Looking Back

I look back to one year ago… It’s remarkable how we can relive moments in time. You see, I’m not just thinking about one year ago. I’m there, holding hands with myself. I’m weeping by my side. I’m smiling and laughing and singing songs and reminiscing… and I always return to weeping. I’m rubbing my back, whispering gentle reminders that I’ll be okay. That every end leads to a new beginning. That death brings appreciation for Life.

I look into my eyes as they glaze over while staring in a mirror. I read into them and know they see Singapore. They see the faces of nine team members with whom I once considered myself inseparable. I see skylines at every hour of the day. I see freighters coming to harbor. I see stages and lights and smiling faces and girls I have accidentally swooned. I see brokenness. I see so many Broken Pieces. And then, I see Hope.

My shining eyes break away and here I am again, walking around an empty house. My movements are mechanical, without personality or strut. They need to be. All of my heart has gone to my head, leaving my body to its own. The weight of my heart brings me to my knees, and now I sing aloud as I let tears streak across my face, unwilling to let go of any remnants of the Feeling. Leaving the house brings pain, so I return. The details don’t matter because I only perceive and process my inner self.

I lay down to sleep, and it is here I can detach from one year ago. I stay to brace my shoulder, smooth my hair, wipe the tear from my eye. I’d sing a lullaby, but you can’t hear the future, only the past. I wait until dreams accompany me, and I walk away.

And I am, once again, still, alone.

Solitary

Third Post Thursdays – A Response

So I don’t usually post three posts in one day, but today, I showed a friend of mine There, I’d Find Love, and he instantly sent me this response:

“Love, like the ocean, has depths only the observer can see… Feel. The pressure, the cold, the undeserving feeling of being there. The thought, “If they weren’t here” lingers like the blackness in the water surround. Being in love breaks the way we think; knowing this depth is knowing ourselves, understanding ourselves, reflecting on the fact that nothing here matters but us. Occasionally we see the fears of this water due to its vastness, but without love… We are open to all the water’s whims. The water is dark, cold, empty, but only if we experience through the same lens… Without the accompaniment of another soul, wandering the desolation.” -Kellan Rothfus

This friend of mine is the most brilliant man I’ve met in my life. If you haven’t heard of him yet, you soon will.

After reading this, I question whether or not I’ve ever been in Love, or understand it in the slightest. All I know is I have a lot to learn. Especially from him.

There, I’d Find Love

The mind has a way of ensnaring its victims, and the worst part is we can’t run away. Sometimes, I want my heart to take over because that’s all I knew as a child, and I’m not ready to grow up. The more schooling I did, the older I got, the “wiser” I became, the less my heart caused shallow breathing, the more my mind fed me copious amounts of stale air. I’d rather have little, sweet air than my fill of tasteless breaths.

I had a piece of blank, white paper sitting in front of me, and a black pen. And that’s just all they are. And unless I set the pen on the paper, it stays blank and white and paper. And I mess up and scratch out a third of the words I write, and never finish the pictures I draw. I rip holes through to the barren, dry, wood desk beneath, white walls still any hope of a breeze. But I simply cannot forsake my mind.

But do I really want my tumultuous heart to have control? I’m afraid not… That only handed me the daggers. They may have been plastic, but they were looked so real, the steel blade ice cold against my fingertips, against my wrist, the tip of the dagger still pricked the skin on my chest. When I was in love, it was absolute ecstasy, and the colors of the world were grand and vivid and my head swam in them  as it sang simple love songs.

And then love would hand me another dagger.

No, I wish not solely for my head, nor my heart. I wish they would gently caress one another, wind tightly so the seams between them would blur and scab and scar. And then, when the time is just right and the bud is formed, I could unleash them in harmonious spring. The bloom’s sweet scent would allow the pen to touch the paper with a steady hand, and paint all the pictures in me. And they would be real. And they would be whimsy. And there, I’d find Love.

Unfurl

December Rose: An Insight

Sometimes, I don’t really know who I am.

Let me explain… I like to consider myself a “creative.” I search for various ways to express myself because I find enjoyment and catharsis by doing so. I think it began when I was young and lost track of who I was or who I thought I was supposed to be. It’s such a dangerous game because, while losing perspective on my place in the world, I also lost some of my will to find a goal or direction for my life. I let others dictate who I’d be, and not because I’m a people pleaser, but because I don’t know who I am. Maybe I am a people pleaser simply because that’s what wandering around in a world of control freaks leads you to. So I picked up music and writing as ways to let my inner-self out, to more clearly show the world who I am and what I’m made of.

I created this anonymous blog and didn’t tell my friends or family about it because I wanted to see if there was anyone in the world who could possibly relate to me without having to censor myself or write for an audience. Gaining an audience has been fun, and to those of you who like or comment on my posts weekly, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your kind words and taking the time to learn me. But I don’t write things I think you’ll like, I just try to write me. Saying it like that feels so selfish and narcissistic, but that’s just kinda how it works, right?

This article by Tiny Rubies was incredibly insightful to me on why I’d rather be here on WordPress than on Facebook or Twitter as I rant and rave and tell you about the wonderful people I’ve met like Rachel and Jonathan, Little Miss Hobbs, and Ross. One thing I’d like to make clear – these people I talk about are real. They’re my friends, and I’ve always boasted I make friends with legends. The truth in it is that I intend to  reveal them as legends, because to me, they are invaluable and my most beloved brothers and sisters. They themselves are the legends, and I am on a mission to make sure the world finds them out. I want readers to laugh at Little Miss Hobbs’ lucky mistake in “Applause for the Watchmaker” and realize, in spite of her oversight on her place in the world, how much detail and Beauty she sees in the world. I want you all to know that Ross has an incredible heart and an aptitude for music, particularly the saxophone, and how he can make everything around you come to life with his musical abilities. I want you to know how Rachel is haunted by herself, and yet is the most cheerful person you will ever meet. She can turn your day around with a simple smile, and she’s silly as can be. I can’t wait to introduce you to her brother, Jonathan, who is one of the strongest, most courageous men I’ve met in my life. Then, of course, you’ll read about Steven and his stubbornness that pays off when he wins Love (though that tale will be frustrating for you to suffer through, as it was for me to watch).

They say every person is a culmination of their friends… I’ll show you my friends and thus reveal myself. Someday, I hope at least one of them accidentally finds this blog and realizes how much I love them, and that my exaggerations and romanticism of them are only a glimpse of my true heart for them.

But for now, you may call me December Rose.

Feeble Recreation of the Tempest

It is the sigh of the east wind – a prelude for what is to come.

My muscles tense at the thought of the coming tempest, and at the one passed. In the silence, the petrichor continues its echo in the cavernous corridors between the clouds. It harks and bids forth the hearts of men, the half-hearted thunder but an imitation of jest of the boots of men. For never could the legions of man or beast contest or best Mother Nature. She, herself, creates the mold for intimidation. How intrepid lightning should strike the Tree; a crackle and deafening roar we only hope to recreate with the striking of our swords, steel on steel, sparks in an infantile eruption, our voices mildly guttural with our battle cries. Our greatest guns and cannons do not create the clamor that a mighty, howling wind might, felling forests and great stone structures; spires that have seen centuries crashing to the ground.

And yet the murmur before the storm… Comforting as a mother’s whisper and a father’s cradling arms.

Place of Petrichor, Pt. II

“The raindrops address the page where my heart was meant to lay…”

This is a line I’ve been holding onto for literally a few years. It can be seen in one of my posts, Place of Petrichor, and usually comes up whenever there is rain and I feel inspired, but I can’t quite verbalize the quaking of my fingertips and eagerness to lay my innermost thoughts and desires on a page.

I think this is common knowledge, correct me if I’m wrong, but there’s something about the rain that inspires some movement at the soul-level within artists, writers, musicians… basically most creatives. I live in Arizona, so maybe the effect of rain is amplified since it only falls a couple times per year (luckily it is now monsoon season), but I’ve never met a creative who hasn’t written more or better on a rainy day. The following poem is with regards to this harmony between my heart and the rain:

 

Ah, my heart to weep o’er the loss of love

…and what exactly is love? I’ve heard of it.

I’ve felt its tug and subdued its destabilization of my inner being.

I have seen her sitting in the car next to me on a foreign road,

reached for her hand beneath sunsets and in the presence of fireworks,

but ah… How I still breathed…

 

The palpitating,

it allures me in reminiscence,

threatening to maintain a high which it cannot possibly deliver for an ever.

Or may it, and may I know nothing of Love?

 

They say there are no happily ever afters,

but what do they know, after all?

Have they lived long enough to experience the after to which the ever refers?

I might say there is no such “once upon a time…”

…and I may be right.

 

Love may come once or twice, but certainly not more,

not in excess,

not the bewilderment,

not the rapacious, ravenous yearning of one heart for another.

Not in harmony.

 

I am certain of two loves in my life…

…that of a melody which moves the heart as a patriotic Scotsman with bagpipes…

…mayhaps that of a violin or cello crooning its lament…

…or mayhaps a simple voice, quivering in the passing of a friend…

…yes, I have known that Love a few too many times.

But not all movement by melody has been melancholy.

 

The second love is inexplicable, except by many words.

The air thickens, and breath caught in my lungs, I plunge

into the thousand-lipped kiss that steals my warmth

with a million titillating pinpoints

all aiming straight and true.

Gasping…

…shivering…

…yet this is what the heart is made for…

 

…or mayhaps it is the mere anticipation of the sincerity required of Love for the sake of Love…

 

…or mayhaps it is, simply, the anticipation of the rain.

Harmonize

Forgive and Forget

Forgive and forget, forgive and forget, forgive and forget… Forgive and forget… Every time I attempt to write, these three words cling to my consciousness, hardly letting a flake or wisp of another thought through, building this wall that, quite honestly, I don’t know the origin of, nor how to demolish it. Who must I forgive? What must I forget? I feel that I may have accomplished the latter, but I’m certain there are a few people in my life I need to forgive, chiefly myself. But what ever for?

Am I somehow creating a detrimental presence in my writing? Does someone I know criticize it an a way that has excoriated my mental nerves, fraying them anew with each pen- or key-stroke? Have I not forgiven myself for the deaths of friends who once wrote? Am I meant to write as an occupation, and blame all who led me and allowed me to go astray from that Calling?

I guess it doesn’t matter, and ignorance must be bliss. I do not feel the damage that must have been done to cause this mantra… But I don’t want to know what will happen when I discover its meaning.

Forgive and forget, forgive and forget…

Made To Be Me

*WARNING: THIS IS A LONG POST*

I’m going to try something new today and tell you something about myself using the one-word daily prompt… Because I may only have five followers, and those only from the daily prompt posts, but I’d like to reach out and reveal myself more blatantly to those five followers.

I see the “insights”… Any time I post something without using a reference to the one-word prompt, it goes unread except by my friend, Carly. And I love her for that. But I have this blog to be discovered as a writer by other people who aren’t yet acquaintances. So I use the one-word daily prompt tags, and I get 10-15 views from around the world, and it’s super exciting, but then I realize that they are likely only reading a glimpse into how I think and see the world. Granted, that’s a bigger part of who I am than my profession (civil engineering is NOT my calling in life, but I do it so that I can afford to pursue music, and it’s a great place to explore what else is out there in the world since I have an excessive amount of free-time), but I have this thing about wanting people to know me.

And now I will explain why.

When I was about 10 years old, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Don’t worry, this isn’t a sob story, she’s still alive and I love her like any momma’s boy would, but at the time, it was extremely difficult for me. After being diagnosed and beginning treatment, my family moved to a new city, school, etc. This meant making friends with children who, let’s be real, would not understand what I was going through. Then I met Lauren Shuttle. She was the kid everyone in class talked about, but was never there… Perhaps a communal imaginary friend??

Nope, Lauren Shuttle was as real as you and me. But she was never there because she, too, was valiantly battling cancer. After she got through her chemo and started healing, I met her, and she was the most encouraging person in the world to me. As a child, I wanted concrete answers, and she could provide that. She wouldn’t sugar-coat it, she just told me as it is, as children do. Especially being directly de-sensitized to it herself, she had no problem telling me the horrors of it all, despite my traumatization. But she also offered me concrete encouragement… “Your mother is going to be just fine. Look at me! I went through cancer, and I’m still alive and kickin’!” Then she’d force a smile out of me, and proceeded to chase me around the playground at recess, announcing to the world and their mothers (because your friends are your world as a child, besides yourself), that she was in love with me. Secretly, I liked her too. Like, a whole heckin’ lot. But we were young and she was absolutely coated with cooties.

So when she didn’t come to class one day, we all sorta panicked… That was the only time in my life when I was justifiably worried over something so small as the absence in class of a friend, and it set me up for having a mindset where I immediately assume the worst in a situation when something seems off. Her cancer returned, and with a vengeance.

She passed away December 5th, 2004 at 11 years old. We were in 6th grade.

And like that, my security was gone. My mom had fought and won the battle with cancer by the time Lauren passed, but Lauren was still the only one who understood me during that time of my life.

But that’s not why I want to be known. It’s because the following year, another friend died suddenly from a sinus infection that went to his brain. And a few months later I was in a car accident with my mom, and I started to develop a form of PTSD and anxiety. I was depressed and suicidal. Luckily, I had the best friends God could have ever given me, and they kept me alive. Night after night, we talked on AIM (those were the days…) and they convinced me we all had stuff to live for. I had my music, too, but the friends were the ones who actually met me eye-to-eye and understood me, since we went through this crap together.

Half way through 8th grade, less than a year after my mom and I were in that car accident that sparked my anxiety, I moved from Detroit, MI to Phoenix, AZ.

And just like that, my anonymity was more a part of me than my personality. I didn’t want to know anyone and I didn’t want them to know me, because if I had a problem with feeling misunderstood before, it was just amplified to a whole new level. I sat there, across the country from all my extended family and all the friends I had ever known, and I realized there was never such a thing as someone who gets me. Maybe it’s not even a thing in general for anyone, but I take it personally.

Please do not misunderstand, my life is heckin’ amazing. I love life and beauty, music and literature, I love the stars and the Arizona mountains. I love people, as oblivious as they may be while driving. I’ve just been through something that came to define me, but here’s the thing… It allowed me to define myself.

I don’t have that lifelong friend who grew up down the street since we were in preschool, I don’t have the group of friends who hung out every day in high school. I still talk to my college buddies, but they are getting married, having kids, buying houses. That’s just not the stage of life I’m in yet, maybe not ever. The awesome thing about it is that my friends can be whoever the deuce they want to be, and I don’t have a problem being me, which often times looks completely different from them. I’m not used to being influenced by close friends, so I am a completely tailor-made version of only myself and my experiences.

The best part is, because I’m not doing this blogging thing for a living, I can tell you all of this without censoring or wording it just right. I read a blog post earlier about someone who does a travel blog, and is darn good at it, but in this post, she talks about how sometimes she is inauthentic because she has to be what the readers or brand want her to be. Maybe “inauthentic” isn’t the right word, but she requires a censorship over herself because she is catering to specific audiences. It’s really an amazing post, check it out here: “Is Flora Your Real Name?”

I wish I could be like Flora and be paid to do what I love and be myself, but there’s also an incredible freedom in telling you who I am, responding to one-word daily prompts, using incorrect grammar and spelling on purpose (trust me, I cringe when I do it, but it’s part of me being me), and not being required to cater to anyone but my own catharsis. So, if you made it this far into my post, thank you for letting me reveal who and why I am to you. Tell me about you.

Also, huge shout out to the bloggers that follow me: @varnikajain92, @motherishchildish, @sumyanna, @thediaryofamuslimgirlblog

Check their stuff out, it’s really great!!

 

But a Man

What if I told you from the beginning that you’re reading nothing more than a masquerade? That these very words you’ve chosen to read are intended to be sibylline? That my argument is intended to be rebarbative, almost pugnacious in the way these words divagate along the mountains and valleys of vocabulary, reaching a precipice that can only be forsaken by backtracking or jumping. That I open my hand to reveal specious sophistry.

What if I told you I’m a twenty-first century gentleman?

What would you think of me?

Bury