People are stories, works in progress Politics of affection and sexual congress But a face is a fullstop, brackets even I picture your face when I’m grieving The ‘I don’t care’ writ large and wide Autographing what’s breaking me inside Happy face, loveface all forgotten Fullstop points to all that…
Two strangers who once were not. Or were they?
There’s a name for my generation. Children of Baby Boomers who arrived some calendar pages too early to be Millenial. Generation X.
“as if the past is a monster, a trap, not a blanket of known thorns, an old jacket that just fits too tight in the same way a corset does”
Nila soru.
Food eaten under the moon.
Food shared with the moon.
Nila soru.
I went looking for sunrises years ago. What I found instead was so much beauty and joy in the mayhem.
I wrote this post at the start of this year, having hit 40 and mistaking midlife crisis for twenty twenty vision. What a year 2020 turned out to be.
Inside my pockets, I keep pieces of courage, to reach for when I need them. See, life has become an unpredictable horizon strewn with landmines called memories. An accidental sighting and unfortunate coincidences. We’re so connected, we’re entrenched seamless and a chance encounter, becomes an obituary. Memory, that unreliable narrator…
Real talk is dirty. It’s not that I have forgotten stage fright.
I did this on Instagram. I was touched by the sensitivity of the questions asked. It helped me shift the heaviness of my heart.