Da Capo al Poetry

Dim lights, pencil and a paper
And the music which completes me.

Calling unto words of amber,
Aching for a touch of sacred,
Painting feelings—notes and poems
Of another world—forever.

All I am, two joys colliding:
Love for poetry and music.

Painting tremor, vibrant spirit,
Oasis is the written canvas;
Echoing through my whole being,
Tender notes are born, igniting
Realigned suns—constellations.
Yes, I yearn for words and music.

I went back to the beginning,
I have found myself again.

– Patricia

The 31st of August

;

6 years in the making

twenty-six. or: about Sisypheans, proteans, and of the sort

twenty-six.
late twenties.
feels… bittersweet.
feels… like I’m
late
for something. for everything.
no milestone in sight.
I’m stuck.
falling behind.
still here,
but only 26% of the time

the rest of it is spent
in the scribbling of irrational fears,
nonsensical thoughts,
and rock bottoms with trapdoors
threatening to drag me to an early grave
and making me wonder: “mother, can you unbirth me already?”

all these
sprinkled with little joys here and there,

like
the new songs about kaleidoscope love and sleep deprivation,
one allowing me to daydream while looking at life,
the other helping me feel less lonely at night.

like
the solo August walks I take through the neighbourhood park,
enjoying my company,
feeling the summer breeze on my face,
taking in the murmur of the water fountain,
the trill of mated nest-builders,
the airplane trails making me wonder what lives those people have,
and people-watching.

like
the long, flowy skirts encasing my legs in a soft, soothing touch,
making me feel less overstimulated and more like I’m floating through life,
at least for 2.6 seconds at a time.

like
the hearty laughs erupting whenever my siblings poke fun at me,
reminding me I should seriously
take myself less seriously.

like
my Jane Austen-inspired comfort movies
making me feel safe and cherished
when I yearn for light-heartedness, companionship and togetherness

like
the spoken-word poems I come across late at night,
reminding me there’s more
to experience,
to discover,
to live,

if only
I could develop a more protean approach to life,
if only
I could get past the survival stage I’ve been stuck in
for more than half my life.

it feels unfair to come upon the realisation
that I only get to live life
at a Sisyphean 26% at best

but at this point,
I’ll take what I can get.
and 26 is enough

don’t come to my funeral

when I die,
don’t come to my funeral.
don’t bury me.
just leave my corpse wherever I finally bid farewell to this world
I never wished to come in in the first place
no choice then
but I choose now.
and I choose to be forgotten.

don’t come to my funeral.
those are for people who want to be remembered.
who, for better or worse, have done at least one thing good with their lives,
have left their mark on one other soul,
have lived.

I
have

never
lived.

don’t come and wish me goodbye,
and say we’ll meet again one day,
for
as much as I loved you
(incapable as I was of deep emotions other than anxiety and depression),
as much as I would like to see you again,
I do not wish for you to ever see me again.
don’t remember me,
don’t give me a grave where you can come back to
when you wish to talk to me.

one of my love languages are words of affirmation
(go figure – always the people-pleaser expecting validation from the outside),
so don’t show me you love me,
not even in death.

forget me,
so you can move on
to someone who deserves all of that.

I have never wanted to live,
and not die, either.
just simply: cease existing.

but
if you insist on showing your love for me
one last time,
help me disappear.
no trace lingering on some things, or some ones.

when I die,
don’t come to my funeral.

deliverance in a seashell

almost slender fingers reaching for the basket full of seashells,
the only way out.
I grab one of the bigger ones
—hoping for louder waves crashing against my eardrums,
louder, louder, louder,
taking me away from this stifling existence;
hoping the sound of the restless sea would drown out the impending to-do list of endless tasks
waiting to grab my weak ankles and drag me back into the grey of existential dread.

so, I stick the seashell to my ear,
breathe in, breathe out,

in and out,

in and out,

in and out,

anchor myself into a few moments of ease,
yearn for salty air, screeching seagulls, a serenade of crashing waves and parched sand,
and soak up the winter sun.
apricity.

I cling onto the few moments of sweet solitude
allowing me to keep my sanity

okay, time’s up. I know you need more,
but the pressing matters won’t stop pressing against the back of your mind,
and the front of it and every other side they’ll find,
so just let the waves crash in,
flood your brain with much-needed nothingness,
and keep going.

don’t worry. at least you’ll always find the seashells
just where you left them,
and the soothing sea waves right next to your eardrums

deliverance in a seashell

I… uh… where do I weep for my inner child?

it’s here. the day it never crossed my mind would come
not that I ever think of the future as something tangible,
but that day I hadn’t even conceived
has come

it feels… like nothing… sea level… snow level…
snowflake after snowflake – once a clear symbol of happiness and hope –
fall one after another and land softly on the lethargic concrete,
blanketing the crimson roofs in 10-centimetre cold emptiness

it didn’t feel like the downward-spiralling climax I’d have imagined, if ever asked to
it didn’t feel like… anything
that’s the worst part

you’d think I’d at least be able to grieve the disappearance of that final sign of
inner childhood
grieve and let the knot of pain stuck in my throat claw its way out into a final screeching release
to mark the grave of the one I’ve now lost forever
mark it in time and space, tie it to a specific moment and let it go forever

but there’s no grave
just falling snow
and lethargy beneath it

no grave for me to come back to,
to revisit distant memories of innocence and childlike wonder,
no grave to scream my regrets at,
to mark the moment in time when time stood still for the old me

I’ve become but a wandering gaunt shadow of doubts, anxieties and regrets
in search of a resting place
where I can crawl into a ball and regret the loss of endearing youth

it’s here. the day it never crossed my mind would come

the day when seeing falling snow brought me no more joy, nor respite, nor reprieve
just

falling snow

– Patricia

The 31st of August

5 years in the making.

Two and a half decades, and a cockle to show for it

Two and a half decades
of casting inconsequential shadows
on the forever droughty soil of a spinning space ball that feels
too grand,
too august,
too austere,
and too stiflingly scanty all the same.

What have you to show for it
but for a debilitating air hunger of a perfectly functional pair of lungs
wasted
on a heart wishing the pendulum would stop mid-air,
on a head begging for the synapses to cease fire,
on two feet carrying skin and bone barely standing as is;
wasting
the all too precious oxygen
of a heart wishing for one more year of swinging,
of a head begging for one more electrical signal,
of two feet carrying holistic cells with gazelle-like dignity.

Two and a half decades
with nothing to show for it
but for
the cockle my brother gifted me on the day when time ominously sealed the number 25 on my body;
carefully collected while still whole, shell blissfully intact, both parts attached to each other like an unbreakable promise to never let go no matter how seemingly fragile, always held together despite the apparently insurmountable threats of elements vowing to rip them apart;
precious treasure cleaned with utmost care of the sand nesting inside the opal shell
and made the welcoming home of unspoken truth:

I… do matter

Two and a half decades
with a cockle nesting the serendipitously silent truth that I am unconditionally seen and loved
to show for it.

Two and a half decades.
And while you’ll still find me casting inconsequential shadows on the lifeless soil of a spinning space ball,
My hands clutch the delicately hinged halves of a cockle whispering the undeniable truth of unconditional love.

Two and a half decades
and the two halves of a cockle
to show for it.

middle of nowhere

There’s no other song to perfectly describe my life at this point in time. My soul yearns for something more, something which feels so out of my reach. I turn to daydreaming to escape my painful reality, and every rude awakening I experience only makes me wish (to the point of heartbreak) that I lived in another world, all by myself, for myself, with nobody to impede my natural self. A world where I just am, with no outer expectations to fulfill and no pressure to make something of myself. Lost in my 20s. That’s what I am, and I don’t wish to find myself in the real world, because there’s nothing dreamy waiting for me there. No, I want to be among the clouds, floating wistfully, peacefully, dreamily to no end. I just want to be. I don’t want to do anything, I do not wish to be a productive member of society, I do not want to have it all figured out. Leave me be. Just passing through, the child of the dreamgiver trying to work it all out on the way to the moon…

– child of the dreamgiver

Chasing butterflies in the garden

Oh, to be blissfully away in the small, lush garden of my daydream cottage,
barefoot, feeling the occasional ant exploring unchartered territory in its search for the way home;
baresouled, by and for myself, with no audience to impede my natural self;
soaking up the May sun,
looking up at the bright blue sky through the emerald leaves of a tall oak tree,
tree sparrows tantalizingly trilling about the freedom of discovering yourself in the embrace of a white cotton candy cloud,
bees busily buzzing about tasting the sweet nectar of the cornflowers, the poppies, and the chrysanthemums,
crickets cheerfully chirping about the happiness of simply being,
there, in the present,
with no wandering thought that there’s no unchanging the past,
nor having certainty in the future.

Oh, to feel the dainty flutter of a butterfly’s wings
cease as it lands on your rosy cheek,
then suddenly dancing away in the warm spring breeze,
filling you with the childlike wonder you haven’t felt in many a year,
making you sprint to your feet
and chase it with the wild wind in your tousled curls,
letting the boisterous laughter reaching your upturned lips
join the harmony of trills, hums, chirps, and the murmur of the nearby spring.

Oh, to be chasing butterflies in the garden,
to be a novice at life’s symphonies and requiems,
just now coming to know the first,
and never the latter.

Oh, to be chasing butterflies in the garden…

– Patricia

You’ve always been a cat person

Bless your heart, you’ve always been a cat person.
Languorously waltzing into my life
like you’d always been the rightful owner,
covert claws painfully showing themselves when I least expected it,
leaving their mark on my hypersensitive skin;
always a bit too independent for my taste,
coming and going as you pleased,
sometimes there on the sweltering summer nights
when I would lie awake in the crumpled bed sheets,
staring at my make-believe galaxy of glow-in-the-dark star stickers
plastered on the rainwater leaking ceiling,
while you purred perrrfectly soothing whispers into my anxiety-filled ears,
easing my uselessly ruminative mind.
Other times, floating around my necrotic neurons like a pale phantom
seemingly evading all my blizzards on purpose,
so cruelly making me keep my ears open
for the pacifying sound of your returning footsteps,
even though you hadn’t left your paw prints on the marble kitchen countertop
in 4 days, 9 hours, 21 minutes and 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42 seconds.

Bless your heart, it wasn’t your fault I have an anxious attachment style!

But I
couldn’t help it,
couldn’t change it,
couldn’t take it
anymore.
I needed so much more than your hypothermic love.

No wonder I like dogs better.

– Patricia