The Hour Peace Vanished

It is already six O’clock. The river flows along the winding path like a slithering serpent guarded on either sides by twin mountains. It’s ebbing waves splashes against rocks like a mathyr throwing himself at the mercy of his convictors. It then flows through the crevices and penetrates the ground layer of the earth. This is where the stillness of peace lies, this is where our source of vitality vacates.

The is the beginning of the journey to the ever flowing spring of life but it is also the end.

Buried under the ground layer are sediments of red clay clumped together in scrambled forms, yet fossils of decayed hope are just a layer below. That hope represented you and I, before we melted together into thick goo and formed a viscous path like magma scourging through naturally existing elements.

1…2…3…4….5…6. Did I say 6? it will be six more before the church-bell announces a minute past 6.

And how could we forget the volcano that cleared a thick forest so that it could conquer every breathing critter. It threatens to heave it’s rage and stir up an imbalanced velocity — a rotary malefic wave-form floating adrift. Nevertheless, the wind kissed its knots and soothed its ego, but a day came where she could pretend no more.

Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. The church-bell went off like peace was shredded in a time machine, traipsing in rebellion to uncertain extinction.

The volcano bellowed and shot magma as if to challenge the wind and curse the ground. She set the forest ablaze for she envied her raw thickness and beauty. She rained larva like dainty soft snow flakes free falling on the Alpine.

Who has the power to redeem balance? to rat out the volcano on the full moon for it’s incandesce nostalgic traps. Alas when the charade is over, the entropy of the Volcanic magma settles into an unorganised pile of pebbles, Glistening at the bottom of the sea like the snake’s eggs. they’ve become the fixed currency of our disrupted peace.

Five…Six. Everything is still again like a defiant witch that is condemned to the stakes to be disassembled into ashes and dispersed into the winding river. Gone like they never were.

One Hell of a Survivor

For the longest time. I was that kid at the back of the class. Forming rhymes, doodling caricatures. Melting away time with the matches of my mind. That kid whose name was a whisper behind a shadow, that existed in a shell. She was everyone’s bestie when exams was around the corner, besides that she was that face that never lifted her hand, yet always knew the answer.

I have not forgotten her passive demeanour. I have not forgotten She sat with the teacher when others were out like conquaestor in the playground. At times the teacher would leave, the teacher had friends too, and would ask her to watch herself. I have not forgotten the girls , that said she had to own a pair of Nike to be initiated into the cool kids club.

She doodled the earth with wide arms so that it could hug her back and remembered a thousand faces she painted with brazen fingers. She let her heart bleed each time she pressed kohl to a page. Then she’d fill in the spaces with pressure from a crayon and gave it to her teacher instead of a rose. She couldn’t stop rhyming every song in her heart that she could only utter when absolutely certain her voice would echo through the concrete without interference.

She had learnt that the quieter she became, the more she could hear.

Alone in her mind was when she stole the spotlight. No one could deflect it. There she was the comedian, the musician and the ballerina. Then she was the only one sitting at the front of the class.

She is a peculiar one she is; the more she hid it, the more her roots grew . A peculiar lonesome girl at the back of the class. Halfway into adulthood still crossing paths with her kind;

the one who sits alone at lunch and reads an adult novel to herself . She’ll show up without delay at violin recital but sluggishly plays dress up.

She is everywhere, and I know her well because she is still inside me smiling like she dreams in lucid colours and that’s how she couldn’t have sacrifice even a nail to adjust for she is one hell of a survivor.

Illustration by Yaoyao Ma Van 

The Cinder Path

There are some who traipse down a cinder path

they survived the lightening bolts exploding from the sky

They climb the same mountains that caused their stumble

they do not yield to unforgiving salty tears

they kiss the rose that pricks their lips

their love is chronic and in-toxic

They are creatures that know not precaution

they let sadness drown in a sea of golden promises

and warn their younger self against naive facts

giving new life to the meaning of survivor

imitating freedom as an active sport

practicing outside of a melancholic life

letting their guards down and

accepting agony like falling icicles

for wisdom has been embedded in trusted hands

too many battle scars, much more lived experiences

they chose to nourish the earth and Gaia

for siblings and their successors

Invoking an oath of resurrection

they are labelled winged free spirits

for others they are belle âme

because their words are as eloquent as their soul

and their tongues are coated with lotus leaves

they are forever hung to the web of empathy.

Today more than ever

more people need to lose the tree

and grow a forest of millefleur and fauna

to forfeit fitting all into a one-sized coat

but embrace the uniqueness of every soul

by following the cinder path

Antionette Dreams

All my wishes are far from real

nothing in my reach, or here to stay

I may have been hibernating all my life

now awake as the arms of my creator paints my smile

A beautiful smile it is and yet no heart reflects

Porcelain beauty, Antoinette dreams

my soul is enchanted

I am a delightful breeze

to boy, girls and squirrel friends everywhere

wherefore can my mind wander outside my bubble world

Porcelain beauty , antoinette dreams

kids fall in love for all I am made of;

smoothened wood, lace strings in equal parts

molten plastic all over their itty bitty beating hearts

precious wonder I could never have

Every form I take , a marionette of sorts

transforms into magnificent architecture

The theatre is flooded with ceramic faces

freckled cheeks, gaping mouth. enchanted dolls

pointy noses like nobles of days old

My eyes as wide as the hollow in my thorax

Close your eyes and you may hear

a tally of ventriloquist tales

attached to their chest like the strings on my limbs

and silence so provoking it has it’s own rhythm

After all the glam and glitter

An exhilaration that make my smile ache

the stage lights dim, curtain drawn

Left alone in a broad misty chest

a tinge of cold in the piece of me

where my Antoinette dreams may well be buried

Image Source: The-maksimov.livejournal.com

Mother

They say the walls have ears, little do they know that the walls have mouths too. And they speak to her, they teach her what it means to be aware

She lived with three siblings which was invigorating but she still hid who she was. A girl that heard the walls when they spoke. Then came a day darkness consumed the land. She saw the a shadow take the form of a hat with an arc drawn around a woman’s eye. Birds perched on barbed wires saw it too.

Nobody else did.

They had been looking for mother. She’d gone into the woods to harvest wheat at the bank of the streaming waterfalls. And now as the moon swallowed the sun and grew fuller, darkness ravaged the earth like an Octopus devouring a sardine.

Something was coming their way, and it was neither mother nor was it as charming. Whatever it was, it took the form of a woman and was drenched with the darkness.

The earth created a mouth that beckoned on her to flee. The birds squawked like they were perceiving an erupting volcano. She tugged at her siblings burlaps and yanked their arms. Two of them hearkened to her bargain and they began running home but the eldest chose to dance the tune of a cowardly lion. Somebody had to find mother.

As he approached the thick of the woods, there was silence so deafening, his ears began to bleed. Soon he came face to face with darkness in a woman’s form. He smiled and drew closer, that had to be mother. In a way he was right for it looked like her but her eyes were black like they’d been replaced with iron ore. There he stood entranced by the likeness of his mother as she sucked out his soul into a calabash and filled him full with darkness.

Alas , three kinders running in the woods. The tentacles of darkness close behind them. One of them took a wrong step and twisted her ankle. That moment of weakness was all the darkness needed. It enveloped her without delay and like a breeze she was gone.

The darkness grew stronger with the fullness of the eclipse.

Two kinders arrive in the cottage. They shut the windows and light the lanterns. The illuminating candles will protect us. They huddled at the east corner of the cottage. “protect us”, muttered little girl to crumbling walls. Though crippled by fear and terror, little girl incanted louder. Her voice echoed through the room. However, mother was stronger and needed her family. She grabbed the boy’s ankle and dragged him away.

Before mother could take little girl, the sun is hurled from the moon and returns as the center of attraction. Little girl takes a breath of awareness, rising off the floor of the house that was once saturated with a mother’s love.

Mother retreated deep into the woods where the trees formed a canopy shielding against the sun. she counted the souls of her special children. Each unique and vulnerable in their own way. She thought, Maybe it’s not hogwash when they say, the best thing you could do for your kids is not have them at all.

The Involuntary experiment

It is not unusual for the internet to give out every once in a while, however I do throw a little bit of tantrum for the first few mins and then grab a book. Normally in just about the time it takes to feel really weird tension about the situation, the internet is back. If the internet outage lasts longer, I would have to practice mindfulness and honestly, who wants to do that?

Last week we had terrible internet service. I’m talking every other day lasting for at least one hour . I felt so dishevelled and uneasy and basically resolved to the most weakest action imaginable, complaining.

And then the situation escalated.

Sundays my routine starts with our fellowship. Lunch thereafter and when we get home I stretch across the bed and read blogposts till I doze off. However, sometime in the early evening of last Sunday, the Internet gave out. Luckily there was a festival in town which I didn’t want to visit but given the lack of internet, I figured by the time we’re back, it’ll be all dandy—- except it wasn’t.

It extended to nearly 3 days. In this period, I went through at least 4 stages of emotions

Impatience

Have you ever seen something you really wanted but it was at the other side of a densely thick glass? My best analogy would be when our dog occasionally meets our bunny . they are separated by a large bunny cage, so the dog begins to whimper and quiver.

He then lashes out and barks. This was me between Sunday evening and Monday. I couldn’t help being bratty which resulted from my impatience.

Fake hopefulness

This is when I got silent partly because my husband spoke to the company and they assured us they were working on the problem. Albeit it was more soothing to hear that other houses with the same internet provider in and around our vicinity was affected too. I know that sounds wrong but I believe it’s also wrong to suffer alone.

This emotion is similar with impatience in that it is ego-driven, that’s why it’s fake. An overgrown ego (and the telecom) telling me that it will be over soon. Except when it’s not, I’m back to square one, complaining. A little unhealthy psychological projection here and there.

Acceptance

By the end of Monday till Tuesday, I had made peace with it. I used my mobile data more knowing that it could finish any moment and I would be in complete amish mode. I came home in the evening and there was still a network interference so I shrugged, watched a series on my phone and slept.

Anxiety

Right in this moment that I’m writing, I feel anxious although I woke up to stable internet service. I’m anxious that It could go off at any time. But more-so that if it does, I will start from stage one all over. I preferred stage 3.

Subject B’s reaction

My man on the hand, kept his composure the entire time and wasn’t once tempted into using his mobile data to watch anything that wasn’t on social media. I want to say that it’s because of the European Championship game. Our tv wasn’t affected. Maybe he would have felt the impact if he couldn’t watch his game, or maybe he’d have gone to a friend’s. Either ways, I never want to find out.

One thing about me is that I feel the emotions projected by people. Yes, tears drizzle down my cheeks while watching movies even though it’s not real. That’s why if he had been upset as I was, I would have been a wreck altogether. His energy kept me calm and brought me to acceptance quicker.

Final notes

On reflection, there were other sub par, hardly distinguishable emotions. Yet these four, I couldn’t ignore even when I tried. I also did learn about patience in these dreadful days. That’s a word that keeps coming to me recently. I feel God trying to force patience into my life.

Thanks for stopping by. Been a minute since I checked up on y’all. I hope you’re having a chill mid-week. Let me know if you’ve ever had to go a day or a week, voluntarily or involuntarily, without internet and how you handled that in the comments below. Chao.

An Introvert’s Handbook

We always have the heartiest laugh

in a room full of people

we adapt to living in the moment

It will be over soon anyways

Battery drained, energy depleted

Just need an hour,

Just need a week

and an empty bottle of elderberry wine

Take the dog for a walk

and do yoga outdoors

when we feel a buzz to explore nature

It could all be so simple

Club music, screaming teens aches the soul’s ears

felt this way since age 22.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe a month’s gap

“the farther the better” is forever the motto.

ask me to come join you at 9pm

I text back at 8:59

Body feels heavy and my bed’s tucked me in

it’s massaged me with a soothing balm

and pecked me sweet dreams

A day at a time

helps us unravel our insecurities

we’ve sailed through time

stopping at every port of our mind’s evolution

Watching oneself grow without changing

suffocating under knowledge, experience and migration

Running away from a place that feeds off light and innocence

away from the alley of despair and self-abandonment

searching earnestly for peace

but peace finds us on a rainy night

beside our bed with a mug of yogi tea

grooving to jazzy pop and stroking our bunny’s tum

Today we’re bubbly, fun, ready to go

but you’re talking over each other

and I can’t hear myself think

instead I’m absorbing everybody else’s emotion

I’m done before the night’s even begun

Let’s try a do over

at the one place where anxiety has no territory

so long as you don’t move anything

or poke prying questions

I’ll get the Hors d’oeuvre and listen

you sit over there and relish the honor of being invited

into the organized maze of a chaotic mind

This amazing illustration by Yaoyao Ma Van of https://introvertdear.com/news/illustrations-introvert-living-alone/

Nehéz

I heard resilience calling out to me through the shards of a shattered window to my seat of consciousness.

It is carried around by the pollens of my un-evolved ideas and by the hoot of a crashing owl in late September, whose eyes illuminating yellow sketches in the thick of the woodland area. Here you will find;

Untold stories. Unchanged people. Never-ending parties.

Portraits of the world. hives of the universe burrowing into my mind. Free falling feelings.

Vibing instrumentals.

But you see it is nearly impossible to forgive the lies you told yourself, to let your head fall back, as if obedience to the daughters of infinity.

Time after time your jaw gets hinged, your muscles will tighten. Your palms will bleed. Bleed for something worth holding onto.

Bleed for retribution.

Yet if anyone can relate, it’s the ones who footsteps you’re retracing

The ones whose public monuments remember the embrace of the wind.

I can still hear resilience whisper if I listen.

It says the only currency is surrender to the ambience you live, to the milk that washes your skin.

To the vortex that ransomed your innocence for youthfulness.

That’s why I started to wear my heart like a crown and made a home in my chest.

It’s hard but I can still hear it when I close my eyes.

The Ventriloquist

Cecil has been planning her dream wedding since whatever age little girls do. Now the days were leading up to weeks, weeks to months. She had a scanty 3 months left. What everyone wanted to know was what her theme would be, “you gotta have a theme, what’s a wedding without a theme?” they asked

She always answered. “Picturesque, serene and whimsical”. The last part seemed to have them guessing, but then they’d quickly laugh it off.

As the days dwindled down, Cecil had a lunch date with the one person who was for the majority of her life a phantom that has never been invited in. They had only started weaving their still fragile relationship, a year and half ago. She remembered him always being the funny guy. He could enchant even a funeral’s atmosphere and he dared to build on his talent, for which she admired him for, rather than become a pilot like the family wanted. He was a ventriloquist and the opening performance on her wedding reception.

Cecil sat in the crowded bar, munching her sacher torte and revelling on the memories of her half-brother that she didn’t notice him walk in till he draped his chest around her back like an armoured plate and planted a loving peck on her rosy cheek. He sat adjacent her and could immediately sense distress and a bluish aura so he tugs on a rope and Ed the dummy pops out. Ed proceeds to question Cecil, ” why the long face?”

“Thanks for coming Ed. it’s just whenever i think about this wedding, I want to rip my nose off

I understand schätzchen, Ed will take care of your guests for you”

Cecil couldn’t help but giggle. Her brother always had a way of exchanging her worries for cheers. This is just like when they were kids. She whispered, “Thank you”

Anything for the bride, nodded Ed.

Every form of Love

If love was a palette

it would have a secondary hue

mixture of red tinted with yellow

warm and affectionate like the sun reflecting off the red sea

If love was a song

It wouldn’t sound like an earworm

a mixture of jazzy blues and trap culture

like a glitch in time that couldn’t be perfectly translated

if Love had a frequency

it would bounce off a high cord of vibration

above the energy of gratitude

but slightly below the quintessence of peace

if love was a person

they would touch, feel and gift love freely

probably die on a cross to proof

he bleeds human but with a glorious heart

if love was a book

it would be on every library shelf

a real page turner packed with unpredictable desire

probably earn the best selling book of all times

if love was a movie

it would be a classic animation

featuring magic and wonder

chasing the audience to tears time and again before the end credits roll by.

If love had a silhouette

It would be broad with a soft touch

hard yet distinctly malleable

like a night under the Cupressus tree

If love was a flower

It would be a purple orchid

the envy of hummingbirds in a wheat field

buds paddling through the sunny day’s breeze.

If love had eyes

it would triumph fear’s greyish mirage

hopeful and late at it’s owns wake

bibbing in shades of black and white

Though to be honest

I don’t know the scent of love

I couldn’t describe him if he was my mirror reflection

I may have never felt the way I imagine it to be

all I do is fantasize in shades of black and white with grey borders.

Sincerely, your non-lover.