"My Dear, I Have Become So Familiar With The Loss Of Loved Ones That Death Now Seems Like Family And

One day we will be able to breathe again.

"When the world shuts down and the quiet shushes and the darkness cloaks, I do the opposite. My small rebellions."

~Me

Anastasia Trusova on Instagram

If you think about it, all our thoughts and morals and feelings are plagiarized as well. We are a product of what we hear, see, speak and learn. We pick and choose what we like best while the rest goes to deep recesses of our mind.

Someone, a long time ago, wrote the same words as me, albeit in a different format. That doesn't change the fact that we both reached the same conclusions. But the issue is that my thoughts were never uniquely mine. And in all honesty, I'm learning to deal with that.

~Me

Short Stories #2

2. Waiting

Heels clicked against the polished, stone floor as nurses in white and teal, carrying paperwork and various instruments hurried by. Hands typed on keyboards in a flurry while also picking up calls for appointments and guiding a long line of patients. The smell of disinfectant and sanitizer never failed to assault the senses but you get used to it after a while. Soft murmurs and chatters lazily floated in the room creating a lull in the air which would be shattered by the sudden, alarming announcement for the next patient. Irritation simmered underneath my skin as unruly children ran around untamed, threw magazines at each other and spilled water on the floor while the parents chit chatted or scrolled on their screens. Somewhere in the back a child started wailing. I heaved a deep sigh and felt the beginnings of a pounding headache. I was already here longer than I should have been, absolutely annoyed that they delayed my appointment to twenty minutes later. A man to my right kept distractingly tapping his water bottle, his fingers moving in a synchronized rhythm. The little boy to my left kept shifting in his seat and would get up every two minutes to explore the restroom despite being reprimanded by his mother repeatedly. A woman across me crossed her legs and shook her foot while another tapped her obnoxiously high heeled shoes. Restless and bored, that's what they all were. The wailing of the baby had now reached a high intensity, ear piercing shriek which left the father no choice but to take his child outside. A few people sighed in relief. I, too, heaved another deep sigh but not of relief, as my headache reached its potential and banged against my skull. I wondered, not for the first time, how long it would take for my turn. Till then, I'll be waiting.

My tranquil, little moon,

my sweet midnight,

Your saccharine nectar drips from the star dew sky,

And drapes me in a blanket of warmth and bittersweet acceptance.

Your words are silent like a tender droplet of water blooming on a cloth but the formidable, commanding waves in your head bow to no man.

~Me

Woww

her hair and lips change to the color of your blog

“A man of intellect is like an artist who gives a concert without any help from anyone else, playing on a single instrument — a piano, say, which is a little orchestra in itself. Such a man is a little world in himself; and the effect produced by various instruments together, he produces single-handed, in the unity of his own consciousness.” - Arthur Schopenhauer, Counsels and Maxims

"Totemism", Dime-Store Alchemy: The Art of Joseph Cornell by Charles Simic.