Frozen

Source: Flickr crashtrope

Sometimes I wonder, just how it all started, how it came to be what it is, and why we couldn't walk away sooner. Was it your calming voice that is neither deep nor high, your smile that is neither bright nor shy-- or was it your quiet demeanor that is neither caring nor careless.

Perhaps it was this ambivalence that made me falter and lose my pride. Perhaps it was the indifference you always treated me with, the indifference that no one in the world showed, but you.

I was tired. Tired of the caring, tired of the protecting, the maintaining, the questioning, and the answering. Sometimes all I wanted was silence and apathy. I'd tell myself I want to connect when in reality, I feel most comfortable floating aimlessly like a ghost. Sometimes I want to step away from everyone and everything and just be, in silence.

My life is anything but indifferent, anything but silent, and this is perhaps why I couldn't walk away sooner. Now that I'm walking away from your world of cold and damp non-emotions, I feel vibrant and warm. My heart begins to flutter and I'm beginning to remember what it feels like to live an ordinary life.

Good-bye my silent love, good-bye. Thank you for the years of indifference, for giving my frozen heart a companion.

Now I leave my cold heart at your doorstep, for there is no room for her in my warm home.

Eternal night has passed; sun arises at the break of dawn.

Good-bye.

11.12.13- The Beginning of Tiny Stories

Life continues to present itself as unpredictable and non-linear contrary to a childlike dream--- and the only way I can make any sense out of present ordeals seem to be the need for tiny stories; for raw, painful and raging stories that permeate everyone's lives but few talk about.

As soon as my life begins to feel ordinary, another extraordinary event follows without my consent- and life is rolling out its red carpet awaiting for me to take my first step as a story-teller.

This red carpet is not glamourous like Hollywood nor perfect like a Taoist's zen...it is tattered, abused and abandoned yet gleaming its beauty under the array of stars that shine without a grid, lost but perfectly orchestrated into a Godly pattern.

Like a shaman who can't shake off an unknown illness until she becomes fully ritualized into her destined role, I must gather my scattered energy and begin to write.

Do I write for the listener or do I write for myself. How do I rationalize the hours spent away from my family by accepting this role. Where do I begin.

Knowing how much story telling can dig up painful memories, knowing the tragic end of many writers consumed by their passions that double as self-deprecating demons, this is a dilemma my head continues to fight.

I keep running away and life keeps bringing me back. I want to run but can't hide. Why do you keep me from living my normal life as a housewife. Why am I putting up a fight.

My muse is my biggest fear and she won't let go until I abide.

When I was younger..