when I was younger home was the best place ever. whether it was birthdays which now feels like a long-lost dream. since we lived in a tiny house. a family of six huddled up together in a tiny room to celebrate. maybe times were simpler or maybe we didn’t have much then.
or on days, mum cooks which always was a rarity. she never played an active role but our younger selves made sure at the end, we’d be grateful.
things began to shift when we grew older.
the happy house felt like a dark gloomy one. smiles began to be replaced by shoutings. birthdays began to be less common and sooner like we all imagined it would become something attached with the past.
when i became older i tried becoming friends with my younger self. somedays were a disappointment. somedays we faked it.
I sit on the counter, feet draped over the sink watching the sun rise over the trees through the open window As I bring my coffee to my lips I feel the familiar chip The one that my lips have felt every morning for years This cup snuggles perfectly between my small hands, the warmth shielding them from the cool spring air
This cup has been through a lot A few moves More than a few lovers
The Alice in Wonderland decal has worn off and the seafoam enamel is cracked-- a mosaic of all the times I didn't care enough to hand wash it The handle fell off once, I wanted to practice the Kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken things with liquid gold But I'm a college student, so glittery modge podge worked just fine
In many ways I am this cup Used, well loved Slightly broken, held together with glitter and good intentions I don't mind the cracks In the cup or in me Cracks show that you are strong, can handle whatever is thrown at you, heartbreak or linoleum They also allow light in To brighten when darkness is all you can seem to find
As I reach the last sips of my coffee the sun is well up My cats are hungry and I'm running late Some days it's worth tardiness to reconnect to a part of you you thought was lost
O why, O why, O why was I born in this non-laternlit world? No! O why, O why, O why was I born in this non-torchlit world. What woe! And try, and try, and try I do, to fulfill myself, all others, too! And try, and try, and try I do, to remind myself, all others, too:
That it is not man's devices that light the darkness, but the sun's brightness…
Crumpled paper damp with ink, Immortal words washed away in the running stream. The paper breathes longer than I, whats behind longer still, for the same worries I carry are etched in the walls of Pharaoh's grave.
When the candle of life is by saliva-wet fingers extinguished, Sighs resound and glances cast at the vacant seat my voice used to occupy. The present man soon dances for the prying eye of Retrospection.
A picture printed on the page in many days, full of laughing smiles and vacant gaze of youth gone blank, The Retrospect looks closely, trailing fingers softly over the black white rendition. An all too human fear creeps to mind, and he quickly turns the page.
the pain it caused was quite obtrusive, even after all those years, were somehow left behind, oblivious of the misery it created.
Couldn't leave it like that, insistent pain made to decide at last, when it was opened again memories sprayed out copiously, like dark, coagulated blood, never before seen. Then, fresh blood started to ooze as if reluctant to close the wound, unable to forget emotions that are made to sleep anesthetized.