Adrift, a Dream

Not sure I want to see

Being neither moored
Nor steered.
Closing broken doors
On fears
I am
Drifting

Pools of neon lights
Made me
Cringe into delight
Scared me…
And I
Am loose

Books are piling up.
The dust,
Now, is filling up
The room –
Am I
Adrift?

Open one of them –
You’re done –
Peace and war poems
They sung
Voices
Of loss.

Sending thoughts to float
Across
Spaces far remote
I toss
And turn
Adrift
Un-lost.

The Culture of Love?

Why did heartbreak hurt me so?

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about love and relationships. I am not sure I should say “lately,” because in a way, I’ve always thought about these issues a lot, even as a child. Yet, I have never been the kind of person who hops from relationship to relationship or contrives to make people fall for me.

When I was a teen, I always found myself “feeling in love” though, and of course, I never loved people I could actually be with. I have “loved” one of my professors, and the best-looking boy in high school and a few men who were older than me. I remember asking my mother why I could not have a boyfriend or a girlfriend as the other kids at school did. Her answer was quite simple, but I think she was right and only formulated a truth I already knew but did not want to see. She said: “That’s because you’re not in love with anyone. What you love is the idea of love.”

It was easier then to be in love with love than to actually try and be in a real relationship. There would be no rejection and no pain. I could create all these beautiful stories inside my head, and no one could ever take them away from me because I was in control. But then, one day, I really did fall in love, with a girl. And it hurt. I fell in love again, with another girl. And it hurt more. And then again – and on the moment I felt my heart crack open and shatter that time, I thought I would die. This is not just a frozen, cliché image. My heart was pounding; I had shivers down my spine; I could not eat, could not sleep, could hardly breathe…

Heartbreak.jpg

At that point, my only thought was “Don’t be fooled dear, there is no such thing as LOVE.” So I started reflecting on the idea of love once again. What was it that had made me so dreadfully hurt? What could possibly have caused such intense suffering? I am happy when I am alone. I don’t feel the need to have a lover or to experience these fluttery feelings you get when you first meet someone. I do not crave it. So what was it? Was it my pride that had been wounded? Was it the idea that our culture imposes on us that if you do not have a fulfilled love life you have accomplished virtually nothing, even if you are successful at work and have good friends because our society seems to tell us we must have it all? EVERY SINGLE LITTLE THING? Or was it so painful because even though I did not need my lover, I actually had made a conscious choice to be with her? I just wanted to be with her and share with her?

The pride issue I think I have resolved. Of course, I am not a perfect angel of selflessness and disinterestedness, so yes, my pride must have been hurt a little bit. I guess that is just natural. What really hurt me though was being told that I was perfect and still losing the one person I loved so dearly. How could I be “perfect” and still not enough? How could perfect be discarded so easily and so quickly? It took me back to my own childhood fears, when my mother told me, even as I got straight As, that I could do better. That when I was naturally kind and loving, I was told that my love was not there or was not real. That my kindness and generosity were a social manipulation. That I was only good because I wanted  people to love me because I did not love myself at all. That all this so-called perfection was either fake or still not enough. I felt worthless and started questioning who I was and whether striving to be the best person you could possibly be (because I don’t think I’m perfect. No one is. And I don’t want to be perfect) was actually worth it.

When the rush of emotion had washed away a little, I came to the conclusion that I should not let my pain harden me into becoming a more selfish and nastier person though. Then, I would actually hate myself as I would not be respecting any of my personal beliefs.

So I wondered about the other questions. Yes, society wants us to have it all; and our culture sells us a image of love that is all passion and thrill without pausing to consider what love is. Love seems to have become just another product we want to consume. Of course, that is not how everyone sees it – I personally don’t and many of my friends do not either – but it tends to be presented in that way very often. Just think about all the love quotes on the internet!

And finally, there was the difference between needing and wanting. No, I did not need my lover to be happy. When I met her, I even knew being with her would probably mean problems and drama and hurt because I could feel she was troubled. And I was right. Still, I chose to stay because I loved her and I wanted to be with her, and I was ready to accept her for who she was, with the good and the bad because relationships are not just about the thrill, they’re about building something. One of my friends told me that you do not find the love of your life, you create it. And I think she’s right, so perhaps the grief of heartbreak was only enhanced by the feeling that the safe place I was trying to build for us together with her was being torn apart. It felt like watching my favorite poem or the painting I liked the most burning away. And it reminded me of all the hurt in the world that we cannot control – all the destruction… So I thought to myself: “the world is already so full of weeping, why would anyone want to add to it? Why generate devastation when you can build beauty?”

Hoping.jpg

But perhaps I am too much of an idealist and an optimist… And I know that the heart wants what it wants. It can’t be helped, but still, I’d like to hold on to these ideals.

Sorry about this terribly long post… I hope you enjoy it! Thanks to anyone reading  💙

Have a wonderful day,

Love,

Sacha

And there will be a flame

It is a cloudy Sunday morning – the autumn sky looks like a very light grey shroud devoid of shadow or light, making the world around, that flavourless cityscape I can see through the widow, look anaesthetized. There is no wind; the trees stand very still; the electric cables here and there hang motionless. I can hear no rushing cars, no laughing school kids and no old ladies of many colours argue down the street, near the bakery shop. Somewhere in the house, dad is watching television as he always does – the lulled voices of commercials and various programs are an unescapable background noise in the flat.

It is a day neither good nor bad. It is not a day that calls for an epiphany; the special moment of revelation seems even less likely as steam gradually builds on the windows which take on the wan colour of the clouds. I can no longer see the buildings across the street, or the trees that stand very still and the electric cables here and there hanging motionless from their posts.

I have caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror earlier – sleep-deprived, sallow, hollowed cheeks, hunched shoulders and lank, unkempt hair. My pyjamas have stains on them; I can see all around me that the house is not so tidy. I have been sad for too many days.

under-the-sea

And yet, I can feel a new emotion crackling inside. It is not a flame; I could not even call it a spark, but perhaps it needed to begin on such a dull, faded day for if it can catch fire today, when there is no precious light and no vivid colours, perhaps it will endure. It speaks in a really soft, barely audible voice and sings to me: “This is not you in the mirror; remember the promise that you made”. It is true that I made a promise to someone, a vow to keep on drawing, writing, painting, reading, studying and laughing. It is also true that I asked this person to promise me she would endeavour to get better and heal so she could be happy. She promised she would try – I want her to succeed because I know she can, but the only control I have is over my part of the contract. And my part I want to fulfill, because if I do, perhaps the crackling sound inside my heart will catch fire to be a flame. And maybe I can keep it ablaze, one day at a time.

If I must lose you, or…

If I must lose you, promise me only that you will become a brighter, more accomplished person. That if I cannot spend this life with you, you will use the strength inside yourself to get better, that you will not let the apathy and fears that control your lovely mind take hold of you, but instead, endeavour to find your inner light and hold on to it forever so you can let this spark grow into the flame that I could always see within your soul.

If I must lose you, I can only promise you that I will not let myself wilt away, because you once told me I was your favourite flower and never wanted me to fade. All I can offer is to try and be studious, creative and good. To make my PhD the best work I can, become a better artist and complete the stories and the poems that I have begun to write. That I will not stop drawing, reading, writing or laughing because I am missing you.

I never wanted to lose you though… I never dreamt of this life without seeing you smile, without being the first to witness the look in your eyes as you wake up in the morning, or watching your eyes glitter with joy as you eat pomelos, grapefruit, mushrooms or spaghetti.

My heart brings tears into my eyes as it asks: “Who, then, will you share your reading anecdotes with? Who will read your poetry and who will you write it for, now? Whose happiness will you guard and whose soul will you cherish and blend with yours? Who will call you with a thousand questions and whose hand will you lace to yours? Who will you share the morning cup of coffee with and whose bread will you toast with jam and butter? Whose tears will you dry but your own?  Whose eyes will you simply, kindly look into?”

No one. No one’s. But if it means you can start to heal – I do not mind as much. If it means that in a month, or in a year, you can stand on your own two feet and look at yourself in the mirror thinking “I am happy” then it does not hurt as much, because I love you far beyond my own pains and desires – I love you so very much that all I ever want is for you to be fulfilled, even if it means that you must be forever away from me.

So if I must lose you, please be well, please be healthy, please be your truest, most beautiful and loving self, be the sublime, intricate, colourful sunset I fell in love with.

Love and Understanding

There was a girl with blood red lips
Always detached, cool and hip,
Defiant of the world,
She would not speak a word.

Yet, somewhere in her eyes
Shone stars and crystal skies
And dreams unheard…
She wouldn’t say a word.

     As I opened my WordPress reader this morning, I found a Daily Prompt on the theme of understanding, which, incidentally, was precisely what I wanted to write about today. So here I am, alone in a classroom at school, writing… It feels a little strange. The sky is overcast — the clouds are a pearly grey colour with splashes of white light here and there. They make the tall trees in the playground look bluer… I seem to see the world through a filter.

      Just like the world around me, just like the rolling waves of clouds in the sky, and the trees bowing their branches under the weight of the raindrops that gathered within their leaves, my mind is blurred. It is a little cliché to assume that I am one with the landscape. But I cannot understand the universe otherwise; even though I know that it must exist with or without me, it is only real to me as long as I am aware of it. If I were to cease upon the midnight, the raindrops, the leaves of grass and the morning dew on the soft-fallen petals of bloody poppies would all disappear with me…

wildflower-field-uk-lucy-antony

      Understanding… Understanding the world, understanding my feelings, hers… She is lying there by my side, with her hand laced to mine. We do not face each other; her eyes are wet, tears rolling silently down her temples and into her dark curls. She is an impenetrable fortress — no matter how high I climb, when I reach the arrow slits, all I can do is take a short peek inside the gardens of her mind. Poppies, cornflowers, daisies, cowslips and buttercups, each a thought I cannot pick. Would I understand them better were I to gather and plant them inside the gardens of my own mind?

        In love, understanding comes unspoken, wordless it grows in the touch of a hand and in the meeting of troubled eyes. I do not need her to word her thoughts; I can only accept all of her, even the parts I cannot quite explain. Sometimes, I know that she cannot make sense of the way I act. Sometimes, I know that our ideas have to make loops, twists and follow circumvoluted ways before they meet at last, but it does not matter, for in the midst of chaos, in the look of her eyes, I understand and feel her within me, warm, and close.

“The pain of being alone is completely out of this world, isn’t it? I don’t know why, but I understand your feelings so much, it actually hurts. ”
― Masashi Kishimoto

Dream Balloons

dream_by_yuuta_apple-d9dddpb

I was talking with my friend Mathou the other day and we suddenly started wondering about our identities. It is strange how the deepest, strangest conversations sometimes begin in the most incongruous of places, like the car that your friend has just parked to drop you off and that you end up leaving only an hour and half later…

Our identities… “What makes us who we are?” she asked me. I closed my eyes and saw only one thing: a small child running by the ocean shore holding a kite tightly in its hand and another one dancing in the sky among the clouds with its tiny fist closed on a bouquet of air balloons. I turned to my friend and said: “dreams.” Doesn’t our ability to hold on to our dreams and cherish them define us? When we are but children, our dreams are everything to us – and everything seems possible. They are the beautiful kites or balloons whose strings we wrap around our fingers to make sure they cannot be blown away by the wind. As we grow older, though, it seems the wind blows ever more strongly, making it harder and harder to hold on to the balloon string… And we get hurt; we fail; we lose… Imperceptibly, our grasp loosens – and some of us let go of the string… The dream balloon rises up to the sky and vanishes into the clouds… forever, out of sight… And we forget. Yet, some of us never let go. No matter how difficult, no matter how painful, we keep holding on to the dream balloon, even though the wind has become a storm that forces us to clench our fists until they hurt or to sew the strings to our skin so that they pull and make us bleed with every fierce gust of wind, we struggle on, because there always comes a time when tempest turns sunny day and the sky clears. The dream balloon is no longer hidden behind heavy clouds; it no longer hurts. It brings only the joy of beholding a long loved dream you can pursue at last.

“Hold fast to dreams,
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird,
That cannot fly.”
― Langston Hughes

I hope anyone who reads this will take some time to go and take a look at Yuuta-Apple‘s deviantArt page, as she painted the wonderful painting that illustrates this post. She is an amazing artist! Give her love and support! ♥