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Am I packing?

Packing to leave?

Cause once the stuff is securely in bags and cartons which claim to be fragile, it's not gonna be easy to unpack. There isn't a second time.

I've always thought there is a certain romance to my journey. Especially for those who will never be able to trace me to, well, wherever I am at the moment.

A goodbye note shouldn't be written with aching nearly-broken knuckles. It should be happy - reminiscent of the times under grey skies while you always knew you belonged elsewhere. Where that is, who knows. Or cares.

A goodbye note.

Goodbye. For good.

There's hardly anything pinning me here anymore. And as I change track, spaces shall see a shift too. I'll carry all that's mine, you take all that's yours.

And we'll be back in the winter of 2009, when books written for girls were read by me. Memories envied. Photos longed for.

All that said and done, been there, done that.

Attraversiamo.

life size

words

that I only hear

but I'm sure

they talk of love

a love

separated by distance

and circumstances

a love

separated by geography

and constraints

a love

separated by human nature

and a habit

to continue habits

suffocation

sudden and tearing

glass doors open

to the sky

where two

young

and battered

each more than

the other

come together

even if only in spirit

what.

is.

not.

if at all.

questions

dozens of them

and an ever-growing pile

of work

and worries

in the usual humdrum

lost

with the usual humdrum.

Amusing Mr Keets

I read Neruda.

And Yeats.

Random piece of information, but it was a few years ago that I found Yeats was really Yates. Not Yeets. Nothing close to Mr 'Keets'.

Anyway. Not important. The point being - I read both Neruda and Yeats on the same night. Or a little before dawn, really.

I have Facebook and Gmail open on the same browser. What am I looking for?

Tonight. I was looking for tonight. A night. Any night.

The only highlight was watching Dumbledore die. And even that was depressing.

The word would be.. Anyway. Again.

Love is such a beautiful thing to read about. Or write about. Or imagine. As long as you don't have to deal with it, it's beautiful. Cause once you do, it just doesn't feel worth it.

I really wanted to write poetry. Cause this space is NOT a journal. But for tonight, which is really just another night, reading Neruda and Yeats and gasping at their ability to bring out the best in words will be it.

why?

calm

after the storm

gates thrown open

to insects

flying about

bumping into

the street lamp

monsoon rain droplets

illuminated by

mute white

as they rest

serene

on hanging wires

telephone

electric

various

and many

the scene outside

my window

is frozen

exhausted

unable to move

any more

no more

brightness

facing me

hurts eyes

and is reduced

a little bug

blown off

as it tracks

new paths

new life

mollycoddling

and melancholy

~ exterior ~

Love is over-rated. But is it?

Cause when you're intellectually convinced, you go back to check if you're emotionally convinced too.

Pictures.

Hundreds of them.

It's funny how things you need and things you want aren't the same. But then you probably knew this all along. Maybe not. All the while when you were writing yourself off, nobody reminded you second class isn't the way to do it. And maybe being second class for so long makes you believe there isn't another way. It's the same thing as telling the same lie a thousand times to convince people it's the truth. Somewhere the truth gets lost. Here the self got lost.

Without options. Without the option of even the self. Now c'mon - you would agree that's not asking for too much, this being the 21st century and all.

A thousand different things at the same time. Voices. Screaming. Louder. Louder. Louder. Blames. Accusations. Screaming. The "past". (What the hell is this past anyway? Cause it's too goddam complicated.) Louder. Drowning. Games. Strategies. Astounded. Louder.

Mess.

And there are things which you must consider. Why.