Hemingway said to write the truest sentence you know
I think I am sad.
Sad to fly, to experience, to know
The traveler —
Sad, to be free?
And even sadder
When sitting alongside peace
An unfamiliar calm
Kundera said:
The unbearable lightness of being —
And I understand.
When the weight of the world
The burden, the pain, the obstacles
The bills, the kids, the hustle —
Those heavy crashing waves of darkness
Beat against your chest
One after another —
That man. The many men.
Heartbreak, loss, grief
The unknown, and nothing is promised —
The girth of it. The literal and
Physical and mental heaviness of it
Freedom is fleeting.
The anchor eventually becomes
Your comfort
Your stability.
A weight that keeps you grounded
Despair cries, and so do you
Loud and fierce but beaten
Into submission, you oblige
You conform and crawl beneath
The barrel of joy long hollow
Steel upon sulfur upon pewter dreams
Gone stifled and chorused
In a blue heat of arrest
But then one day —
You are light like dawn
Almost empty, and ascending
And floating above endlessly
The expectation of boundary gone wild
And you gasp
Am I alone?
Can I go here, or there —
Yes.
Nothing and no one is detaining you
The noose of submission has been tethered
And the sadness you feel for
Your captor gone romantic is perverse
But the reality is freedom pounding light
So light that your fist penetrates the wall
Fallen in Berlin style
And nothing is real
Just fabricated borders collapsing
And it is sad.
It is a dichotomy of arriving and —
Am I lost.
Used by the pillars of angst
Who am I now
Free?
Weeping am I behind a pink moon
A sigh so loud that no one looks
I am free.
And perhaps I am afraid of
How far I will fall
With no shackles to stop me.
“Anonymous was usually a woman”
I've been simmering on this; making my point might be like driving a car in stick shift - I don't know it. I only strive to be the best writer I can be while sharing my story; if a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, does Prose still have the capacity to hold me?
Coping can look like crying; some might say I do that into the keys - the click of my typing like little tears getting bigger and bigger, a la Alice in Wonderland. Fergie said, "Big girls don't cry", (almost too simple, like a lullaby). If you don't know who that is, it's probably because my age bracket was born at the tail end of the twentieth century. And that's okay, and that's why we're here - to share different perspectives, holding the truth, making the complex clear.
I know I lack drive, that I lack confidence. It's not lost on me that I'm writing into the internet, little nothings that might make someone say oh, me too, or sometimes, that's not the way of the world, sweet girl.
I'm writing for myself, first and foremost, above everything. My nieces play with teddy bears and flower petals, I play with words and feelings. I take screenshots and share the evidence. Perhaps that makes me vain, but isn't that the world we're living in?
Do I make excuses? Absolutely. That's the world we're living in, too. That could just be my generation though - whining about everything. Millennials, am I right? Or maybe I got lost somewhere along the production line. I'm missing a tooth, or a toe. Or maybe just the ability to tell my woes without sounding morose.
I promise that I'm trying not to whine, to complain bitterly about things I have the capacity to change.
I promise I read your message, and if this isn't even close to what you meant, I apologize - sometimes I miss the point entirely.
I wish the best for you, too - the whole world aligns when we write and hold each other up; supporting other artists is what this is all about.
And with that, I sign off, and please remember - I am just a girl, trying to type out what hurts. What my personality lacks, my keyboard pounces like a cat, and attacks. But we're all friends here, we're all trying our best and that's what I love about this website.
Break the pattern
You always said, 'I'm telling you what my father told me, don't wait too long to have kids.'
When I turned thirty, you took me on a long walk - and explained my own dwindling fertility to me - as if you couldn't understand why I hadn't yet produced a child. Another disappointment I suppose. I made many excuses - my low wages, my high rent, my partner's reluctance to become a father, the increasing conflicts within the world, the collapse of ecosystems, pollution. All of these reasons were real - but none of them is what was truly keeping me from motherhood.
The truth is - I didn't feel equipped to become a parent. I was painfully aware of my hair-trigger temper, my disproportionate reactions, the undercurrent of violence that flowed through my veins, always threatening to come to the surface.
My own world felt so unsafe that I could never imagine willingly subjecting an innocent being to it. Because children are supposed to be nurtured and kept safe. They are supposed to be encouraged and loved unconditionally, so they can grow into the beautiful and unique (and yes sometimes frustrating) person they are supposed to be. And I didn't get that from you as a child. The home I grew up in felt like living on the edge of a volcano. Sometimes dormant, usually spewing lava - but occasionally blowing up and destroying everything in it's path.
Now I am healing and learning healthy communication and emotional maturity. Maybe one day - with the right partner, I might feel safe enough to nourish a child. Maybe not. Either way, I am determined to break the pattern here.
I just wish you would take the time to come to terms with your own childhood trauma - I can't imagine what you have suffered to make you as you are.
Lonely Bloom
After he got the news, his arms went limp and the rose fell to the floor. He stood there, staring at it for a few moments. Unable to move or even think. Finally, he unfolded the paper and began reading again the poem he had composed for her.
"Though we're apart and my life is a desert, love can still bloom in the driest of places. Like a rose that waters itself with the tears of missing you."
He stopped short, unable to finish. Then stooping down, he picked up the flower, and put it under his nose, allowing its fragrance to linger there. As he stood up and inhaled deeply, he recalled the place where they had first met.
It was at a little sidewalk café, in Paris, where he often went to work on his journal. He was sitting alone, she with friends. He was jotting down some random observations about the music and the cuisine when she came up softly. She cleared her throat a little, causing him to gaze up and stare at her in stunned silence.
She stood there like a lovely European dream. Her long, flowing, blond hair was soft-lifted by the breeze, playing all around her head in delicate little tangles. Her deep blue, sea green eyes regarded him with surprised interest, as her smooth skin shimmered in the hot Paris sun like rose-colored pearl. For a few moments, he was unable to speak.
Finally, he slipped back into this new reality where anything was possible as long as she was a part of it.
"Wha-What may I do for you?" He said, barely able to control his emotions.
She went to speak, and her soft voice sounded cool, clear, and musical. Like the whisper of magic fairy chimes, tinkling softly in an open doorway on a pleasant spring day.
"May I have this chair?" She asked, coming up close and placing both her arms around it as if she could not bear to be parted from it. "You see, a friend of mine has just arrived, and she has no place to sit."
Then she stepped aside and allowed him to peer behind her, where he saw two attractive ladies sitting at a table. While a third one stood close by, gazing his way with a hopeful expression.
He could refuse her nothing. "Yes, you may have it most certainly. Just as long as you promise to come and sit with me after your friends leave."
She tilted her head a little to one side, gazed at him with eyes wet and glistening, then she made a sigh that he would never forget. Seeming to laugh and cry in the same breath.
"Oh, I cannot, for we are all leaving together, you see. Ah well, I shall just find one somewhere else I suppose." Then she went to turn away when he stopped her.
"Wait! I shall not hear of such a thing!" He proclaimed indignantly. "You shall surely take that chair for your friend. It is my gift to you. Enjoy."
Then she giggled and clapped her hands together gleefully like a young schoolgirl. "Oh goody! Thank you so much kind, sir. You truly are an angel."
"No Madam, you are the angel. I am but a wandering soul, waiting for the salvation only your sweet love can provide."
She looked him directly in the eyes and mouthed the words thank you. As she slid her tongue out seductively and let it touch the front of her lips. Then she smiled, waved a little, and after lifting up the chair, she set it down for her friend. Then they both sat down together, ordered some drinks and all of them started talking.
He tried to continue working on his journal. But each time he did, he would hear her laughter rise above that of the others, and it left his soul intoxicated. Or he would hear her talking and her voice became like a siren song. Seeming to sound higher, clearer, and more beautiful than all the rest. It almost caused him to lose control of his emotions. So that in a second or two he felt as if he might rise up and declare his love for her. Regardless of who was around or what happened afterwards.
Suddenly, he shot a quick glance here and there to see if anyone else had become aware of his growing infatuation with her. No one had. Then, he dropped his pen on the table, closed the journal, sat back in his chair, and lit up a cigarette. Resigning himself to defeat.
Several minutes later he put the cigarette out and began collecting up his journal, some notes, and other miscellaneous things he had brought with him. He placed everything within a small leather carrying case. Determined to come back in a day or two when hopefully, there would be no more distractions.
Then, just as he stood up to leave, her perfume instantly reached out, caught hold of him, and enfolded his senses within a cloud of bliss. He stood there helplessly with his eyes closed, seeming to breathe in a mystical flower of paradise right after the world was new-created.
He knew he couldn't leave like this, so he sat down again and quickly wrote a few lines about her. Then he casually dropped the paper in front of her as he passed. She opened it there and read quietly to herself.
"I am intrigued by the perfume you are wearing. I remember smelling that same fragrance before. It was at the Musée du Louvre. I was admiring that painting, "The Birth of Venus" by Botticelli. You were still lingering in the air, as I arrived.
I had just missed you. I have not been able to forget you since.
You came down from the painting, and into my life. I long to inhale you more deeply. Here is my number, can we meet?"
She called later that night, and they met the very next morning. In the same café, at the same table. From that moment on, his heart belonged to her.
On their first day sightseeing together, they walked under the Arc de Triomphe du Carousel where he kissed her and declared his love. In that moment he told her later, he had outdone Napoleon himself and taken possession of Europe's greatest treasure.
Afterwards, while strolling through the Jardin des Tuileries, they held hands as they admired the paintings, the statues and immersed themselves in the garden's breath-taking beauty. It was there he found a flower unlike the others and named it after her.
"La Fleur d'Elise."
Later, they walked the Champs-Élysées and stopped along the way to browse the luxury shops, cafés and cinemas.
As evening approached, they visited the Eiffel Tower and the Grands Boulevard area in the 9th Arrondisement, where they enjoyed some of the Parisian nightlife. Then they went back to their little café and had dinner.
Afterwards, they ordered a bottle of wine and sat there discussing music, art, poetry and theater. Towards the end of the night, they kissed once more and exchanged love vows, both of them swearing never to think of anyone else while they were apart.
Theirs was a sweet, simple relationship in which they constantly discovered new things about each other to cherish. He told her that he loved the way she tilted her head to one side ever so slightly while speaking. She said that she enjoyed the gleam of adoration in his eyes whenever he spoke to her. They thought it would never end.
But, that was more than a month ago, and a lot had changed since then. He mistook a friend for her lover and grew extremely jealous. Demanded to know who he was and why she was spending time with him. Angry words were exchanged and accusations made that she could not forgive. He had become unreasonable in his suspicions, so she broke it off.
Now she was gone. Had returned to London, her neighbor told him, barely an hour ago. He had just missed again her it seems. Yet her perfume was hanging heavy in the air as always. Then, the neighbor handed him a note from her.
He opened it up and read the final words which she had left for him.
"You sweet, silly man. You will find me...everywhere. Fondly, your Elise."
He nodded his head sadly and wiped away a few tears. Afterwards, he gave the rose to the neighbor, then placed the poem and the note in his pocket. Dejected but accepting, he walked out the front door and back down the street to the little café at which they had first met. Where he knew her fragrance would still be waiting to haunt him forever.
With the memory of a love that would never grow.
How things change in a minute
I stand up and sigh. I walk slowly across the landing to the bedroom. As I shut the door behind me, I nearly collapse to my knees. My head follows down to the floor. It has been one of those days. One of those days when I just seemed to keep taking blows. As I close my eyes I feel it. Slowly sliding over my body is that shield of safety, of protection. I am engulfed and cocooned by you. There is no need to be anyone or anything. I can just breathe in, then breathe out. This minute, set aside for you, but today feels more for me than for you as you give me the freedom to not be. I know your protection is around me. I need not worry about anything. I am in your hands and I have no doubt that you will keep me safe. As my body settles, my mind follows, it lets go of all the pain, stress and loss of the last 12 hours. It all seeps out of me and I am instead filled with your presence. I sense you there above me. Knowing I am in the periphery of your eye, should I have need of you. Time goes. I don’t notice. Eventually, my eyes reopen. I quietly whisper ‘thank you, sir’ into the air. I rise up, crawl into bed and sleep comes quickly.
The Queen of Hearts
The Queen of Hearts called to me,
Her hands caressing my form,
She whispered softly how she cared.
Afraid, I pulled away
I am so tired of being alone,
I am so tired of being hurt
I hide behind my worn mask
And pretend it is my face.
The Queen of Hearts drew me closer
She eased the ache in my heart,
Eased the pain hiding in my soul.
Afraid, I let go of my walls
I let her in to ease the pain,
I let her in to offer hope
I tried to start over
And my mask begins to fray.
The Queen of Hearts smiled,
She offered me comfort,
She offered me hope.
Afraid I cried
I remember the ache of alone
As I sought to hold her.
Remembered the pain of good bye
As our fingers meet but never touched.
She searched into my soul
But saw only the shadows
She could have called her own.
Afraid I let go
Lips that never met,
Passions never explored.
The emptiness within our souls
Reached out to consume our hearts.
She sought to ease my pain,
But she had forgotten
That she was broken as well.
Afraid to say another word,
I put my frayed mask back on.
The next time love comes calling
No one will be home.
The deal
I'm fighting against this poem
Because it reminds me of how desperate madness was to dance with me
Undone by its own weakness
I’d like someone to look me in the eye and know exactly what I mean.
I’d like a ditch instead of a city.
Like before the inventions stole the magic out of me
Before a wrinkled space replaced the feel of a labored manual embrace.
I want to smell the smoke of a climaxed match
strike it as I exile the love from the corner of my smiling mouth and toss the flame into existence.
Jerk and watch a deal the devil made with me in Vegas...
Exchanged a single heartbeat for 20 dollars worth of gas...
In that space between the beats
I pumped blind rage into my viens.
“Sign the dotted line my dear and watch the gates close on your dreams”
he said while leaving me alone with the sun in the desert.
Lets go,
Before the time on my shoes runs out and they forget the feel of the avenue
Before my listening too closely resembles another message from the dead.