Sweet Home, Alone

There is a fear within me that continues to claim victory over my rising happiness. This feeling can only be described as imprisonment. Applied to all avenues of life, it seems to me that my material self has been taken hostage. Imagine this:

a girl, young and beautiful. She has golden blonde hair that has grown beyond the small of her back. She is porcelain-like – the smooth, pale skin untainted by the demons of puberty. She wears a flowing sun dress, with small delicate flowers embroidered on the fabric. She lives her young life like every other young girl and boy but she lives a less desirable life beyond the ‘things’ that define our world. She is the same young girl, but in her mind she is kept within four invisible walls. She can see kilometers ahead – the fallen birch trees and the hills elevated in the sky – but she doesn’t dare walk past the four walls she has designated for herself. Some may say this is her comfort zone but it is not. To create a comfort zone she must know what makes her uncomfortable but she has never made this contrast. Maybe, she has established these walls to ensure she will never feel anything unknown. She has imagined what love is, what commitment is, what responsibility is – but she would rather keep separate the imagination from reality. For what if she does fall in love or if she commits and invites responsibility? Who then will she become?
These invisible walls have been her knights – standing tall, coated in silver armour, holding with confidence spears that ward off any intangible feelings. She has decided to fight with nothing but her mind.

In my reality, I sit legs crossed on the misty grass and let the sun shine through my invisible home – the safest place I know – a home of nothing.

Holding Hands

She can't help but picture what it would be like to run her smooth, gentle hand along his sculpted arm. As soon as the thought occurred he hastily grab her hand from between her tense thighs. She leans in and rests her head on his strong broad shoulder and hopes that it will allow him to relax and enjoy the moment. She knows that he is shy because he uses it to define the boundaries of his relationships. She also knows that as she was thinking how it would be like to touch him, he was nervously concentrating on the perfect moment to do so. He must have repeated the scenario over and over in his mind - when he should do it, how he should do - carefully imagining the movement his hand is to take, where it is destined to go and what it will do when it arrives at the inviting destination.
She smiles to herself while all the eyes in the theater - few and far between - are intently watching the flickering lights cast on the gigantic screen straight ahead. Her eyes are watching the screen but her mind wanders. She is convinced she has fallen... She has fallen into the welcoming arms of temptation, she is unable to grasp hold of anything stable or sturdy, she is loose, light and likely to break a sweat. He is strong, tall and muscular - the ingredients to the universal representation of a man. She runs her free hand up and down his arm, lightly brushing the soft and vulnerable area on the underside of the elbow. At this place the veins run wild, hidden beneath the pale porous skin. Here she realizes is where the drugs are injected, where people seek refuge through artificial means. The scars left behind serve now merely as scars of addiction but of evidence that self infliction is the only way to heighten all senses - evidence of Temptation's victory.
She runs her rounded nail tips down the front of his arm where the hair is coarse and uneven. She slides her fingers between his knuckles and feels the dryness and roughness of them. She is able to feel each groove of his chapped skin - the hands of a working man. His free arm begins to slowly caress her thigh nearest to him. She looks down and senses the urge of reasoning surrendering itself as temptation and sexual tension make her stomach cringe. He could take her now, she would not fight but the movie isn't over just yet.
As soon as she has become comfortable and settled with his fingers on her thigh she lays back against and enjoys the night for what it is.
A night that allowed for clumsy movements, reassuring looks and comfort. Its was him knocking at her window late in the evening and her replying with a swift welcoming hand signal. It was him asking to be given a chance and her allowing it. It was him and it was her innocently holding hands at the movie theater - but it felt like so much more.

He Is a State of Mind

He raises his right hand and directs it to his sweat covered forehead. He stands tall with his feet welded together

at the ankle. His muscles are tense and determined to execute any command given by his exterior authorities. He

remembers when life was not so strict, so contained within boundaries. He use to play. His life was an early

morning to make the school bell and the rest was enjoyment. His witty actions and entertaining sounds

accompanied by less amusing actions (to the girls anyway), would leave him satisfied. Every day was a new day.

When one is so young, everyday holds mysteries that must be unlocked, discovered and understood. Everyday he

could learn, everyday he was finding new ways to define himself - but only today is he truly deciding what he

believes himself to be. All the adventures he journeyed in grade school he is now discarding and accepting - he

discovering who he is at this moment.

He obeys his command 'at ease' and makes his way to his cot in the less than glamorous cabin. He unbuttons his

coat, removes his leather black boots and lays on his impeccably made bed. He thinks. When he was young he was

never alloted time, there was never a schedule of how to spend his time. He'd always have tasks to complete but

rarely were these tasks given with a strict way of completing them. The freedom he had is lost. Now he fights for

freedom. He does not regret his choice but sulks for a moment in the idea of having kept his young spirit of

recklessness and easy laughter. But what he did has now been seen by everyone - their is no more discovery for

him. He must now obey his boundaries and be satisfied with remembering how life once use to be.

He decides that he has not evolved from boy to man, instead he is boy or man depending on his state of mind.

Given In

Mother, ground me for my thoughts. Take me into solitary - diagnose my insanity. Punish me for the pain no one can see. Give me a physical alternative to this human gift - the ability to think. Let everyone witness my hurt. Let others acknowledge me in physical pain and let me be convinced it is my tortured mind they see. Mother tie my scarred wrists and weakened ankles with cloth, fabricated of white purity. Let them see the contrast as it irritates my skin - the sheet which disguises my sins.
"Can't you see mother?
Can't you hear the screeching going on in my head?
Don't you hear them mother!? Don't you hear them yelling at one another?!
Dozens of personalities competing for a body to enact, to fulfill their unreasonable and selfish desires."

"Mother can't you see...
I'm no longer me..."

What keeps you adrift?

The morning dawns and the adventures of the day await him. He instinctually drops himself into the arms of the atmosphere. He does not question whether his wings will keep him adrift and without a thought he trusts that nature’s gift will keep true its commitment to him. His ability to fly has become an unconscious act. He does not know why or how he flies but only that he flies whenever the circumstances bid him to. What will happen when this butterfly realizes that his wings have limits or that they are not as beautiful as the others’? Given the ability to think, how will he react to the knowledge of his flaws? Will he continue to fly with confidence knowing that he is imperfect or bid his wings to retire?

The Diary of the Unspoken: Day 2

She doesn’t understand why she still feels for this man.

She had once ‘fallin’ in love’ with a man, many years ago. But she no longer cares for that man. His time has run out, the feeling will never return. But this man, that she spend her time with on rare occasions – one night of undeniable bliss. Unforgettable delight. Why has he abandoned her? Left her to wonder what went wrong, how things could have turned out different? But as she continues to replay the night within her mind she is convinced that nothing went wrong, there was nothing she would change, nothing she regretted. And yet there was nothing made of this unforgettable night. She fears that because there is no future she may forget with the time and the tedious tasks that everyday brings.

She is confused. What is it that keeps us attached? She asks herself. She would have answered routine at one point and maybe even love, but she is unsure now. He wasn’t a routine, nor did she love him, then why is it that she lays in her darkened room and wonder what could’ve been? Why is he bringing her to delirious emotions, deepened like the buttons of a tufted sofa.

He lives so close to her, she imagines him right by her side – but he is far and indistinguishable.

…

Fuck him. Fuck everything about him, his desirability, his mystery, his stupidity and unpredictability. Fuck him. I just don’t understand. Let me understand, help me. I drink bottles of wine hoping to come to some realization, to figure out something I have missed all along – I figure out nothing but instead reassure myself that I’ve fallen head over heals for you. I think we could have learned so much together, experienced so much – but our time was cut short because of you. I’m sure there is a good explanation – or at least I hope there is one.

God! I want to understand. My heart has never really been broken, even in situation I though that it would – it held strong. The feeling mustn’t have been there all along I guess. But my feelings have been hurt, for whatever reason. Just knowing that you could have hurt me, doesn’t make you feel anything? Not the need to explain? The need to make it up? Anything?

How are you so satisfied one moment and then not the next? How do you make me feel like the only one and then take it away so selfishly? Why have you but me in this position, a seat in a dark room filled with contemporary rhythm?

I want to leave both feet from the ground, while the piano plays a solemn tune, and jump into your arms, safe and guarded – where I’d feel safe and guarded. Where is this peace, this serenity? Where is the place I want to call mine? Why have you taken it from me? Don’t I have a right to it to? Can’t I claim it as well?

My arms are convinced that they must envelop you, contain you – but my mind finds fault in this idea. What will I envelope? A fantasy? A chance that could have been reality? But if it is not reality, then why imagine it? It doesn’t hurt, but it feels empty – my heart. Fuck!

I really thought…. I did…. I really thought… we could be… together finally. But I soar into empty arms with only the obligation to catch me, but not to protect me… and not to…

I’d like to hope for the better but I know that I’d receive nothing that I don’t already have…

Stepwells

I don't have anything to write today but I was












looking through the National Geographic and found these incredible pictures of 'stepwells' in India. They were used ages ago for easy access to groundwater during India's driest months. They are currently being restored. Here are some pictures I found online.