sometimesinsomniac

[sometimesinsomniac]

Musings

To call someone “an idiot” just be cause they disagree with you is a very dangerous game. Not only for them, but for yourself as well. Here’s why:

To insist on the lesser intellectual capabilities of someone is to walk the path assuming you are the enlightened one. However, as those truly enlightened know, there is no such thing as “enlightenment” because the moment you reach the upper levels of thought, you realize there are entire worlds of knowledge that you’ve never even scratched the surface of. The wise understand that there aren’t only “two sides” to ever story, as the saying will have you believe. Rather, there are a myriad. Some perspectives are gritty and grounded and based off experience. Some are lofty and vague based off of education and theory. Between these, the spectrum of grey runs the gamut. For each opinion, there is history, belief, experience, and education feeding into and leading up to this moment. So, friend, do not minimize an idea different to your own. In doing so, you have taken a wealth of knowledge and perspective and limited it, shrunk it, to a postage-sized by-word to be disregarded without a care and truly you harm yourself. For in your own act of idiocy (for that’s what this closing of your mind honestly is), you have now removed any possibility for your own growth. You have shut the door to listening and learning and you have created your own throne of mist on which you will sit, and fall.  

#musings #perspectives #respect

[sometimesinsomniac]

Once Upon a Time...

There lived a princess who’s heart was as soft and malleable as candle wax held just long enough in your hand. This princess lived in a great forest, surrounded by woodland creatures, which she called her friends. Each friend was able to leave a small impression on her heart. A paw print here, a soft snuggle mark there, and soon the princess’s heart was a kaleidoscope of happiness. 

The princess was very proud of her heart and wore it on her sleeve for anyone to see and read. She came up to the Mama Bear and said, “Mama Bear! Look! Isn’t my heart a thing of beauty?” But the Mama Bear only sniffed. She’d seen prettier hearts and was doubtful the princess was actually worth all the little markings evident in the wax. 

“Others may leave a smile on your heart, little princess, but I see you for who you really are. You bask in other’s glory while hiding your own selfish needs from the world.” 

Mama Bear’s words stung the princess and as the lumbering mammal turned to leave, her paw carelessly swiped out and cut a neat, sharp line right down the middle of the heart.

Unable to endure the shock and pain, the princess ran into the forest. Her feet trembled against the uneven moss and grass and soon she fell to her knees beside Papa River.

With tears enough to overflow the banks, Papa River soon took notice. The throbbing heart still aching, the princess found the only way she could cool the pain was by putting her softened heart in the cold, fresh, life-giving water of the river. 

Papa River was very kind and helped sooth the burning hurt. The gash now making its way through the middle of the heart was smoothed over time, but Papa River knew the princess could not stay at his side forever. She had a whole forest to see. Carefully, he returned the softened heart to the princess. The cool of the river had hardened the heart just enough so that it couldn’t be so easily harmed again. Or so Papa River thought.

Now on her journey of exploration and once more full of optimism, the princess came upon a woodcutter. He was handsome and seemed kind in a broken sort of way, and the princess found herself showing him her heart. 

“May I?” The woodcutter asked, holding out his work-hardened hands. The princess nodded and allowed the rough callouses to hold her precious item. It looked good in his hands and for awhile the woodcutter took care not to damage the soft material. Eventually, however, the roughness of his skin would leave trails of use in the waxen surface. Toward the end of their friendship, the woodcutter even forgot to take care of his axe and a long scar took its place beside the one made by the Mama Bear. 

Not wanting to, but seeing the foolishness of staying, the princess left the woodcutter in his hut in the wood. She held her heart close in her arms as she wandered very far indeed. Her forest seemed to go on forever, but one day she opened her eyes to see the land had grown foreign. The people were also foreign and the princess greatly missed her woodland creature friends and their loving caresses on her malleable heart. 

Thinking she had learned her lesson, our little princess now kept her heart very tightly protected. She shared it with no one in the new land and even built a box of iron to keep out anyone and anything. Some men tried to come and find her heart. One tried to use brute force to open the box, but when it remained firmly shut, he sulked away mumbling something about how women “always do this to him.”

Another man tried an overly gentle manner and whispered soft poetry into the princess’s ears. But our princess was not fooled. The poetry he sang was not of a selfless, beautiful kind, but rather begging for sympathy and stemmed from a place of deep lacking.

The final man  was more sly than the others. He didn’t care for the heart; he only cared for what the princess could offer him. With a well-practiced hand, this latest potential picked the lock of the princess’s heart box. When it opened, he gave one look at the precious belonging and tossed it back without a second thought. As it fell, the heart, which had grown hard without sunlight and air, chipped and cracked. 

Truly alone, our princess heard the crack as if it were lightening. She was startled. Her heart had never made such a noise before. Since her heart box was already opened, the princess thought she’d take a look at what was inside. What she felt when she reached in was cold. Taking it out, the calcified heart now sat like lead in her hands. Every scar was on full display, hiding the loving marks of previous friends. Instead, the heart was grey and heavy. Like a remnant of a time long ago, the heart was aged and held no hope for the future, only a dull resignation for the present. 

The princess looked at her heart for a very long time. When the first tear came, it held a tornado of longing and fear. This might have been the time for another flood of tears, but the princess had locked all her emotions away with her heart and now, even sadness was unable to breach the surface of the pit she had dug. That heart, once so soft and open for the world to see, was a stone. It was ugly. It was harsh. It bore only the memory of pain.

“Is this who I am now?” The princess considered. Her fingers reached out and delicately stroked the image of her previous life. She saw the scar where Mama Bear had cut her. She touched the ache left by the woodcutter. The wrenches of the first man and the cracks from the third man had made their mark and she brushed them lightly with her fingertips. Then our princess did something that surprised even her. Cradling her heart, she held it up to her lips and kissed it. In a moment, a light opened in the room surrounding her and a voice, so full of compassion it ached her soul, spoke. The voice asked for her heart and without hesitation, she relaxed her grip, offering the broken to the asker.  

The heart gave a soft pitch and seemed to break it half. Afraid her heart was dying, the princess tried to push the item back together, begging it to be strong just a little longer, but it was no use. Like the shedding of a seed husk, the heart shivered off the toughened layer. A seed indeed, her heart had been waiting for the opportunity to grow. With the water of the kiss and the light that came from the voice, the princess’s heart shed the life of the past. Lines still criss-crossed its surface, but the newly grown treasure now glowed with the feeding and care from the voice. 

While this may seem like a lovely place to end our story, there’s still so much the princess has to do. The world is brighter, now, and the princess looks with new eyes on those that surround her. Did she return to her forest? She did, indeed, but with a level of wisdom earned from learning. Does she still make mistakes? Indeed she does, but this princess is no longer destroyed by the attacks. The voice is more than just a voice. It is a true friend that can sooth her more than Papa River. It is a guide that handles her more carefully than the woodcutter, and it is a love that offers her fulfillment that the men could never achieve. 

In a new space of mind, the princess journeys through the world. True friends have been given to her by the voice, friends like the dragon that protects her fiercely and warms her with inner fire. They travel together and, even while apart, they are able to talk in a language only they understand. The things they’ve seen could fill volumes. 

Does the princess still try to give her heart away? Indeed she does, but only to those that also glow with the light from the voice. She tried to give it to a minstrel, but her melody didn’t harmonize with his. She tried to give it to a knight, but his armor was too tightly drawn and his journey led him to the mountains beyond her forest. These moments are not of weakness, but rather speak of an inner longing. The princess, someday, will find someone to care for her heart and ask her to care for his in return, but until that day comes, there is still so much to see and do. Our princess doesn’t sit still and our princess isn’t afraid to go on any adventure the voice sends her way.

#once upon a time #tell me a story #the princess #and the heart

[sometimesinsomniac]

Hey. Thank you for today.

#writing #november #tiny love letter

[sometimesinsomniac]

Sunrise: like a magenta lava slicing through the bright mists of heaven. A heavy heart finds no commiseration in the arms of such a sight. With the coyness of confidence, the piercing hue can envelope your mind and remain in memory until the end of days.

[sometimesinsomniac]

Words on a paper

Nothing much to say at all

”You are not alone”

#poetry #writing #november #challenge #haiku

[sometimesinsomniac]

I gave myself time today to just be quiet and feel. All the emotions are there, but they’re less sharp. Like someone has grabbed an old fashioned camera through which to view my life and gave the focus a small twist. I know it will sting again; my family will always feel incomplete. There will always be a vacuum where you used to sit. Pretense is gone. Sometimes the crying strikes like an arrow to the heart and I struggle to stop the flow. Tear solidifying the grief paint my face as Monet did his flowers. How are you gone? I could just reach out to you. Call. Text? Hop in my car and drive, but the distance has become far more vast than my pre owned can manage. While we fight with the pain and relearn how life will look, some small comfort is found in this: you were loved from the moment you entered this earth until the moment you left it. Not everyone can claim that.

I miss you.

[sometimesinsomniac]

I’ll miss you in the sunshine

I’ll miss you and your smile

I’ll miss you when I read that book-

I’ll miss you all the while

I’ll miss you in the summer

And when the clouds send rain

But most of all, dear friend,

I’m glad you’re without pain

#griefandloss #poetry #november #challenge

[sometimesinsomniac]

We stand in this life

So close to the curtain veil

What waits just behind?

[sometimesinsomniac]

Count On It

Anticipation.

The word sits well on the tongue. Starting high, you climb the mountain of a word, reaching the pinnacle with energy to spare. Until the final -tion. Spoken like an Englishman, the letters make no sense. Where is the “sh”? Where is the short U? The only part of the noun ending that actually fits is the closing consonant, but even that is deceiving in its simplicity: the mouth stays open, but the tongue closes the sound. 

Anticipation. 

An interesting idea. Do you realize anticipation is its own form of time-travel? The joy I anticipate feeling brings me joy in this instant. I can pull from the future bliss I will experience into this moment I’m living right now without lessening the forthcoming experience. Oh, that we were able to bottle the pleasure we feel and hold onto it for a rainy day.

Anticipation.

Mixed with happy and stressful. Who can truly anticipate without first putting in work? Even thinking of the future requires brain power and some level of planning. Like all good things, it begins as an idea and grows to a feeling, before finishing strong as an experience. As the world anticipates and meditate on the days ahead, here you may sit in your bubble of as-of-yet-unrealized joy.

#november #writing #anticipate

[sometimesinsomniac]

The day is gone off

My tired eyes can’t help but close

Tomorrow: we’ll see

#haiku poetry #november

[sometimesinsomniac]

A Friday in November

Without anything holding it in place, Friday is just any other day. Sure, we have our favorites, and Friday seems to be popular, but is it truly any different than, say, a Tuesday? “But it’s the start of the weekend” you protest. I hear you. I do, however, I must beg difference: Friday is not the start of the weekend, but rather the end of the work-week. “Same thing” you may mumble. I understand your sentiment. Is it any better for being a beginning than an end? Endings have a negative connotation, though there’s hardly any more reason why this is so than why Friday is anything special. There are happy endings, such as the end of an unpleasant relationship. There are sad starts, as in the start of a painful experience. At the end of the day, is the weekend any better than the week, for us to be happy about it? In addition, is the work-week so drab that we should be happy at its conclusion? 

If you work a job that makes you happy when you leave, isn’t that an unfortunate way to live your life? The flip side, of course, is the dejected attitude you find yourself wearing when you return to work every Monday. This up and down, enjoyment vs. struggle, is accepted as the norm in working societies, but allow me to offer an antidote: Find your passion and pursue it. I know. This is far easier said than done, but I have faith in you. Take some time and be honest with yourself. Admit when you’ve made a mistake. Acknowledge when you feel intrinsic joy. Consider the points in your life that feel right and do your best to encourage more of the same.

We all have the same 24 hours in the day. We carry the same 29-31 days in the month. We walk through the same 365/366 days per year and we all are given, more or less, the same 80 years in which to live. There’s over 4,000 Fridays in your life. There is also over 4,000 Mondays in your life. How will you balance the scales, steady your spirit, and feel joy through them all?

#musings #prose #november #writing #challenge

[sometimesinsomniac]

Do you see the Winter Waves?

Can you see them crash and churn

Open wide before they turn

Out to sea and back again

Who knows where the journey end

Do you see the push of air

Underneath the weight they bear

Foaming up like violent kiss

Every moment is pure bliss

When you see them, send off love

Sand below, and sky above

To the end and ‘round the globe

Only waves in velvet robe

#november #writing #poetry #rhyming

[sometimesinsomniac]

Winter’s Waves

Winter’s waves are sometimes not the ocean. There are instances when the waves are made of the concrete of the freeway during rush-hour traffic in Downtown LA. Dark grey like their namesake, the tumble is hardened in place, cresting first one hill then another. Wide enough to swallow a ship, the ups and downs are determined not by the moon, but the tides of human activity and earth geography. Rising to the sky, then dropping back to the ground, the cement ocean is just as unforgiving to those unprepared. After an hour and a half staring at red brake lights, the sudden space feels cold and barren. As if testing your preparedness, the monster known as the interstate teases openings in a game of Tetris that no one has ever truly beat. In the winter, the grey sky is a perfect reflection of the moods and temperaments of those who have called the land their home. The difference between the waves of the road and the lanes of the ocean are clear, however. The life created by man is ephemeral. 

#november #challenge #writing #prose #winter

[sometimesinsomniac]

Ya know that feeling? The one where everyone is talking about anything else? When the subject of discussion is pointed and avoidant at the same time? The feeling that we can laugh but the tone is slightly minor and we can’t quite hit the major chord? Do you know that feeling? As you drop sentence after sentence but no conversation emerges because the one thing you have to express is the one thing too cold to approach? A chill somewhat like Autumn blowing through the table? Sometimes poets call it a ”dark cloud over the table” but it’s really more of a thread of ice knit around every heart?

That feeling?

#writing #november #challenge #prose

[sometimesinsomniac]

When the day hits differently than you thought it would, you breathe. When the morning that was promised is not the day that delivered, you breathe. When the rose of the sunrise marks the start of a glorious day, yet the day comes with pain you have yet to reach the bottom of, you breathe. Finally, when you see a goodbye coming but still don’t brace for the punch, you breathe.

#writing #november #prose #challenge #words #life and death

[sometimesinsomniac]

Blank text on the screen

Will we or won’t we who knows

Choose me, please choose me

#haiku #poetry #writing #november #challenge

[sometimesinsomniac]

Friday Poetry

“All things wise and wonderful”

But how can a thing be wise?

Does it hold a thought or motion?

Can it open up its eyes?

* * *

“All creatures great and small”

Ah there’s a theme I know

Contrast big with little

Fire with freezing snow

* * *

From left to right and back

We play the tightrope’s edge

Finding balance in the middle

The fine line becomes a wedge

* * *

But careful all this foil

For we humans like to distort

We take reverse and contrast

And turn fighting into a sport

#poetry #writing #november #contrast #challenge