckless walls-
that i built like a cage around my chest, out of hurt in disguise.

and cemented by bucketfuls of resent-filled ego
                               in refusal to make home in the hearts of man

and here i lie, as if all of me feels stained
staring blankly as words pour out of me -
the melted wax harden by the winds blowing
through my balcony.
making curtains dance
with gracefulness i lack....

i want to be able to believe again,
and i want to be able to give all of me.

not in cowardly fragments as i have done...
and without wearing my tongue and heart in my sleeves
i have been tiptoeing myself on fields of landmines.
faking apathy - but fully knowing otherwise

                                                      i want to be able to feel something again.

awkward

It is quite a wonderful thing to be able to sit in a room full of people whose passion echoes your own. Something rekindles itself like candle inside. It makes my heart leap in ways, so familiar as before my trip to Guatemala and Belize a few years ago. I think this is the same kind of fluttery you feel when you fall in love.

Or maybe I am just weird.

there is this weight in my chest that sorta tumbles a little when i breathe and i am afraid it will make me crumble when i am among strangers.

Missing can only occur with a departure.

I used to believe that every breath inhaled becomes a tiny part of one's soul. And you will breathe until the soul is complete, and has reached a point of fulfillment.

My heart feels like it is drowning. I don't think I am strong enough for this. 

Most graceful and most compassionate.

To the most merciful of this universe.

Of the depth and deepness, with every weakness I feel within me. 

Between tangible silences.

Ever in denial.

To the Keeper of Secrets, forgive him. 

Grant his family ease, strength and comfort.

You are but all-knowing. 

feet

if you try to make things stay, it will grow a pair of feet and walk away.
& then you will tell yourself profusely
that what you thought was forever
did not last so long, afterall

Gentleness

as soft glowing, snowflakes
& here I fall again.

Rekindling

Make no apologies for why things did not become as you thought it would. Make no apologies for letting yourself submerge into the darkness and abyss. Into what you thought was fire, red and passion. Make no apologies for a choice. For choosing. For a realization that you have hands. For feeling things with your fingertips you thought were intangible. Make no apologies to release. For letting go of a rope in a tug of war. For letting yourself pull and be pulled, for the calluses that burned, marking fate in your life-lines. It was never a noose, nor should you let yourself be convinced otherwise. Make no apology for self-love. For the realization of how much destruction self-loathing can do to you.

Expect nobody to understand what you are, where you are, and how you are going through it all. For it was never anybody's but yours alone, to know the real you.

& I am more in love with my life than I have ever been before.

-written Aug 21st, 2014

Street side piano man

I was hypnotized as his fingers danced on the keys. Summer night showered its heat upon my skin. Breathless- but I breathed in nostalgia. My heart swooned at every note my ears captured. It felt like falling in love. How beautiful it is to be able to yearn. And to feel the cavity of my chest be weakened by such captivating sounds...

as all around me, Montreal brought back memories of my last visit.

He sat out on the streets, on a stool with the words "Silence sucks" sticker-ed against black. How ironic that I have feared silence as much as loneliness, yet here I am.

Punctuations.

Ends and beginnings are marked by the same punctuation. How I interpret the sentence before and after is entirely subjective. Contextual, even. For it takes time to understand meanings.

Words can trigger feelings. But I have always wondered about how silly it is, that some feelings cannot be put into words. 

Right now, it feels like I swallowed my own heart. A familiar feeling. It is a weird dull ache, in my chest. For which I have no rational explanation for - how paradoxically foreign. But a positive one, I assure. 

For every word comes from somewhere,
from places you have visited
and depth of darkness within you.

I am fractioned and frictioned by this arrangement. This feels like chasing for temporary highs. I used to love city lights, now I am afraid I might rupture.

Realness

Everything is not as it is told. There is little left to sow, too little left to know.

I have one life, yet I have led many lives. You can spill your heart to a thousand paper pages of sorrows. But every page turned will still feel the same to your fingertips. Out of ordinary. Desperate for a design, for a purpose, for an inked marked skinned to my dried celled skin to tell me-
To just be.

All of the things once said and wanting of each other to be. The compass of my heart is out of tuned, for the needle no longer points north. I have no understanding of this. I have no grip of this vertical reality, spun and twisted in ways I no longer find familiarity...so I just be.

I wish I hadn't felt realness. I wish I hadn't seen it. Tasted it. Smelled it like the wafting scent of your cologne.

For there is nothing harder than pretending to be strangers with another- no greater lie ever forced to live - when you know you have lived one too many lives with someone.

refracted

I found a little piece of broken glass.
It reflected me, in a refracted way.
Forcing me to take a good hard look at myself.