I remember these moments.

The water dances up and down my toes in a slow waltz,
in,
out,
in,
out.
What if life were so simple? Just the two directions?

If I stand here long enough my feet will be buried underneath the sand. I suppose life is like that. Stand stagnant long enough and you won't be able to move. I guess that's what happened to me.

It's the quiet moments like this that my mind always goes back to the same few moments. The same memories come to the front of my mind.

It's not like in the movies, where the flashbacks are like little movies playing. I just remember the feelings, and the little moments. I remember my legs shaking so violently and I didn't know whether it was because I was cold or scared, because all the feelings were so overwhelming I didn't have names for them. I remember the silent tears rolling off my cheeks for a seemingly infinite amount of time, and wondering how on Earth it was possible that there were any tears left.

I remember staring at the scrunched up tissue in my hand for so long that my imagination turned it into a little man.

I remember imagining what it would be like if I carried around a little button which I could press and make it all go away.

I remember struggling to keep my eyes open to say how sorry I was, but the apology meant absolutely nothing.


I appreciate the quiet moments but I miss being able to live them in the present. I feel as though I can no longer appreciate them because my mind is too busy trying to relive the past. I miss the numbness, I miss the stillness that it gave my mind. And I think that it's wrong to miss that. But perhaps I can find that calm somewhere else.

The Wooden Table.

My head spins and the features of the wooden table go in and out of focus, as if my eyes are a camera lens adjusting, in and out, and in and out.

I can hear them talking.

No, not talking. Yelling. I can hear the words. But not what they are saying. Just words. One word after another, all disjointed and not meaning anything. But the tone speaks for itself.

The wooden table.

The swirls of the wood.

The carpet. Look at the pattern on the carpet.

Look at their faces. No, don't look at their faces.

Look back at the carpet. The carpet suddenly goes under water and I watch the little droplets that have run off my chin. I stare at them collecting in little puddles on the table.

The table. The wooden table. This plank of dead tree is absorbing my tears. Can it hear my thoughts through those tears? Can I whisper my secrets through these droplets of sorrow?

The table doesn't care.

Obligatory Hate

How strange is this type of hate;
a seed of menace planted in you that you did not create?
Hate because of influence of others,
hate because of what was taught by fathers and mothers.
Would it not be better to assume love?
Do not risk dealing cruelty they are undeserving of.
And why must we hate under obligation?
Under social convention our minds are put under sedation.
Let love grow like a weed,
dance through fields and throw its seeds.
Let kindness grow as an untamed contagion;
let it flow through rivers and seas, allow it no limitation.
To show my love for one person I will not hate another;
and I refuse to be desensitized to bloodshed of my sister or brother.
I will not separate my loyalty by man's divided communities,
with only in-discriminatory love will we end this disunity.

Bit of writing.

18th of July, 2013.

I am not a child,
I have grown a voice.
Though in demeanor I may seem mild,
the life I live is by my choice.
And so despite your arrogance I demand respect,
in spite of your attitude please acknowledge my intellect.
I extend my hand with kindness and love,
but you continue to view me from a pedestal above.
I do not require a babysitter,
please confront this reality though it may taste bitter.
Maturity cannot be measured by accumulated years,
but by the acceptance of all experience, listening through your soul and not your ears.
Though perhaps my issue is one of expression,
my true self masked by inarticulation,
perhaps a measure of your wisdom would be to see what makes a soul;
That it does not come with age, that from birth it is whole.


8th of October, 2013.

Memories of the past tainted by exclusion,
feelings of happiness shadowed by seclusion.
Why am I not who you seek? 
Why must I fit into a box of meek?
Do not tell me who I can be.
Decide such things for yourselves, but do not dictate these laws to me.
I will not abide,will not be pulled by your tide.
I seek to be accepted,but to be accepted as someone I am not is equal to rejected.
Tell me to leave, please tell me to go.
Do not allow me to waste my time with those who think of me so low.
I will always look back, I will always wonder what it was that I lacked.
You are a friend who will forever have a place in my heart,
but accept I must that in yours I will not have a part.

Anger.

In solitude you await the storm,
you plant your feet on the ground.
Stood by the lost, there you mourn,
there you wait, for a sound.

Black clouds billow and surge,
as they reach full capacity.
Soon, the rain, will be purged,
and you cry at God's tenacity.

The weight of the wounds,
unrelenting is the suffering.
The edges of your soul pruned,
washed away with the guttering.

Then the moment will arise,
when to the mountains look your eyes.
When the storm quietens outside,
and moves to your heart, where it will reside.

But because scar tissue is tougher,
where in unhealed wounds you whimper and suffer.
Because courage wins more wars,
and so to anger, you close the doors.

Just a little poem! :)

"Sir, I don't think you understand,"

as I took a step back, refused to shake his hand.

Taken aback he returned his top hat to his head,

shuffled his polished shoes on the pavement,

his cheeks an angry red.

"I measure life in a different currency,

you speak well in your language,

but in mine have no fluency.

You may find comfort in your place in society,

you go to bed smug, in a state of satiety.

But what I seek is of a different sort,

with love and kinship I build around me a fort.

Your tuxedo and refined manner may earn you respect,

twilight dinners; part wine and cheese, part intellect.

But my friends do not view me on a podium above, 

true happiness cannot be measured, nor compassion, nor love.

I wish you well, hope you find pleasure in your ways; 

Live the way that you please, be it in a dreary daze."