The person who installed my divider did a wacky job. Somewhat in the middle, he joined two rows of planks atop one another with another row, in no way aligned. I suppose it did the job; the wall withstands. He also added--erratically, another six; sideways. Just in case, I'm guessing. One day, I made a mess of a homemade charcoal mask and seeing as my hands were fully caked, impressed my prints just above the second plank. Another day, I painted the first plank a seafoam/jade/teal kinda green background with royal, azure-ish leaves. A magnolia-smoketree mashup reigned in excess, a mixture of Norway maple and blackcurrant took second precedence, with hazel or Indian pennywort scattered in between. The second, I painted black then collected an assortment of caps and tubs in different sizes and filled the plank with colourful circles, both filled and empty. They aren't as evenly distributed as I would have liked, but it's not like it's for an exhibit. A few days after that, I painted the third one a scarlet-milano red, with flamingo-lace pink flowers. Some flowers appear to be anemones, others oleander or buttercups. Some look like jasmines and others like daffodils. Some like wallflowers or forget-me-nots and others like hibiscus, viewed from the top. On the fourth, I tried to paint clouds. You know just before it rains, when they're dark and heavy, gathering the last vapour needed to burst down upon us. It could've been better but for a first attempt, it's not too hideous. I'd like to give it another round, though. The fifth, which is next to the fourth, I painted cadmium. I wanted to paint a sunset. Or maybe triangles and/or lines artistically placed at varying degrees and angles. I think I also thought about doing a mehndi pattern, but it's still just yellow. The sixth plank stayed blank because I splashed the last of my paint on my denim shorts before I noticed it. I think it says much more about my character as is.

am I the ghost?

for I'm here but I'm not.

not quite living, not quite dead.

wandering around ever aimlessly

watching myself be forgotten

or am I the one being haunted?

for there are whispers in the dark

slowly driving me mad, mad, madder

and the shadows like to play tricks

filling me with doubt and dread

and I cannot hear my thoughts

in the deafening silence and I search

and search for peace, my long lost friend

but she cannot find her place in the screeching shambles I've made my bed.

here you are again; bringing with you

an array of blooms bursting with colour and fragrance, each magnificent in their own right. adorning trees once more in opulent garments, delightfully dancing in the rhythm of ocean tinged breezes. bringing with you the sweet ecstasy of warmth after the long tragic cold. here you are again; your subtle exuberance long-awaited in the frigid gloom. your song staunchly memorised and dreamily echoed in your absence..here you are again; breathing life into the air once more, the reason for pretty sundresses and joyous ice cream. inciting evening strolls guided by the splendour of scattered shards of light. here you are again, at last.

rain on

me, baby;

I dare you to

drench me!

soak me

to the bone

--as long as

you make me

your own;

fall for me

slowly, deliberately

so I’m mesmerised

by your melody;

I’ll sing along-

-unwaveringly

to the soul in

its serenity

play with me;

as the waves ignore,

then entices and teases

the lonely shore;

I know it’s inescapable,

as intrinsic to your nature,

as waves are to the ocean's

perpetuity and power;

singe me with

your volcanic heat;

obliterate me, if you will

--as long as I'm yours,

I’ll accept defeat;

Even if I’m nothing,

I’ll be yours, still

manipulate me

as the fierce winds

manoeuvre the trees,

to its whim and will

with savage decree;

then whisper your secrets

as you dance in the air;

bring to me the scents of

everywhere you’ve fared

jolt me to submission

as much as you desire,

as ferocious lighting

sets the sky on fire;

don’t you dare hold back

any of your thunder

rage as you please;

I’ll be here still, listening

enthralled in wonder

I’ll try my best to soothe you

when you’re in need of lullabies;

caress your fears away and

kiss your tears goodbye

saturate me softly;

as the day deluged

by sweet sunlight

shroud me unequivocally;

as the luminous moon

lends all her forms,

to the shadowy night

rejoice in the

turbulent tempest

that is my soul, when

it thrashes and pounds

revel in my heaviness

as winter days do,

the gloomy grey clouds

even when I'm as crazy

as a raging thunderstorm

tell me you love me;

say you'll be mine, only mine

-- always, though I may be

as frigid and disastrous as

a hurricane of snow

or as transient and distant

as a whimsical rainbow;

allow me to showcase

my millions of scars,

as the sky unabashedly

exhibits the brilliant stars;

whatever the weather,

oh my dear darling

stay with me forever;

make life worth living

Your name, a tremor on my

lips I weave into a prayer;

an ache in my heart I recognize as love;

a curse I'm recklessly seduced by;

Your name, a breath of bliss;

ignition to the fire burning inside me

who's vigour I know now to fear;

a sigh from my soul, signifying sweet

serenity and chaotic rapture, intertwining

in a heady scent that smells of home;

Your name; an enchantment, a costly spell

I whisper feverishly, incited in candlelight;

a dream I can't quite remember but

know in the recesses of my psyche,

a puzzle I'm obsessed with assembling;

Your name; a mirage, hope in the arid uncertainty;

a drop of rain after a lengthy drought,

an answer to a prayer; Your name,

the sound of dreams coming true

you say I shouldn't do that

and I hear I should change

I say I can't do this anymore

and you hear I give up

you tell me I need to get better

and I hear you're tired of me

I tell you how much I miss you

and you hear you aren't trying

you ask why am I crying

and I hear I have no right

I ask when will you learn

and you hear it's never enough

you can be all alone

yet it is impossible to feel lonely

because you're so surrounded

by majestic mountains,

so grounded and dignified;

every crevice and contour lending to

a stunningly surreal work of art

and the marvelous feel of gliding grains,

so exotic and still, oh so homey;

the clouds floating prettily

in whatever orchestration

the moment calls for;

and the perfectly piquant air that

smells like magic--with a pinch of salt!

the birds, soaring ever swiftly,

invoking wonder and yearning for

their buoyancy and freedom;

the sun smiling splendidly down upon us

and the simply gorgeous fields of green

filled with blissful blooming buds;

the rocks and cliffs, their often odd

arrangements of shapes and silhouettes,

completely complementary altogether

and the waves, my God, the waves

dancing playfully and provocatively to

its own rhythm with uninhibited delight;

the awesome breath-taking sovereignty

somehow surging through you,

assaulting all senses

silence is an old friend of mine,

who visits at the best and worst of times;

it cocoons me in its immense, bare bliss

or torments me with its echoing abyss

silence commands utter reverence;

it will either bring you down to your knees

or drift you up to utopia with its attendance

sometimes it sounds like a prayer,

its feverish whirr chanting for decree

or it sounds like a damning curse,

quietly deranging until sense disperses;

silence is an old enemy of mine

its meaning often refusing to be defined

my protector when nothing would defend

a weapon, relishing its ability to snare

silence either hums along rhythmically

or roars and wrecks about destructively;

upon its return, I can always depend

whether it determines to save or slay me

drowning me in its endless depths

or redeeming me in a quiet death

at least I know it will always be

silence is sometimes a lonesome world

but it is often where genius whirls

though odd, it is an answer in itself

as well as the question quietly knelt

silence is a distance, savage and cold

or a journey of love and enlightenment

silence sure is a spectacle to behold

in all forms, it's filled with entitlement

Stay away; Far, far away. You really should listen to me. No, I haven't recently been dumped by a writer*snort/smirk*. You'll find that a lot aren't generally able to express themselves frankly by speaking.. Fights are the worst! They might take part or even instigate them but are seldom able to get their point across--coherently, that is. Luckily, roaring needs no translation, or not much. This incoherency tends to escalate in heated moments. The reason for it is that they have a million different voices battling to be heard. You'll find that writing is the only means to convey whatever they're thinking and feeling.. mostly coherently, hopefully. Then there's the ever-looming silence that somehow manages to scorch; not like fire. Do you know how frigid cold has to be to burn? It diminishes any fear of fire. You'll find that during these times they are often impossibly distant, stubbornly refusing to let you in their lonesome worlds.. Even if that's what they want, more than anything else. Did I mention the contradiction? It comes with the package; or maybe it is the package. If you search between their writing, you'll find exposed the depths of their heart.. Or you might find riddles impossible to solve. Ones they're not even sure they themselves fully understand but desperately yearn for you to figure out. The one who stares into a writer's eyes will find a soul engulfed in uninhibited intensity.. When writers write(or readers read; as I don't think there's a writer who's not a reader, the words are synonymous to me), it is with complete and utter reverence and devotion..it becomes their world, their reason for being. They'll continue reading and writing even if it kills them or rather, until.

That should give you an idea of how they love. You'll find that they don't care for casualty. They have to give their all in order to feel and can only give themselves over by feeling every emotion. In essence, writing is feeling; in order to write, writers need to feel; feeling causes them to write. They want when you're with them, to leave every inch of your heart and mind exposed. You are their world. Like luscious words--blissful unread ones and glorious old favourites! They need details, every dirty little detail and still more, always more. No matter how tremendously hurtful words sometimes are to write, writer's can never give up on it without killing a part of themselves in the process. It is their world. It is essential to their existence. Writers are willing to be utterly destroyed by their worlds before they let go. And even then, they might not. Reading forces you to look for the secrets hidden between the words and writing forces you to leave secrets between the words.

So they'll see more than they're supposed to, be attuned to your every mood, know your every heartbeat from when you're happy to feeling blue and feel it all with you, too..

You'll be equally awed and astounded by their endless mysteries and elusive realms you'll find they can't help but hide at first or forever.. They'll inscribe you between every word they read, every word they speak, every word they hear. For long after you've gone. So they'll imprint their words deep within your soul, before any thought of endings, while you're still willing to be marked, even eager. If it has to end, you'll stay scarred by them for life. As they know they inevitably will be by you. You'll find them in every word you read, every word you speak, every word you hear. For long after they're gone. And remember when I said to stay away, far, far away..? That's just poetic melodrama. In writer's speak, that means: go ahead, obliterate me; I dare you. I beg you..

All my life, I've never exactly been comfortable with my body. I'm just one of those people who are naturally self-conscious(about everything) but I somehow managed(mostly) to push back those insecurities; after all, I'd never discriminate against anyone else's body, so why should I cause myself to suffer such irrationality(feed my insecurities unhealthy, not to mention, uncalled for, critiques that only serve to shame and scorn) but it's a helluva journey; with more back and forth's than I can keep up with. So I know body issues. But I don't think anyone other than recipients are fully able to understand the torture of being the wrong gender. Someone close to me has tried to explain it to me and though I felt their heartbreak, confusion, isolation and incomprehension, I knew I couldn't come close to understanding living with it every single day. Knowing that heartbreak, confusion, isolation and incomprehension as long as you have known that you are not what you were supposed to be. What you want to be. I know this is probably not what this was supposed to be about but I need to say; to my beloved and anyone out there enduring the same struggle, in a world that is, all too often, harsh and cruel: I personally do not think God makes any mistakes and God definitely did not make a mistake with you. You are exactly as you are meant to be. If you were born a different gender, you wouldn't be who you are and the world needed you, exactly as you are. And though there are too many who believe different, most of the world knows and will continue to ratify; you can be exactly what you want to be. You be exactly who you want to be! God didn't give you this struggle for no reason. I've seen a bit of the strength it takes to go on living, to try to understand and accept yourself in a world that, all too often, simply refuses to understand and accept others; it takes resilience that not everyone possesses. I know I couldn't possibly come close to understanding but I applaud it. I applaud you. And I pray for your continued strength, endlessly blissful happiness and much, much more.