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

falling snow

– Patricia


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
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;
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

Linear. Or: To live life at sea level

I should’ve paid closer attention in geography.
maybe then I would know why it’s impossible to wish
to live life at sea level
wherever I go.

I have no use for mountain tops, nor hills,
and I’ve known the bottom of the ocean my whole life:
safe to say I’ve had more than my fair share of

and that’s not what I want.

I do not care for depths,
just make me one-dimensional:
a blurry presence flat against their background,
living vicariously through them.
that would be enough.

I’ve had more than my fair share of climbs and descents.
I want to be linear.

do not curse me
with cloud nines,
nor with rock bottoms.

leave me be.

one with the tranquil meadows
morphing into virgin beaches where my feet will know to stop
at the edge of the all-too-familiar body of water.
and tread no farther.

– Patricia


*soft knock on the— *
Oh, uh… There’s no door anymore.

“I’ve come,” and swiftly passes through the doorframe.
“Oh, is it time already?”, motioning towards the chair covered in 10-month-old unwashed clothes.
“Mind your step, it gets slippery,” indicating the greenish puddle in the middle of the room,
The navel of anxiety and self-induced e.d.
Tripping over a rolled up traditional carpet: “Where do I, uh…,” and scratches head in slight puzzlement.
“Right there. No, not there. There. Next to the— Nevermind, I’ll show you,” and crosses the unlit 23-square-metre room, past a slightly red-tinted razor lying on the bare floor. “Uh, nevermind that. Thought it’d only be 23, but I guess life sure did find a way around that preconceived notion, huh? Since it’s about to become 24, might as well use up all the space, right?”, lets out a forced laugh.
“Sure, uh…”
Dusting off the cracked mirror broken in a previous anger episode: “There. All waiting for you. Have a seat. How do you like it?”
Awkwardly squeezes in between the bloody shards: “Um, is this it?”
“Yeah, I’ve been refurbishing. Trying out a new look. The old one was getting boring. Had it for 23 years, you know?”
“Yeah, um… I see.”

Studying with a scrutinizing glance: “Why did they send you? Should’ve paid closer attention. You stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Uh, why? What’s wrong?”
Scrunching nose: “Too beautiful for this house. Come on, people, keep up. I can’t possibly have you. You don’t fit in.”
“Now I have to either make you fit in or refurbish all over again. Do you know how long it’s taken me to make it all work together? No, of course not. Of course they don’t care. They just send in whatever they want and expect me to bend to their will. Hmph, like that has ever worked out for them. Yeah, right. Watch me! I’ll do them one better! They’ll never send in anyone like you again!”
“Why? What fault have I?”
“Come on! Don’t you see it?” Sighing: “You’re way too beautiful for this,” gesturing defeatedly towards the messy house, shoulders slumped.

“Now I have to change either my house or you. And you’re far too beautiful to be altered… And I’m too beaten down to refurbish and remodel ALL of this”, pointing to surroundings.

“But who says you can’t have both? What if we can all stay like this?”

“Oh,” stopping in her tracks.
“I’d never thought of that…”

– My 24th birthday
24 feels too beautiful and graceful for me



I came back to the sea on a moonlit night
And finally stopped running.
As my thirsty feet finally touched the warm, velvety waves,
A sigh of relief
Escaped my lips—
Offering to the soulless sea.

I hadn’t even realised how much I’d missed it,
Tangled up in the
whys and the
hows and the
what nows of a suffocating existence.

I came back to the sea on a strawberry moon night
And finally set myself free
of the should be’s and the
can’t be’s and the
will never be’s.

I gazed open-mouthed at the moonlit waves,
While their soothing caress
embraced my weak ankles
that have desperately fought to keep me up and running,
to get me to my hidden-in-plain-sight haven;
While their ancient lullaby of
sunken seashells, spilled secrets and salty sea foam
landed on my starving ears;
While the strawberry moon
paved a pink path on the untainted tremor of the dark waves,
promising to keep me afloat,
calling me into the limelight while no one was in the audience
(just how I like it)
with its tender voice:
“Moonchild, come!”

facing the silence of the unreachable horizon,
staring into the lifeless void of darkness,
my mind empty and ready to receive,
Receive I did:

– Patricia

Petition to plain Jane


Petition to plain Jane over there with the wounded inner child

To whom it may concern,
(you know very well who you are)

It has unfashionably late come to my attention
That the precarious conditions in which plain Jane’s inner child has grown
Are, simply put, outrageous.

23 years of
self-hatred and
feelings of personal inadequacy
with no ounce of self-compassion
while your inner child cowers away in the least tainted corner of your mind,
suffering through your self-victimization episodes
—no matter how seemingly valid—
have been more than enough.

I, the undersigned,
therefore request immediate measures be taken
to ensure the safety of the aforementioned child.

Should necessary measures fail to be immediately implemented,
I reserve the right to file a complaint with the child protective services.

Get yourself together already before you turn into a Jane Doe
Plain and simple