Nothing prepares you for the ache of mourning. I am mourning my idealism today, trying to hold onto the ideals in a quicksand hug while reality grapples me like an inseparable birthmark. The trajectory of growing up is learning how to make a coral museum of grief inside the wormholes of your heart. Unable to build a Lego bridge where your idealism kisses your reality, unable to write yourself a soft epilogue.
I like to believe that time is pixie dust washing away in an hourglass. This year, it seems pixies were playing with the hourglass like Tiktokers play with playback speed buttons. I saw loneliness courting humanity, foxtrotting around the planet like Newton’s law of gravitation.
When did we start folding our souls like an origami of backspaced texts? When did we decide to play Russian roulette of “what ifs” before displaying fragments of our hearts to people? When did we become security guards with 7 years of experience to keep an eye on the people who wandered in our minds? When did we master the warfare of defense mechanisms with self-depreciating jokes? When did we construct an outpost to prevent the softness of vulnerability?
Sometimes art is a canvas of whiplash shades of your anatomy chemicals and sometimes art is a sketch of a reality you string in a necklace of “sweet dreams”.
They didn’t tell me growing up was nurturing houseplants of responsibilities and often failing to water them because you are binge-watching a DVD of nostalgia on nights when loneliness sublets you it’s house. They didn’t tell me growing up was walking in circles in my room past midnight trying to remember the face of my imaginary friend. Dimming in my mind in slow motion like the night mode of my phone.
She is whiskey in a teacup, swimming under the sunbeams of passions,
lightening at her fingertips painting a graffiti of wild dreamy fables.
Yet icicles are jabbed in her eyelashes, causing wrecks of ships and inaugurating museums for humans.
The story of Goddess Hestia is the story of warmth scintillating in the hearth. A place you come back to, kicking off your shoes, changing into over worn cartoon pajamas and light the scented candle called ‘home’.Continue reading “The Hearth of Kindness: Prose Poetry”