Flooded towns.

Dear You,

I can tell you this with all the wisdom I have gathered, broken hearts are the heaviest. As you watch the contents of your heart spill into the street, waves taking over the whole town, don’t look away.

This is all your love, washing down buildings of memories. You created that, and if the whole town drowns, cutting you off from the rest of the world, then so be it.

If someone wants to reach you, they will sail through the rising waters.

And when that happens all you have to do
Is decide if they can get to you.

Angry girl.

source

Artist Libby VanderPloeg: https://gph.is/2OJNiHc . Instagram: https://bit.ly/2nRBDZK

Dear You,

 

The problem is not that you get angry at how unjust things around you are.

Every single woman, at some point of her life must have been subjected to something sexist. Something that seemed trivial, something that was said in passing, as a joke, just as an “honest question” ( whatever that means).

Sometimes, people ask you to smile, sometimes they ask you to smile more. On some occasions you’re asked to calm down, for some people you’re too loud, too boisterous. Very un-ladylike.

Sometimes, they don’t take you seriously at work.

There are boxes and if you don’t fit in them, you’re an anomaly.

The problem is not that you get angry,
The problem is that you don’t stay angry long enough.
Rage, rage.

Hello darling, how are you?

Dear You,

I’m writing with the hope that you’re fine and well, alive enough to read my letter. Alive not just physically, in a way that your heart is beating fine and your organs are working just the way they should. But alive enough to soak in the wonder that is all around you.

So you’ve had your heart broken, wouldn’t really be the first time, would it? Will it be the last? Perhaps. Maybe not.
Don’t sulk, isn’t a broken heart a sign of one that was loved anyway? I didn’t make that up, I read it somewhere.
That’s where I get my wisdom from these days — conversations of strangers, random comments by people on social media and some very old books.
Strange places to find solace, isn’t it? Not the books though, they always find a way to soothe my weary soul.

Sorry, I have a way of losing track.
So, while the world seems like a terrible place to live in, especially now that you’re nursing a broken heart, I want to remind you to be a little more kind to everyone. But you’ll first have to start with yourself.
Allow yourself to cry, and when you feel like you can’t breathe anymore, gently remind yourself that you can, you will and you already are.

Be strong, be kind and be gentle.
Say please, thank you and sorry when you have to.
Wash your feet and face before going to bed.
And remember you might feel broken right now,
But you’ve never been more whole.

The sense of an ending.

livingstilltumblr.com

I knew it was long overdue. 
But please give me the benefit of doubt, I was, to simply put it… scared. 

So I re-read the chapter. Feeling every word, letting each emotion cut through me. This time, allowing flowers to bloom in deserts and letting rivers (that shouldn’t have been there in the first place) go dry. 
And then, once again, I arrived at the last word and the last punctuation mark of the chapter. 

I had two choices:
1) To re-read all of it again.
2) To move on to the next chapter.

I sat there, unable to fight the tears, running my fingers through the now faded words and memories. In that moment, I met the love that got lost somewhere and all those emotions that were hidden under every full-stop.

But, it was time.
And so,
I turned the page.

Things we need to talk about. 

I never liked empty spaces, hearts or homes.
So I started filling them both.
A couch here, a person there, a coffee table where it wasn’t needed,
a lover when there was space for none.

In hindsight it wasn’t the room full of things that bothered me.
Rooms could be filled and emptied, things could be bought and sold.

But people… people were the problem.
They came at their will sometimes, and that was all right.
It was their leaving that I  never recovered from.

Not the new girl

wp-1478977954322.jpg

“How did I get here?”

I’ve asked myself this question a thousand times and just like every time, I remember the answer now, too: I got here after I sent my resume and that’s how I got selected for this job.

‘Trainee sub-editor’ — that’s what I was hired as. Fun fact: My id card, even after four years and nine months reads the same. That brings me to the next point — it has been four years and nine months since I joined this newspaper organisation!

“Four years and nine months is a long time,” I told myself. “Babies are born and they grow, well, four years and nine months older. Sigh. People fall in and out of love, people move away, get sad and get happy. Some get strong, some get weak,” I added trying to convince myself.

So, a few weeks ago, I took twenty deep breaths before I could press the ‘send’ button (on an email informing my bosses of my resignation). When twenty didn’t work, I took seven more and pressed the damn button. The ‘Undo’ option kept blinking at me, but this time I knew better than ‘undoing’ it.

After 41,610 hours spent  chasing deadlines — well, not all the hours were spent doing that… but most of them were — I turned the sand timer upside down and finally quit my first job.

I felt all sorts of emotions: regret, anger, annoyance and sadness… deep sadness. I couldn’t believe that what I have been doing since the last few years will all come to an end in the next  few days.

So even though I prepare myself, to say good bye to the job I loved a lot, I know this:
After chasing deadlines for “four years and nine months”… I chase no more.
At least for now.

Fast-forwarding

I found myself waiting for the moment to pass. For time to fast forward so quickly that the next time I opened my eyes, I would be in a different city in a different year, with a wall painted in the faintest of hues and sunlight filtering in through the window.

I’d probably relive this moment while sipping on my cup of tea, a lot like how our fingers absent-mindedly trace the scar of a once gaping wound, all healed up nicely. Probably then, this will seem less intense… these feelings, these words and these people.

I desperately wanted a glimpse of the future, to know if I survived this moment and the time after that.

I wanted out.
I needed to get out.
And I was ready to do anything.

Identities.

 

You are not your father.
You are not your mother.
And for better or worse, you will never become them.

You are your own. You might have their laugh, their smile, their ability to make people feel special. Your eyes might look like your theirs, the way you squeak when you laugh might just be like what they do.
You can be like them, but you will never be them.

You should never allow things to damage you.
Not anger, not love and definitely not people.

You are not your father.
You are not your mother.
You are completely, wholly, flawfully, wonderfully you.

 

Inconsequential.

If it is not sheer madness that makes us open our hearts and let love in, then I don’t know what it is.

I vaguely remember the song that was playing on the television. Some obscure ’90s pop video, with its ridiculously endearing splash of colours. It’s so weird, when everything around you is busy crumbling down, your attention is  almost always grabbed by the most frivolous of things.

I reluctantly put down the TV remote, my hands leave behind greasy fingerprints, but I don’t bother to clean it. I make some self-deprecating joke and then my thoughts are diverted by the confusion that has attached itself to my life.

Outside, the sun is just beginning to rise and the cuckoo bird must be really excited about it… what else can explain its constant chattering. Then there is you — quiet and noisy. Doing your own thing, making memories and now and then, love. I touch your cool forehead as you stir in your sleep, the light from the TV is reflecting off your peaceful face and I feel a strong surge of emotions — anger, happiness, loneliness, but most importantly love.

What would happen if I got out of the bed and walked away; Not turning back, not even once? Would you wake up worried and look for me until all the fabrics of your delicate heart gave way? Would you cry yourself to sleep or wake yourself crying because a part, an important one I hope, of your life went missing? Would it even matter, or would you shrug, drink your morning tea and get on with life? I’m scared, so I don’t want to know.

When I put my feet down, the cool marble floor takes away my sleep.
I switch off the TV, pick up my car keys and leave.

 

Calm storms.

storm.gif

By MarkovManiac, reddit.com

I am the forest. Dark and scary, but filled with light, life and happiness too.
There is no easy way to describe me. I give and take, love and hate and there is no in between.
It’s black or white and you should know I hate grey, so I’ll never live there.

I am the sea. Rough and calm, tumultuous and uneventful.
I can overpower you, throw you off guard, but I will also guide you safely back home.
As you sit on the shore and celebrate my calmness, never forget the power of the waves.

I am the wind. Strong and powerful, gentle and kind.
I will caress you until you fall asleep, but I can also take away the roof that keeps you safe.
You can love the beauty of the calm wind, but you should be prepared for the storm.

I am this and that and nothing at all.
I run, walk and pick myself when I fall.
I love with a passion that burns bright.
If you can’t handle it, please leave.
I’ll be all right.