stream of consciousness

Here is to heartbreak, and other breaks,here is to the lonely nights that almost stripped my sanity. To disappointment and letdowns, betrayls and regrets.I have tragedy to thank for all that I have created and will create.

broken mirror

Happiness is attainable— or so I hope

Everyday I run faster towards it:

Most days I go as far as deliberately throwing myself at it, other days I prefer to run from it 

I am afraid of it

I fear the unknown

I am petrified and frozen

 I find myself trying to sort through jumbled emotions and

working toward what cannot be grasped 

I bring it upon myself out of unsettled guilt and consistent exhaustion 

Once again I confront it all,

I stand up to a twisted reflection trying to break the view from my side of the mirror

I piece together the broken glass

in hopes that patience and persistence will give me a clear, true

reflection.

I caught myself tonight
Hopelessly and frantically attempting to piece together what has been brutally severed
I caught myself passively wishing, and whining.
I caught myself complaining yet standing absolutely still.
Then, I caught hold of myself:
Catastrophe although present, is not the whole.
Wholeness is a rather impossible concept.
Rather, life is the most perfect shade of catastrophically euphoric moments.

the sweet serenity of continued silence fills me to the brim

pulls me like the current

and drowns me, fiercely.

I am one with my,for once quiet, almost secure, mind.

I feel the past escape me

and the future and present linger near

[unfinished]

Passion is critical. 

Without it one becomes spineless, and motivation deprived

as obvious as that may sound

I was unable to see such blarring truth

until the late in the evening of this day

when I stood in front of the ocean

And I finally realized:

If the ocean moves forward  unceasingly everyday

why shouldn’t I?

having been here for only a day it is seems soon to the determain how much change I underwent since the last time I found myself in this same apartment, same lovely country, same stirring city. It is reinvigorating to acknowledge personal growth is the what I am trying to get at. 

liaison

Concentration was impossible

all of her atoms screamed, and begged

they hoped that through some physiological connection they had

he would burst in the door

and take her away

forever

till her worries were nothing but little puffy clouds

in the most beautifully painted horizon

Untitled (in progress)

Airport blues again

She smelted the anguish as the people in nice shoes and clothes rushed by

For the first time life knocked her off her feet

Those five years had been too brief

Letters organized to form strange words

The air smelt foreign

She was lost for the first time

She tried to hide behind her mother’s legs

and regrettably so

She still felt alone

Foreshadowing to what was to come

                        ***

The Abyss (continued)

Today marks exactly one month since. A month since and I cannot recognize my reflection in the mirror: skin looks worn out and exhausted, eyes are mere marbles sinking into a sea of almost desperation and hopelessness, and perhaps most alarming, movements are slow and powerless. Movements are much like the dying effort on an animal who even through the last breaths of life forces itself to stand…only to collapse shortly thereafter. Collapsing was overwhelmingly familiar to both that poor animal, and myself.

                                           ***

The Abyss

Changed the bed sheets a week ago. Pillow cases are white on the brand new bed my parents bought me. It’s around New Years. I am sitting. It’s actually December 31, 2011. I hate today, every year. I always have trouble letting the past float behind me—where in in fact belongs. I relive it, with such intensity that it becomes suffocating, strips me of oxygen. Memories are vivid enough for me to live in them. I live in my own memories; the present does not exist

A month ago my pillow cases were white and untouched. A month ago I was ready for what was coming. And then I wasn’t. I am currently not ready. My pillow cases are brown, now. Dried mascara shade of brown…The absolute color of anguish.

perfect unison

If there were one thing I’d have to hold on to

When I felt it hurt

I’d hold with every fiber of my being to whispering ‘I love you’ in the back of that taxi Or perhaps the color of the roses

Or even bittersweet pain in which we were submerged during that goodbye kiss