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Omoide

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Just a regular reading day.

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I have often found the warm embrace of trees, when the heart felt cold.

An essay in 3rd class mentioned trees, i gave it the name of my Grandmother, "Daadi"

Have you ever touched their dry wood, uneven lines of perfection, aren't they the wrinkles of the old and wise.

I when sat back relying upon the trees to hold me, they saw me imagining old sorrows, weeping, perhaps my first kiss.

I looked above, the shadow blowing me love, a light hand on my head saying, I am precious!

You won't judge me, your generosity flows like abe kaunsar.

Do they connect to the heavens, i asked myself.

Where will they lead me? You do witness my breath.

The words may not be loud, i hear you.

The words may not be words at all, i hear you.

As i sleep under you unbothered,

you sing the same song of revelation, of unity and of connection, a lullaby of God.

Shajar, i am grateful for you.

Shajrah, i have never found such comfort.

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Life was the same, but it was different.

I had grown my few inches of perception.

Madam said, meaning is life's concepts connected in webs.

A Kantainian idea i told her, she said yes.

I had nothing of my own, a borrowed life on borrowed ideas.

How could I tell her or anyone, my thoughts are eerie. They make dramatic analogies and fogged realities, and the concepts that I form are uncanny, they often travel like a shroud of delusions, silencing into skies, colour blue.

What i know, i don't know about and, what is beyond, is out of my comprehension.

She tells me about the ship of thesus. I get the irony. But what is it about the "I", How could I tell, i am momentarily "me".

I am changing, like the blood and the body. I don't know who i am, but I knew, maybe yesterday.

A step, a little down, now at the bottom again.

I know nothing, madam, i said, everyday i realise. Everything, if remains the same yet something was different everyday.

She smiled, tell me about "you" tomorrow, she said.

Next day, my thoughts were eerie. They made dramatic analogies and fogged realities, and the concepts that I formed were uncanny, they often travel like a shroud of delusions, silencing into skies, colour red.

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[fragments of vincent's letter (363) to theo // the olive trees by vincent van gogh]

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Nothing will seemingly come across me and say, what will happen. I have to accept the possibility of my own created confusion, of love and of loving. My days are numbered, I forget that, I insanely dive across the darkness that is mysterious than the light. I don't know what I am doing, or where will I end up.

This confusion is devouring me, and I like it exceptionally. I know it was my choice. To love, to love and to die. This is our nature, no matter how selfless the action, you always want something in return. In my dream, curious hands carrying me to the shore, bird's whispering you are alive, you have been given a new life. I choose to die, not to end my life but to live it for, what had the power to kill me, was killing me. Each breath I dealt with my commitment to die, to obliviate me for uncertainty that was there.Why I am impatient then, I don't understand, may be I am ungrateful like all. A priest who wears a cross just to remind him of the Trinity. I fail. I don't look even at him. I say I will do things, I have hope in him and then I forget about it all, and then about everything and then I remember myself of being incomplete, just like a memory. My curiosity has left me broken.I am not a candle who burns to give light, I thought I was but I'm not, I am the air that incites the burning, I love this suffering or I live to suffer instead. If I had the power to stop, realizing what I was. I still wouldn't.This is human.A terrifying humanity. And I have no choice to undo it.

A memoir.

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It cannot be the same, like it first felt, or can it be?

The river?

I was never supposed to fall in love for the second time, but I did, ravenously.

I spend my days mashing the insane suffering inside my thin heart.

My tendencies to be in love unconsciously again.

Like a river flowing, crying out to me to look at its motions between the solid walls weakened by it.

And I don't stop to see, I flow simultaneously, bearing an uncomfortable walk together.

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i will sign pieces of myself away in between the lines of a poem, until my fevered skin yields to your bated, midnight breaths. in your arms, i am the world in pre-apocalypse. i am a hundred careless blunders waiting to pass. i am a name lingering in thinly-veiled rooms. i am but a mess, pliant against your body; kiss me until it consumes you. i am the contradiction of both sanity and madness. if this is what it means then, to fall in love and stay and be yours, i will sign pieces of myself away, with total abandon — they're yours for keeping, and claiming, and staining, my love. i will break, yes — wrecked and wonderstruck back on the ground, but god will i break for you like it was my death — my salvation.

— fray narte

photos screencapped from: wild nights with emily (2018) // dir. madeleine olnek

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I haven’t been selfish with a lot in my life.

But maybe with you, it’s okay.

Maybe I can be selfish with you.

And your burning hands,

And deep purple galaxies that rest under your deep honey eyes,

And the raven hair that covers your rose lips.

Maybe it’ll be okay for me to be a selfish lover with such a love as yours.

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“I think there are pieces of yourself that you will always guard.” - Kiera Cass