the rear new mirror

Never and always.
Shared forgetting, infectious thoughts and planting doubts..." 

memory is a fragile friend. vivid and unforgiving at times, but also fleetingly fake. you remember what you'd like to not forget. some stories jump up at you, unassuming and seemingly simple, yet gut-wrenching and physically painful. a colour, a phrase, a song, an email, a question. the stories have leaked into your blood and have altered your very being. you are no longer the same person. and you struggle to understand yourself, and soon, you are someone else, reliving the old memories as an outsider. and while you were fighting the old demons, new ones made themselves at home. not all monsters, though. some very angelic beings, like comforting panda bears, making you smile in spite of yourself. you even begin to ask yourself if the happiness you now feel is the same that you remember. or is it the happiness that you try and forget?

when i think of you, i feel a soul-stirring, tingle-in-the-spine, confusing little spark of wonder. it's not a familiar feeling, in fact it's strange and mystical and unknown. like questions without answers, a night without morning, like thunder without rain, an illness without a cure, or a kiss that seems like the beginning and the end. when i think of you, i start thinking of all the stories that we've written together, in invisible ink. i tell myself that like memory, even the marks on my body fade away. and i stand in front of the mirror and search every inch of me, for you. i twist and turn and even turn the lights off, so i could maybe find you in the darkness. 

i've done everything to remember you. i've done more than everything to forget you. i have no memories of you. i have made you a part of my soul. i did not dream of you before. i will never sleep in peace again. i want nothing but you. and i will have everything, but you. 

words leading nowhere

i felt a slight tingle in my soul today,
like he laughed loudly for no reason,
and i felt the tremor after a long while.
yes, my soul is a man.
isn't yours?
he is the one who keeps me from writing on the walls,
or makes me send out messages into the universe,
knowing fully well that the stars won't reply.
he is also the one who taught me
how to smile, say goodbye and wait
till you leave to start crying.
he is the one who shows me the truth of the world,
like truth and love and beauty,
and rain and early mornings and weed,
and photos of big, fake smiles.
yes, my soul is a man,
who loves me
even though i don't love him back.

Mother Mary

"It's only a coincidence if it happens once". 

Everyday I read some poetry. A few lines, a well-balanced phrase, a quote or sometimes, a whole three-scrolls worth of exquisite words making love. Some poems make me smile, some I forget quickly, and some I take into my soul, where it gives birth to many more. And they ask me, why I don't want to have children. 

On the contrary. My heart has given birth to a world of words, each of whom I cherish dearly. My poems are my children. They have been given to me by my lovers, my one-night stands, my husbands and my ex-lovers. Some have even been given to me by strangers. I know it sounds crass, but when someone is pouring their self into your eyes, you don't stop to ask silly questions. Some poems I look upon with disdain, like a tired mother would look at a neighbour's child in the playground. They seem fine, and yet they don't please you. Some poems make me burn with jealousy and envy. How can that kid be so perfect? 

And with all that joy and happiness in me, and around me, I never thought a day would come when I would wish for more.  I didn't even believe that something more existed. Until I met you. I thought I had exhausted all my words, swirling around in the ink pot, like children often do in pools, refusing to clamber out and dry themselves. I believed I was done, and was determined to be careful about the next one. Until I met you. 

You make me want to write. You make me want to open my heart, close my eyes and let the words flow through me, without consequence. You make me want to gleefully practise the art of making children, after all those years of having to be careful. And oh, the pleasure of abandon is immeasurable. Because of you, I've written on walls, in notebooks, on mobile phones, on installation art pieces, in songs, in the sands of the ocean, in the rain, in the darkest nights and the most joyous mornings. I've even written when I'm driving, knowing fully well the dangers that lurk around the next turn of page, and yet enjoying the thrill of you in me. I've written in meetings, in text messages, at marriage halls and malls. I've even done it on flights, in cars, in crowded pubs, in quiet temples, in misty New York City, in drunken states of misbehaviour. Because of you, I don't ever want to stop writing. I want to have countless children roam the world, all born from the gift of your love. They will be our legacy, our children, the greatest love story never told. 

Because of you, the world will remember me.