Why do I always leave in a hurry?
Why can I never slow down?
Why do I go places to say I’ve been there?
Why don’t I look around?
Sometimes I think it’s about personality,
It would be a shame to change.
But if I’m different and I’ll be happy,
What makes me stay the same?
“Relax” says the graffiti outside the train,
“Relax” says the constant rain.
But how can I listen when life seems to go so fast?
One moment I’m here,
Next on another continent,
And I hardly felt the change.
One moment certain people matter,
Next I forgot their name.
I guess once again I’m in this ridiculous dilemma,
Trying to avoid the changing tides of life,
Looking for a constant,
Deluded into its existence,
Never stopping to see the real light.
My sweet devil,
Gotten so comfortable with falling apart.
Like the dried up stream,
I run from.
At times I’m fooled.
The stream is still dry.
A quest to find some spark,
My loving tears
Can’t turn a wasteland to a park.
What is it?
Books, songs, dances,
I see nothing.
Sometimes so foreign,
Just like laughing.
I’ve erased them.
Nothing really worth it.
No difference can be made.
Living to live,
I am finally home.
So what if words can’t capture
My candle dancing,
The flutter of eyelids,
The bear paw of perfectly warm tea.
Even in the moment of fading friendships,
Of shattered world views,
Of being lost and often insecure,
This room feels like hope.
More than four walls of white paint,
It is the mere possession of it
That indicates a life so far well spent.
The little touches of art,
The colors, the plants,
The notes that I have saved,
They are the makers of a “me.”
And although I deny
The existence of a static personality,
Or well defined traits,
There is something extremely comforting
In looking at something
And being able to point to it and say –
And perhaps even if this is not all of me,
It is alright because
just like words are not full feelings,
So are these objects and this room,
Puzzle pieces of a life in progress
Of a creature whose uniqueness is written in these fine details.
Home is the place where you can read about yourself.
I’m made these walls mine,
Now they’re here to remind me of who I am,
And when in doubt, to find myself again.
There’s a frightening coldness to a new city,
Even under shelter and comfort,
You feel closer to the homeless
Than to the ones rushing happily home.
After all, money is the only separation
And material things can be taken away.
These well-built white walls won’t hug you
If it all gets taken away.
Perhaps that’s the source of the coldness
Whether here or gone
Your presence is of no importance
Your disappearance is hidden
With a simple bird’s song.
These bright city lights keep shining
The lives of people keep on winding,
And no one notices you going along.
They say home is where someone notices you’re gone.
I’ve tried to define home as a place in myself
And now I’ve noticed I’m gone.
I’m a bundle of fears,
Of changes and tears
Of burned bridges,
Of stressful falling of hair on the floor,
Of hasty decisions on lovers,
Of books which lose sense when they enter my head.
Where have I gone?
Though was I ever really home?
I really am in a movie:
My flowery dress, my wild hair,
The leather journal in my hands,
A different look upon my face.
On a hidden bench by a large bush
I look on to life around me
And my heart calms to an almost undetectable speed.
The birds behind me keep going on
Like the group of school children who jump loudly
And skip on to their teacher.
Splotches of sunlight, here and there.
A woman on a bike passes
And looks at me weirdly
As if she’s never seen a girl with a notebook before.
Perhaps she never has.
The world should be ashamed.
At least the couple that sits by me doesn’t seem to notice.
They understand better,
My romantic painted world against theirs.
Like them, I don’t want to leave.
Like them, I’m going to have to,
To go on with my life.
Sunlight hits one more time,
And the garden becomes ten shades greener.
I hear a mother whispering to her child.
Then, even in this paradise,
I think of someone.
The magic’s lost.
It’s time to leave.
My heart beats softly
As I think fondly
of the goings of the day.
Things not worth mentioning aloud.
There is no other view.
It’s tiny things –
My soft pink room
Matches perfectly the softness of my thoughts.
(From the unpublished archive, Jan 2015)