#poets and writers
Very few people get to wake up in the morning and think 'Yes! I am doing something in life that I love'
So if you are one of them,
You are truly the luckiest person on Earth!
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“I know I said my heart has locked itself away but, on a few occasions, more often than I'd like to admit, I feel like she locked herself away in the room where you used to stay.”
She walks lightly, sluggishly and absent-mindedly. Each second passing by etches itself onto her skin. She sinks further into the ground with each second. Her body feels heavy yet so hollow to her. She can hear time echo through her bones.
The only place she feels completely rooted, the place where she can sit down and rest her heavy self is in that room. She can sit and hear her body, feel herself being alive. She can feel the throbbing in her temples, the way her lungs expand and how her body welcomes the oxygen that keeps her alive. That keeps her beating. She can hear the relaxation and contraction. She hears herself fighting.
Drawing her legs closer and hugging them, she can hear her breath and she doesn't feel hollow anymore, she feels light and alive. She can hear the creaking of her body's life. The clocks seem far away now.
Reality was distorted. Living in a world where time feels like the seconds before your death are being dragged out is hard to get used to.
However, once normalised, normal feels unreal and soon she finds herself asking which one is real, shaking and rocking around feverishly, whispering for answers which she feels no one can give.
Yet she asked. She asked and asked and received no answers.
She cried and screamed, hyperventilating and gasping. Yet there is no response.
If the room was reality, it was cruel to her for pushing her back into her liquid chasm.
If the rest of the house was reality, it was cruel to her for making her lose this stable alternative.
However this room, she felt she could breathe easier, think clearer. She felt brighter, lighter, cleansed from all the wading through time. She felt unhurt and she felt part of a bigger, more sensible puzzle.
With a slow exhale, she did feel like things would be alright.
Yet she knew the home claimed she to be hers wasn't built by her. She knew to keep complete stability, this room would have to be her home.
So she tore it down by her hands, brick by brick. Sweat and tears harden on her face and blood and tar was cake under her nails.
She tore it down and built it up again. Laying every brick with sleeves rolled up, she built and built till there was no more to give anymore. She didn't know when there was no more to give and she didn't know if there was more to give.
She just gave and gave.
She gave to herself.
She gave for herself.
Building for herself out of herself.
Building a home out of heart and blood.
Building it out of soul and love for herself.
Building a new heart from the old one.
Building a new heart for your old heart.
This was her home now. Built out of herself, for herself, by herself. Made from love for love.
Love for everyone, love for everything, love for anything, love for anyone, love from anyone.
It was made from love, a fearless, tough love. A kind of love built not for the gentle but for the warriors and wrestlers.
Love unfit for happy endings and romances.
Love with happy stories and tragic characters.
Love which broke and built.
Love which broke to build.
Love which built to break.
It was made from love and that love was made from her.
The room you left behind is now a home.
It is now my home in all its chaos and beauty.
And now all I am and all I see is chaos and beauty.
Not so harmonious yet so magnificent.
A room is reserved-
For the next love to eclipse my heart,
The next moment of safety and sadness,
the next comforting apocalypse.
For the next house I tear down to build for myself again.
To build in an abyss,
devoid of past loves
and forest floors of dry grass,
as kindling for future suns.
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Italian Memories - Chapter 1.
My maternal family lived in the north of Italy, in a beautiful place called 'Dolomiti', the Dolomite Mountains, the tallest of which is Mormolada, and I was blessed to have lived there for a while, working in a nearby hotel.
I remember once with the family I was staying with, in the mountain village of Colle Santa Lucia, waking up early one morning and deciding that I was going to see what it looked like from the top of the peaks, whose hillside the house was built on.
When you looked out the bedroom window, you saw a literal 'wall' of grass stretching up to the top of the hill - it was that steep!
With nothing but jeans and a t-shirt on, the hillside was so steep I had to dig my fingers into the earth to keep going up at times, and when I neared the top I saw there was another peak still higher, and so I kept going and ascended three more peaks like this, higher and higher, until near evening.
The third peak was denuded of trees and there was little room to stand on it, because a shrub had taken over the entire top of it.
I was hanging onto one of the branches of this massive, sprawling, shrub - by only one hand on the side of the mountain, and I'm glad it didn't break - it's that steep! - as I would have been rolling and tumbling for a very long, long time, dead or alive!
But the view from up there was amazing!
the tears because
what’s the point
when I’m just
a dumb slut
-nereum // jun.24.21
The dark is empty. I've always been searching for time, love and compassion in places I've never been invited to. In people who never looked upto me . I've never been loved enough, i was never consumed enough. Always left rotten with an urge to feel something. Found meanings in hidden lies and ignored the truths. I wish i could be a storm . But why do i end up being windy and get flown away to any direction ? I wish i could love deeper but everytime i love, it leaves depths of despair in my heart. I find relief in destruction but constantly hope for peace. My life is nothing but an irony of situations and feelings. I love so deep that it consumes me, leave me with tears and bruises.
Can you not understand, how much i want to know you, know life? Destruct me with your love. For all my despair and lunacy , touch me where I've never been touched. Can you just throw away my insecurities? Hide away my doubts and uncertainties? Can you just teach me how to love? Without destruction. Without pain. Without tears . Be my guardian, be my religion. I'll always look upto you like I've never seen something so holy ever.
I saw this boy in the park, he had hair just like you. I saw a post about Aries, and I thought about you. I heard someone talk about boys, I thought of you. I saw my Saturdays free and I thought of you. Everyday, some thing reminds me of you. I hope every day, something reminds you of me.
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At the moment , it’s all blue — my thoughts , the skies , the moon.
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So the truth and sorrow of this one is that you know what could have happened-and how happy you would have been. But you still chose this
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Sunday at the Village Vanguard
Promo photo for Aaron who is publishing his book of poetry that was written while living in Tokyo.
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a tight, unassuming embrace
you don't have to say I'm strong
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Here's to hoping an Irish red head is the death of me..
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Sua casa virou um alívio ou um desconforto?
Sua casa virou um desejo de um fim de tarde cansativo ou um pesadelo, acordando sempre assustado no final?
Sua casa está mais cheia e pequena ou tantas paredes te assustam?
Sua casa está virando um espaço sufocante ou as pessoas lá dentro te encomoda?
Tudo aquilo que tinha para ser um lugar confortável e acolhedor, está virando sua última opção.
O que se passa na sua casa?
Deves se mudar ou arrumar os móveis fazendo com que pareça tudo novo?
Não sei o que se passa na sua casa mas não sei se ainda posso chamá-lá de "Sua".
Será tu o intruso da sua própria casa?
I have tried to live as I have loved: madly, vividly, ravenously... And all without end.
&. Still , I’ve nowhere to give my heart.
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Imaginary love stories part 1
Underneath the old chestnut tree,
There’s no place I’d rather be.
The wet grass beneath our bare feet,
The sun is setting, and you feed me strawberries.
Fresh from mama’s garden
You grin, taking a seat.
An odd feeling of nostalgia washes over me;
The irrational fear of everything being too good for it to be genuinely real.
But you hold your hand out
and sit me down next to you.
Brush the hair out of my face;
Laugh about what our parents would say if they found out we were out together this late.
The sun has set now, but I am not afraid.
When it’s time to go, we’ll walk back,
Down the path we came.
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The effects of taking a break from writing
Alright, so that title might be a bit misleading since I haven’t really taken a break from writing, I’ve just shifted my focus and schedule around quite a bit. Before this month, I was writing, editing and uploading a chapter every month for a little over two years. Now, I’m ‘taking time off’ to work on the detailed outlines making up the finale of the story. So I’m not writing less, but I am writing quite differently.
I got rid of my old schedule and haven’t introduced another deadline. Instead, I’m looking at these outlines as ‘taking as long as they will take’. This decision was made to give my mind some room to breathe and to give me creativity enough time to recover and view the finale with a fresh set of eyes. After all, I have no following to speak of, no Patron’s clamouring for the next chapter and threatening to unsubscribe, so I wanted to use that to my advantage. The only pressure I’ve felt on this project has been from myself to prove that I could maintain a steady stream of writing over a prolonged period of time. I’ve definitely proven that and, even when I didn’t upload a chapter this week, I did go ahead and commission a piece of artwork just to fill the void.
The effects of a looser schedule took a while to sink in. At the beginning of this month, I didn’t notice much of a difference. I was working hard on the outlines and I’ve made fantastic headway with them and rectified a lot of problems I’ve always had with the story overall. I still had that itch to write and I was doing it and pleased with my progress. But it was only weeks later, towards the end of this month, that I’m beginning to really see a difference between ‘then’ and ‘now’.
An important fact to keep in mind was the fact that I was doing freelance writing work over quarantine as well, which contributed massively to my creative burnout. For months, when I wasn’t working on my novel, I was working on someone else’s ideas. Often while dealing with customers that were less than pleasant or helpful, if I’m honest. So for months, I was up against deadlines on a near daily basis. I shut down my freelancing service when I went back to work and this ‘break’ followed soon after to focus on my own writing.
My general mood is a lot better right now. I feel personally happier, less stressed and less tense on average in my day to day life. I find it easier to live in the moment rather than looking ahead to the next page/next draft/next chapter. So that’s pretty cool to begin with. But for my writing, it really gave me the space and time needed to get my thoughts together. It’s taken the better part of a month for my creativity to recover and begin to flow properly for the first time in almost two years, but it’s only now that I have a chance to breathe that I realise just how much pressure I was under for months at a time. I adjusted to the pressure so that after a while, I didn’t even notice it until it was gone. Like a backpack on a long hike; it’s heavy at first but with a little practice you can ignore it and when you finally take it off, you breathe a huge sigh of relief.
That is what this break has been like for me. And with that weight removed, I slowly felt my creativity return until it feels like it’s back to normal. I feel a lot more engaged with Ruins of Dalaghast now than when I was writing it non stop, and during the outlining process, I’m finding a lot of ideas easier to come by than when I was half heartedly brainstorming while writing months ago. I still have quite a lot of writing to do before this project is over, but I am definitely reconsidering how I schedule the final few chapters moving forward.
So, I guess the moral of the story is to take a break and let your creative mind breathe every once in a while. It’s taken a while for my own writers mind to begin working again like it used to, but it’s definitely getting there and writing is much more enjoyable nowadays, as I’m taking a relaxed approach to the subject, than when I was writing a chapter a month. It was stressful, but doable, and something I wanted to do for myself, but its effects can only really be gauged accurately in retrospect. I hope this helps someone out there who might be struggling with the same ordeal. Until next time, take care and keep creating.
TLDR: Take a break every once in a while. Especially for larger projects.
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“We are all fools in love.”
-Pride And Prejudice
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