I lost my heart in Xi’an,
slipped it into the suitcase
of a boy I’d met three days ago
before kissing him goodbye.
Strange, how stray words tangle
and lives shaken off trajectory,
My youth was spent by simple
seaside. Every day, watching the
gentle rise and fall of predictable
tides. Whilst he grew up on the
other side of a different shore line.
I wonder if the same waves would
remind him of when he saw crimson
flow, breathed in the stench of fragile
bodies broken by the warm earth
they were buried under, all the
nameless numbers surrounded by
plaques of rubble and dust while
the sun rose behind him as if
it was just any other day.
we are missing
and I no longer remember
where I misplaced us
perhaps our hearts
sunk to the bottom of the
Tasman sea when I moved
away from home?
I thought if I packed my bags
full of photos and love notes
I could make a scrapbook of
our story but I guess
scraps are just the meaningless
edges of what I clung onto
too tightly and torn too carelessly
and these tears cannot be mended
just wiped away.
do you remember
when we were younger
and they told us
we could hear the ocean
if we held a sea shell to our ears
as if those lifeless husks
contained some echo of home?
as a naive & introverted child,
my brown spotted conch shell
became one of my most prized possessions
and I spent hours upon hours
at my auditory beach
close my eyes
so the waves
could drown out reality.
well it turns out
they lied to us
like they did about everything else
(faeries, santa, growing up)
and the sea-like sounds we heard
was just our surrounding environment
resonating within the cavity of the shell
I guess you cannot escape reality
only distort it temporarily
google tells me
it’s a cheap trick
replicable with an empty plastic cup
(by holding it up to your ear
or finishing the liquor inside)
To readers of this blog (and other poets, artists or storytellers of any shape & form),
Do you ever find yourself gravitating towards trite and uninspiring metaphors to retell the same old stories?
Because I do and it’s been bothering me a lot lately.
A quick scroll down my page & you’ll see my obsession with comparing unrequited love, broken friendships and my overthinking mind to oceans, storms and dark starless nights.
On one hand, I know that it’s so important to always tell your own truth and this constant struggle with body image, establishing boundaries and vocalising my feelings to other people has been mine since I was a little girl. That being said, at times, there’s just this nagging voice at the back of my head that this is an excuse for me to be my own worst enabler.
Instead of focusing on living on the present and fulfilling my responsibilities in the real world, I am finding myself losing hours of the day wallowing in self pity (but as soon as I think that, another voice pipes up in my head telling me that I’m being too harsh and sabotaging my opportunities to feel vulnerability).
I feel like the root of the problem is that I haven’t been able to find balance. At one extreme, it feels like I’m picking apart the stitches that hold me together every few days just to see what words will spill out from from the seams and at the other, I am always swallowing words at the tip of my tongue, smiling, and letting strangers trample over my comfort zone because it’s a shortcut to their happiness, you know?
One of the worst things that happens after you die – is that you leave no trace behind.
Eventually, memories once treasured will fade betrayed by time
until one day you are just a name
in the graveyard
for children to make up stories for.
but that is nothing compares to being forgotten when you’re still alive
forced to contrive meaning to a meaningless life
finding solace in insignificant details
if only to relieve that pressing feeling
against your ribcage that you are insignificant
Since my articles are usually fuelled by intense emotions, I am envisioning this will be a bit of a challenge. To give you an indication of how bad I am at task-based writing:
Every single article that has ‘draft’ next to its name was started with inklings of what, at the time, felt like a great idea. They will probably never be finished, simply because I felt too calm writing on those issues. Admittedly, I have developed a dysfunctional relationship with words (but isn’t that what journalling is all about?)
It states that a monkey hitting keys at random on a typewriter keyboard for an infinite number of times will almost surely be able to type a given text, such as the complete works of William Shakespeare.
Taking an extremely literal interpretation (which it is not intended for), the concept is rather sobering for anyone who considers themselves a writer – anything you think of can be created out of random chance
In light of this, I am left to question: why do I write?