My dad didn’t die. He was supposed to. I flew across half of our madly spinning space-rock to be with him, and he didn’t die. I packed up my notebooks of equations and cancelled my meetings in the dim offices of old men healthier than him to be by his side. But he didn’t follow through. Not the first time he hasn’t followed through. Not the first time I’ve dropped everything for him. It’s always his heart that doesn’t work right; that’s what puts him into the hospital, and what makes him stay out of my life.

My dad didn’t die. And so I have no idea what it is to grieve a father’s death. I have grieved his addiction, I have grieved his absence, but I have not grieved his passing. I got off the plane, jetlagged and a thousand euros poorer from the last-minute trip. I felt numb, trying to explain to the man at immigration why I was in Detroit. I didn’t know yet that my dad’s heart had started to work again while I was in the air. I didn’t know the music hadn’t died.

See, that’s the thing about him. My dad. His heart doesn’t work, but my god does that man make love to symphonies, embrace the curves of his violin, whisper sweet nothings to the classical masters. For every ounce of love that he withholds from me, he puts a magnum of wild, rushing adoration into that instrument. It overflows, it engulfs me, it overwhelms me, ever since my earliest days. With that adoration he gave our family life, provided us shelter, brought adventures to us. With that adoration he gave me the gift of passion and rhythm and the endless quest for the contradiction that is perfection in art. See, his heart doesn’t work, but his music – oh, his music – it works like the sun shines and the waves crash. The world can’t go on without it.

Up high in the clouds, disconnected from the truth, I grieved. I thought my dad’s heart stopped working once and for all; I thought he had died. And I didn’t grieve it. But in that same moment, when I thought the music had died, see, I grieved its passing.

So I do not know what it is to grieve a father’s death. I landed, and I learned that his heart – which the doctors say is bigger than normal, to all of our shock – had started to work again. I did not need to grieve that. But for one day, one transoceanic flight, I thought the music had died. And I know what it is to feel that loss.

I’ve read about it in books, seen it happen in movies, listened to podcasts that discuss why it happens and how. In my desperation to make it happen to me, I’ve done almost every plausible thing- and some implausible ones, too- but all in vain. No matter the my extensive googling, the self-assured knowledge of the Wikihow pages, the step-by-step Youtube tutorials with the cartoon pictures, the advice of my friends (“I don’t know how to explain it… it just happens, you know?”), I just can’t do it.

I can’t lucid dream.

I’ve never done it before. Everytime I go to sleep and wake up in a dream world composed by my own mind, it’s like the spindle fibers of my brain has decided to give themselves amnesia. This is the real world, they tell me, sincere as a five year old. Your teeth in a pile on the ground? Your complete and utter embarrassing nakedness in front of your entire school? That desperation to escape that thing chasing you? All of it is real.

And every time, I’m helplessly gullible. Or my brain is. To… itself. I’m not exactly sure of the logistics of dream-world belief in its own reality, but the bottom line is that every single time, without fail, I fall for it.

I feel my mouth, and sure enough, I get a fingerful of fleshy gum. I look down at my body and- oops- there it is, on full display before every single person I’ve ever known. I try to slow down, but every muscle, every tendon, screams in protest and I keep on running, to avoid the thing that chases me.

Wow, dream-world-idiot me thinks, I hate my life.

And for dream-world-idiot me, the button that appears sometimes to my friends, to countless strangers on the internet- the one that gives them wings and a cloak of invisibility and godly transcendence to a higher plane of understanding- never appears for me. I’m always stuck running away, or trying to cover myself, or garbling for a dentist.

And at this point, I’m starting to think that lucid dreaming is just one big conspiracy, an Illuminati secret that everyone else in the world besides me is in on.

It sounds stupid but true

Elephant's ear can't be teared

Donkey's nose can't be broken

Eagel's eyes can't be tired

Monkey's tail can't be removed from it

Wild boar can't be squeezed

And I can't see a dog without tail,

These naturally can't be occurred.

What is it like to have loved and lost?

Were the moments stolen from fate worth the inevitable? And when we laid together, wrapped in that old, plaid blanket, watching cheesy rom-coms, could you feel the seconds ticking by? Every exhale was one of exhaustion. Counting the minutes we had left, knowing each one was something we’d never get back. Sleeping felt like a waste. Did my friends notice the bags under my eyes? Would I still be able to feel your arms wrapped around my waist, from when you turned on those overplayed, pop love songs, and we swayed under the stars? Each day that I could fall asleep calling you my own felt like a victory.

What is it like to have loved and lost?

Because I have only been loved and won.

One of the feeling that i really want to have to be in a part of that crowed that shout out the name of all those 7 heartthrobs ....

want to hold that light bulb which has its name and significance.

Want to listen those majestic voices, want to be emersed in the dance of those guys filled with pain, pleasure, hardwork, hapiness and more of those emotions.

I have never experienced the live vibe of any of the concert ever, and want the first one to be this one... “The BTS”....

#bts #concert #feeling #chasing #obsessed

I’d say it’s crazy but I wouldn’t know, wouldn’t go, wouldn’t blow with the wind. That would be too free, too lonely at sea, as my sail caught on my sin. There’s a strangeness there, in the moving water-air, and it pulls and it tears at my soul—no my heart, as it aches to be apart, yet it still is always yearning to be whole. I think if it broke—yes, my mind, not my soul—then to find it in the waste I’d need to lose. And though losing is so wrong, and it’s wrong to not belong, I think I’d like to lose if I so choose. Don’t hate me—don’t break me—though you can just stare if you’d like. I won’t react, won’t compare, wouldn’t ever even dare, though if you look then be ready for a fight. I’d not win, I’d not lose, I’d not ever even choose; choosing has forever been my chains. I am bound and I am found, in a perfect little cube, that the world has always labeled as insane.

To be pregnant. To know that something...someone is growing inside of you. Invading you? Maybe that is not the right word. But that is how it feels. Or would feel, technically speaking. To be a mother is different than being an aunt. Being an aunt is fun because the moment things become too much to handle, it can be over. The child can be given back to its mother. But to be the mother. Now that is a whole other job. A scary, stressful, and rewarding job that can only be appreciated when it is experienced. Or at least that is what every mom says.