How Magical My Life Used To Be

what doesn't kill me makes me want to die.

The Letter to Nobody

Dearest,

It is cold today. After a week-long heat wave, the bay area has cooled down. It even rained the other day - what a treat!

The rain has clarified the skies. I didn’t know the blue of the Californian skies could be any bluer. But they could. They have: And they remind me of home.

I am inundated with assignments. I read most of the afternoons. I don’t remember my eyelids being tired this way. This tiredness is new to me, as are the golden sycamore leaves, the souvenirs of autumn. My first fall in the US, tired from reading stories all day long.

Fall.

Such a terse, poetic name for a weather.

You were startled by my admiration when I first admitted it to you. I suspect it struck you as incorrect. In a way, you were right.

Why should the spring buds admire the fall? Why should they indulge in the promise of death, decay, falling?

Fall. 

It is relaxing just to even pronounce it out loud. My muscles groan. In the distant skies, the clouds have thinned out into round patches that look like doily. I smile. I always wanted to learn crocheting. I know I never will. But I will look at doilies and I will look at doily-looking clouds and tell myself I wanted to learn crocheting. Why do I do this? Who am I lying? And I am not even lying. I would like to learn crocheting but only if life was a little longer than it is. I shift my gaze back to my screen. Words. I love them. 

Rustle. Why do I have to be distracted like this?

A swarm of desiccated sycamore leaves. It is cute that they always travel in a band. My windowsill is their nestling place. The specters of autumn. 

Is this a goodbye? Are you here to say goodbye? 

I say goodbye out loud. The leaves receive my idiocy with solemn indifference. 

Indifference. You pretended but you couldn’t be half as indifferent as these leaves. 

I never understood why you, with all your appetite for the unknown, should be threatened by the admiration. But admiration is threatening. In old french, it means to regard the person in awe.

It is threatening to be regarded with awe. What if we couldn’t live up to it? What if our existence contaminates someone’s pool of awe? Will we be able to live with so much guilt?

I understand you better now. Now that you are gone.

You indeed disappointed me. You faltered when it mattered the most. You betrayed my trust more than once.

Strangely enough, life is setting up a reverse drama for me. I have a far younger boy approach me with the admiration I had for you. And I feel burdened. I try to tell him that this is stupid. And it is. I know it is, because I have been stupid. But he persists. He brings me tea and chocolates.

I am waiting to break his heart. But that is the only way forward. Doesn’t mean I didn’t care for him. I want him to fly higher.

You are dead. Every day, life teaches me how/why to forgive you. I forgive you. One carelessness a day. You were also petty. Just like me. None of us can rise higher than our fears. At least, not all at once.

I forgave you this today - your suspicion of me. 

- bhushita

it took my life to live.

Hanif Abdurraqib, A Little Devil in America: Notes in Praise of Black Performance

Happy Friday the 13th

Riddle the Cat lookin sleepy and evil

poetry.

December 1, 1928 The early diary of Anaïs Nin, 1903-1977

To anyone who needs it, this is Your good luck post

Your heres to a new job post

The money Is coming your way post

The like to charge reblog to cast

You. Are. Going to. Make it. Post

Today I start the job that will never make me cry because the schedule came out and I can already see which weeks I won't be able to pay bills. Today I go to a place where I can see sunlight, am encouraged to move and learn and grow. Im sending good vibes, good luck and godspeed to whever needs this.

A bouqet, for you.

10.49AM FRI 21 OCT 2022.

they don't see the dew on the leaves which were my tears because those aren't from my eyes.

they don't know i cannot cry because i am just an echo of desert, and everything is dry.

instead of my eyes, my heart cries.

my heart yells evertime a nail is pierced on my soul which is so concealed that it is as invisible as air.

i have no place to shed tears. i have no home to weep.

for me, these leaves cry. they know the pain i am enduring. they understand my heartache.

i have eyes but they see me more. they are my companion in my best and worse. they give me a way to breathe.

i could never be more thankful to what earth gave me and how soil is always giving me a place to keep my feet on.

i am fortunate enough to have a friend no one else has.

Life moves in seasons; we bloom, we wilt, we blossom again. Go unafraid, go fearless, go graceful. Be. Nothing is final. I smile with more ease as I grow old, I love better, I am kinder. Also there is body ache at times, there are strange illnesses sprouting within, but there is grace settling in within me. I am so grateful.