Begin.

Begin. Just begin.

Talk freely of wounds that lay cold beneath the callouses of your heart and the moral fibre that strings you together awkwardly.

Honestly, there’s no therapy like my own I guess. I will write to try and make sense of what is in front of me. Write to elate, write to reveal. Write to feel, to no longer conceal. Write to elate, write to relieve. Write when I contemplate, so nothing is lost to the air.

I was thinking about my family yesterday…am I myself with them? Am I completely free in their presence? Do I say what’s truly on my heart or mind? Or do I just hold back, and bottle it down? Why am I not open with them? Because they see my faults maybe. I can’t hide my iniquities from them. I am so imperfect. So imperfect that I don’t bother trying to change their perception of me because I honestly wouldn't know where to start. Actually that’s a lie. I know where to start, I just don’t want to start. Laziness, hesitating with ancient angst I guess. I think our family can only be functional if we don’t really say what’s on our mind. Because if we really said what was on each other’s minds it may be too much to take. I don’t think we can deal with each other’s true feelings. It’s always the wrong time. Everyone’s always hurting, or recovering.  We talk behind each other’s back. We restrain ourselves from each other for the fear of being misunderstood or being understood perfectly.

I suppose no one’s sane all the time. I don’t trust the mental state of the members of my family. One time they can take it, and other times they can’t. One time they’ll be willing to listen and the other times, they really don’t want to. I know my faults. I know what they could throw at me. I am too ashamed of myself to fight back to correct the truth. The truth is the truth. What’s the secret of a happy family life?

I think it starts with each of the family members being at their happiest. Finding their own happiness. It always comes back to oneself. Are you happy where you are? Are you happy with who you are? Do you believe you are doing the best you can to be the best you can be? If the answers to these are yes,  I think we would rarely have problems with each other. We would cleanse our own souls, purge ourselves. To be worthy of the unconditional love that comes with loving members of our family.

Where does selflessness come from? Maybe it comes from the confidence that you are doing all you can to make sure you are taken care of. Now you wish to change to focus from looking inside to looking outside, and nursing the rest of the world. Does selflessness come at the cost of your soul? I don’t think so. If you are doing your best to be the best you are, then you have the space to fight for someone else. Because you are equipped with an undeniable and unbreakable confidence. No one can point a finger in your direction, because you have your back covered.

I want to be strong for you. I want to feel for you. I want to give you the best parts of me. You deserve the best parts of me. We can work this out together right? Please don’t be too tired to listen. Please don’t be too hurt to go on. Tell me that I can have an honest place here.

Where do I start?

It’ll be alright in the end,

If I just

Begin.

eight days to 20

I am so scared. 
So afraid of failure, 
of obesity, 
of someone looking at me 
in repulse and disgust, 
mortified to find 
the blemishes on my skin
and even more repelled 
by the open sores 
of my heart.

I'm afraid of being misunderstood,
understood perfectly, 
being laughed at for being 
eccentrically extraordinary, 
and at the same time in my hovering frame, 
traditional values are the bones
that make me, I'm afraid of being boring
and old-fashioned. 
I'm afraid of that rancid undertone in your voice,
laced with scorn,
when you say, "It's okay, I understand. 
You don't have to if you don't want to."

Sometimes I wish I could skip out 
on parts of life altogether;
much like an acne-scarred, 
buck-toothed, 
fat, 
bulimic, 
awkward 
tall girl 
wishes 
she could skip out on high school. 

But where is the fun in that? 
Relief is only momentary, 
temporary 
and solitary in such things, 
and 20?

20 is coming my way.
Whether I like it or not.

a.

jesus christ, has it really been 10 years?
how've you been, it's been so long since
i've heard your voice anywhere else but my head
playing it now and then
brokenrecords
shards of vinyl memories
scattered across the floor
marrying the bits of that horrible vase
your wonderful mother gave us.

how's your little sister? has she grown up
with a mouth on her too, she was such a smart girl
so pretty too, how are you handling all the attention
from all the boys, remember
how we used to laugh at how
we'd have to wait baseball bat
in hand at the door
because you couldn't ever believe
she'd like my advice more
and flaunt it, baby, flaunt it.
there's no use in veiling 
such a beautiful thing, no?

did you ever become a writer?
those poems you'd read out to
me in the mornings
before i'd open my eyes
whispering the words so poignantly
that they'd tangle themselves in my hair
with the scent of you
left in me 
lasting the whole day,
a scent i'd never thought
i'd have to forget until
i'd close my eyes
and find it again.

oh is that your wife?
hi, yes i'm just an old friend
oh you're gorgeous
sorry, it's been years
i'm so overwhelmed
i'm well thank you, and
oh my, is that your..your son?
well, he's certainly got your mischevious 
head of hair,
oh he doesn't have to say hi if he doesn't
want to,
awh well, it's lovely to meet you too.
ah i'm sorry, you look in a hurry
oh wow, so it's true you did become a doctor
that must be an important function for you
i'm happy to hear that!
what are they awarding you for?
gosh, that's wonderful, and
just dropping the little one at the sitter's?

which flat is it?
i could take him,
it's no trouble
i'm looking after kids too now y'know
after...what happened...
we've always wanted children,
it's a good time to spend the evenings
i don't feel as lonely,
he was a good man
and i miss him terribly
but now
i want to just be useful
especially to people that still have the time
to spend with each other
yes, it's a delightful business,
i'm actually expecting a child right now.

312? oh would you look at that,
that's me.

have a good night, we'll be fine.

yes?
i don't know how you could call me beautiful.
i thought you grew numb to my face
a long time ago.
i'm sorry,
it's just been so long,
you look great though.
i missed seeing you smile.
but don't let me keep you,
she's waiting.

have a great night.

over my shoulder

in time, i've realised that growing up and becoming more mature are two different things.
in fact, i've seen so many childish adults i used to think this is what was attractive to people as they aged alongside each other. the ability to talk coyly or emphatically put your opinion across, always be laughing and giggly and up for anything. of course, this has nothing to do with how you've really advanced in your pursuit of happiness *winking suggestively*coupled with how wasted you got over the weekend, but check you out, still managed to make it to work monday morning cribbing about the traffic, looking like a star. 

maturity on the other hand, i used to always confuse with nonchalance. but that if anything is absolutely not what it is. to be mature is to be able to let go; dealing with the truth no matter how hard it is. like the times when a conversation is dying and you really don't have the time or need to drag it out longer, to know when a person is pensive and wishes to enjoy the presence of your company rather than the echo of your words, to know when an event occurs that it will pass and that we constantly go through this cycle of regeneration, playing back things that really don't and will never change. 

we can barely keep up with ourselves as we get lost in our feelings and thoughts. and then, like a wisp of smoke, the fourth cigarette i really didn't need to have vanishes, taking with it the fleeting exhilaration it brought  and as soon as it came, i need another tug at the fancy cinnamon stick. i ponder on times when our words flow out our throats unceasingly, never stopping, so excited to enjoy and describe the grandeur of that passing second of fame and utter bliss. and then 3 months down the line, that second is almost worth a penny, collected in a rusty old tin that gets scrimmaged in once in a while, important enough for taxi money at the least.

if i were the adult i'd want to be, and i'm not there yet, but if i were...i would look at each moment like it was going to pass. and that way i could enjoy it for the 5 seconds that it lasted. i could watch it disappear with content, knowing that if i sat pretty enough, another one would pass me by too filling in the void, soothing my anxious trembling to be occupied in mind and satisfied in soul.

honestly, these years between broad waistlines and meagre paychecks, i want to be able to really pick and choose my colours. character is built and not granted. i want to be able to grow up with elegance, and humility. maturity is something i hope God gives me the grace to pursue, because it really is an effort to be confident enough to correct ourselves, our old ways, manners of speech, fears. i realise we have always had the answers clenched up so tightly in our fists, but often lacked the courage necessary to untangle our intentions from our insecurities, to raise our hands up straight and clean, and ask the question anyway, "ma'am, will it all be over soon?"

truth is it never finishes. we either grow bitter or we get better. at ourselves, or the whole world; we all end up wanting more. how different would it be if we knew we were going to get where we needed to go anyway, we just had to work at lasting through the seconds, the minutes, the days, the weeks until finally...we can look back in months and years and know, we did the best we could with what we had.

sushiela

I see the words appear on the lines that crease your forehead, or the space between your brows, before you even speak out. You’re aged further by the very weight of your thoughts, you turn pale at an image that rests at the back of your eyelids, places far beyond my reach.

I cannot shelter you from those demons. But I can tell you that if you ever find the courage to speak, to say what you feel, I’ll listen. I’ll listen and I won’t judge you. We are allowed be imperfect, and flawed and totally lost together. But at some point, we have to find our way back home.

I’ll take your hands, and bring them to your lips and show you how perfect they are. How wonderful they’d look if only you’d just smile. I’ll touch your hair and brush those beautiful brown locks of yours down, entangling them in my fingers, fistfuls of you. Bringing you closer to me, I take my hand and brush them over to your feet with all its ten toes; to show you that you can walk, your steps are not cursed, and you are not marred by a burden carried. You are not crazy; nothing needs to stay in your head. I will love you through the vulgarity of your thoughts, through the sting in their vulnerabilities and even through this, will I want to see your vicarious raw soul.   

Don’t be afraid to let me embrace you. You will always be free, you’ll always be you. I don’t want to change any of that. I’m here to show you that you can still love this world. There is still happiness for you here, happiness that your age cannot take away. Your wrinkled skin a testimony to the feats you have performed with honesty and sincerity. Your face doesn’t lie. I get it. You are tired.

I can’t tell you how it could have been different. But I can tell you I’m happy it was not, because if it was, we would not be here right now. So please please laugh once more for me, and let me lay you to rest. The one I am thankful for.

another day in paradise

"it's a wonderful wonderful life"
i am washed over again,

black and blue seeps away from my skin,

the nib drawing away the ink from its pot.

let the words appear on some other page,

let me read it, let me see it somewhere else.

how we survive,

"no need to run and hide"

i see it all again.

moments slip into the shadows,

i clock my time, in and out,

of this conscious living,

sustained by faith alone.

sometimes hope doesn't even cut it,

it's the dogma of duty,

it's the beckoning of the truth,

into the valley of death rode us,

the five of us.

but it's a wonderful wonderful life.

unnamed

We seem to be living the blur yet again. We seem to be walking the same damn line. Take me back 10 years. Take me back to the summer where we house hunted, where we ran naked through our pockets in search of pennies to pay for a home.

Shelter is not just an aluminium sheet anymore, the rain seeps in, orders. The mattress you sleep on today has a story, it was stolen. Hungry hands grabbed it away, a bachelor turned it into a wedding bed, and then threw it away when a baby was born. When your baby was born, 18 years ago, was your home small? Or was it large, was it too big to hold? The feeling of having to be a home for another being? Another life you held in the palm of your hand, you would be the hand that fed it, you would be the brush that painted the smile on its face, you would take it to school and help it live.

You would show it the world, a world that was too ugly to be rolled into a diploma, you showed her the chasm between theory and practise. You broke the sound barriers when you educated her with those words.

When i write, i talk at a thousand people at the same time, to a hundred people in a single glance and to a handpicked few in a single breath. Today, its 18 years after. And the both of you are here, another came in between to define the prism of light growing in her womb. And it shone brighter and brighter, but she grew weaker and weaker, and no matter how hard i try and save the hands that taught me how to live for the one that still has to live, age has caught up with you. and although the wise one tells me to be brave about death, how can i when your story has yet to be told? I stay away from it all, I’m sheltered by the walls that enclose me, the wings cover me, and so many others that try escape the shrewd nature of the world that lies beyond the walls of barbed wire, beyond the grizzly screens, and further beyond the pictures in the paper, black and white and red all over.

Still in the midst of all this instability, in the heart of this wall of text, there is a beating fighting young poignant heart. There is a point. Sailing across the gulf that separates us, you come to build me a home. I have a few more years left in me, i still have them. All i can say is I can still step into my Father’s House, I can still look up and praise, and I will still look up with no shame until there is nothing to look up to anymore. For that is how I came into this world, with my head thrown back, and my eyes shut, and my hair covering my ears.

Not the pretty way words are supposed to look on a page, no the beauty you bring is when the intensity of your eyes burns life into every syllable of this prose. When finally you swallow your fears and your pride and every single piece of your mortality that remains and you pause. Your stomach churns, because the hardest thing to admit is that you have reached the end of the page. So until then, i’ll put a stopgap in the inflated importance my generation gives to procrastination, and i will shamelessly waste away my days with you, until all we know is taken from us again, and we will be hurt.

And still from the ashes we shall rise.



Golden children of the sky, you golden children of the sky.