Home

it’s a long way home

Long waits and long flights

14 hrs to be precise.

there are millions of stars circling my crown

choosing to navigate me closer with each passing breath,

and a Moon that hypnotises me with her pull

Migrating me past borders

my wanderlusting has lead me to familiar grounds,

grounds i’ve scrupled over for years

procrastinating on the day I will part my lips and utter

words so liberating, my veins pop and ache;

“It’s me, I’m home now”.

Presence

Breath in. 5…4…3…2…one I saw a nix sitting on a branch of a fig tree, dipping her toes into the stream of water below her. creating ripples that waned and faded. She looked sad on this beautiful Armenian night, perhaps it was the shadow she carried that whispered chaos in her mind.

Breath out. 1…2..3.4 five, every living creature has a mind, and is therefore equally important. The Owl on the spitz of the old fig was not more relevant than the Nix, and my life is worth the same as hers. I wondered if she could have been sad because the presence of the moon on this night was divine and she wished she could bottle up the milky way and the falling stars, or she wasn’t mindful enough to realise she was more than the feelings she allowed to overwhelm her thoughts;

the state if mind where she wanted the night to schatter into broken shards, prick her skin so she could feel her life force… or anything really. swallow her whole and drop her off the face of the earth.

She couldn’t speak stillness to the old fig, or reach out to touch the elusive moon. The lines between her reality and her reflection were blurred by a spurring internal conflict that could be solved by a drop of presence.

On this beautiful Armenian night I crouched next to her and told her to live in the moment, exactly how it was, listening to her heart beat, not wanting more or expecting less. Every day nature weaves a balance of subtle miracles before our ever dreaming eyes. If we’re lucky, our hearts can capture every butterfly smile our irises have yet to see.

Intuition

Settled down at the glance and the thought of life

Felt currents like electric spark from my core

Isolation center around a waking surge

A vibration that propels into the throat chakra.

Keep the energy inconspicuous, never swaying to either poles

Your throat will either absorb the impulses

or it may continue it’s journey towards the chest

The hollow cave of intuition, where your heart lies

Oh, what a feeling of radiating emotions

knit and knock in your bones and joint space there after

Your heart weighs with a message from the universe

while your charitable heart banishes it to the bowels

Metabolism fastens or sluggers, then settles

between the groins, a belt tightens around hips and lower back

Feel the moon spread across the sky’s edges

dare to subtract the edge it has over you

For people who sense the slightest imbalances,

energies of the galaxy and of kindred

may sound abnormal, but is it really?

dubbed empaths or highly sensitive, for whatever reason

For us the full moon is more like a reckoning

Anything but smooth sailing it is

feelings too scary to explore, spur up

the dark side of my soul bullies me to submission

Yell as you wish, the influence grows worse

like a family reunion, where the black sheep is king

spritz me with venom and engulfs me whole

Until I am gurgling on it’s dark influence

Neptune knows, intuition cannot be bargained with

gifts dreams you can sip with your soul out a straw

or sardonic skies that taunts you at your weakest

But when my forehead kisses the ground,

every turmoil is hushed in universal harmony

Moon river

How I love to hate the full moon.

The day I cease believing was when I start dying. Dying for a touch. Dying for a kiss. Dying close to your reach. Dying within you. And I remember sinking into bitumen, yelling out a language that I could not speak. I was wandering down the hallways of a light house, I thought I would see you. I would hear you. I could turn into you. Rummaging through wuthering heights. packaging together the ripe and the rotting. The jade and the purple. The insanes and the artefacts.

I bid you, fuel my abstract lucidity. Incoherent raspy words seep out of the pit of my black velveteen dreams. Forget the smoke of reality that fills the room and feeds my ego, I know that feeling of escaping into a void that only grows hollower. I see the full moon feeding off the crevices of my soul and forming dark version of me from it’s shadow. It brightens my heart yet send impulses down my spine. It is the part of me I wish to never confront

And once in a while my friend Intuition comes to visit. He borrows a hole in the middle of my forehead thats why I like to think i’m a unicorn baby, yet even at it’s strongest it cannot quench the sardonic flames of the moons strong pull. Once in every few hours I wail out in deep agony like a woman close to full cervical dilation in a labour ward.

Labels Labels. There isn’t just one for Heinz ketchup but one for you and one for me too. You name a personality, and as sure as the sky is blue, there is a label attached to it. So they termed me highly sensitive slash empath slash intuitive slash they ran out of labels and slashes. Pretty fancy terms for being the universe’s forced experimental guinea pig in a double-blind controlled experiment.

As sure as the day will end, I will not cave to my big bad bully. I will cry but I must be brave while crying. Perhaps this is my body’s attempt to feel something other than the rowdy noise of the grim reaper’s sharpened blade. But I’m half hoping my tears pool into a river that runs between twin valleys and snuffs out the moon silently as it rises above the alpines before it can claim my soul.

Fire and Blood

The moon is forming. Arising from the east, “if you stare hard enough”, brother says, “you’ll blossom into a princess”. He says, into anything I desire.

Tears trickle unrestrained, down down down to the angle of her lips. She wipes it away, so he inquires, “why are you so sad?” and she replies “I don’t know, why does God exist?”

A nice saunter into town she thought, and I will back to my old self. This isn’t a lie. It’s a confabulation. We can only believe what we tell ourselves; even when seeing is believing.

If the clouds turn bloody, pasted against the dark skies, one glance at it will ignite a fire in her ego, one that cannot be extinguished until the subsequent days.

 

If you didn’t know yet, you wouldn’t know later. “What is wrong with me?”, the question that constantly nags her so, why would I chose violet when peers dance in shades of blue? Why would I trace my lips in green even after she said, and I know, it made me look like an ogre.

Broken.

Unable to soar high, she destroyed her wings so that no one else would, so that she would have a reason to look to the skies and watch eagles soar, so that she would have a reason to make a wish.

But enough if this tomfoolery, enough of these mind games, enough of these flimsy excuses, enough!.

The clouds she sees are crimson, they blend into each other projecting their effect on top of themselves. Like two koi fishes engaging in a deadly war, each fighting to conceal the other.

You can tell her a million and one times that what she’d done is beneath her, but she may never seize to emulsify fire & blood.