Tag: spring

It’s not enough To be compassionate

JOURNAL April 3, 2018

I bought myself a pair of socks saying

 

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And it stroke me like a lightning,

uncomfortable truth slapped right on my cheek by a pair of pastel-coloured socks.

 

 

And after months of denials, of nodding to please and saying yes but feeling no,

After months of struggling with bad days and grey moods,

perpetually roller-coasting between long laughter and long tears,

 

I came to the conclusion that coming to compromise with everyone but myself, well,

that isn’t enough.

 

 

So I finally realized that I can’t be the perfect daughter,

the spotless friend

or the flawless hostel roommate.

That’s simply not me, that’s simply not my thing.

And that’s fine.

 

 

 

It’s fine that I can’t have a flat stomach after eating a whole pizza,

that I can’t be the next viral singer

or succeed in my first attempts at washing ups, entrepreneurship trials and relationship.

And that’s fine.

 

 

But I also figured that the best way to fall asleep with a hint of a smile drawn on my face is accepting what it is that makes me, me,

 

and water it.

 

 

And I might end up all tangled up in my thoughts and walking the stiffest way,

but as long as I do things my way – scratches and scars and all things summed up -,

 

it’ll all work out

one way or another.

 

After all,

sprouts aren’t made to be pretty at all times,

they’re a promise of finding a way out.

 

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The first day of Spring

CORNERS, JOURNAL, TRAVEL March 24, 2018

I took a plane to Berlin, to breathe for a while.

Not that I have a lot to complain about – life flowing smoothly between

home-made dinners and ideas to put together in a life I get to choose.

 

 

But for some reason,

in this impeccable shoving of days like pearls in a thread,

I can’t seem to find balance and all those other phrasings to stay afloat.

 

So I get on trains and spend long nights in Nordic hostels of bunk beds and cheap drinks.

I look for what I want to hear in the words of those I happen to find along the way,

those things I don’t find the courage to trust – eternal promises I make with myself to plunge right into what I want and do it for real, this time.

 

Because this life I get to choose is waiting for me right there

on the seabed I don’t know the shape of,

under those layers of blue I keep having second thoughts about.

And I kick

and I shake

and I wiggle on this surface that now feels so tight.

 

And I wish I could just take a deep breath and row with who it is that I am and see what colour the seabed I dream about really is.

But for some reason, I hold tight to all trivial excuses and lighthearted talks,

stupid water wings I insist to wear not to go deep.

 

 

And I’m now drinking mint tea in an ordinary city,

yet another shot to find a place to call home, a space to fit in

– knowing for sure that all I want is to disappear in a line of bubbles flowing above my head, see the water get blue, black, and down, down a bit more,

touch the ocean floor

and grab a handful of sand.

And in that place so far from all ideas I’d ever painted in my mind until then

– in the furthest corner from what I’d ever known –

find home.

 

 

So here I find myself,

with miles under the soles of my shoes,

with the sketch of a butterfly given to me as a gift on the first day of spring.

Reminding me that spending too long anchored to the ground, you forget how to breathe.

 

 

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