the poet

she loves change.  she loves the feeling of being unknown in a new place;  where no one can recognize her,  where not a single soul has looked on her face.  there’s something exciting about being the unknown in someone else’s familiar.

i’m restless again.  tossing and turning,  ankles twisted in my sheets and hair spilling over my pillow.  i feel the familiar itch in my chest, the one i’m careful not to touch. but the ocean is drumming in my ears,  it’s calling me away.  my hair longs to be tousled by the kiss of the wind and pinned up with stars. there is no rest for the tired, yearning soul.

parallel lines -   they share a moment together but never meet. they have a split second where one looks up and notices the other; they might smile, offer a glance or nod,  but in the end, they divide. it makes me sad that they had one moment before drifting,  as if they just tasted what could have been, wondered at the possibility, but never took the risk and were condemned to wander the rest of their line alone.

i don’t know how to respond to stunning beauty.  the kind that makes you freeze and feel like you’ve been hit in the chest,  the kind where you can feel it tingling in your toes; as if you’ve seen something otherworldly. i want to capture it, but set it free,  i want to display it to the world, but keep it for myself,  i want to snap a picture, but memorize it in my mind. there are so many contradictions running through me that i forget about the beauty in front of me.  and then i can't respond, because it’s gone

i never want to loose the scent of apple blossoms and lilac buds.  i want to drink it in, to have it fill me and overflow from my pores.  but the flowers fade, the aroma grows dull -  and i can’t hold on forever

he’s just a boy when his mother first comes home with her secret. he watches at the door as she kisses a man goodbye, a smile filling her lips. he thinks of his father, thrown across the couch in the living room because he was too exhausted to finish the work he had to do. his mother catches him in shock and annoyance. her eyes flash as she places a finger to her lips. “not a word,” she hisses. he nods and turns to go, but still catches her last words. “i’m lonely and overworked. the boy’s father does nothing for me. i deserve this.” he presses his lips together and hides under his covers. he’s just a teenager when his first girlfriend goes behind his back with someone else. he hardly dares to confront her on it, but it has to happen. she looks at him nervously, wringing her hands behind her back. “it just felt right. you and me—we aren’t going anywhere. i don’t think it will work out with us. i deserve someone who can make me laugh. i love him.” he shrugs and walks awa...

on days like these i yearn to be rid of the repressing conventions of small talk and agendas; to travel where the wind takes me. to not have to put up a mask of cheerfulness because i can’t define the twisting in my stomach. to be free and alone.

she lived in a world with rainbows and flowers and a tapestry of hues, but as she looked at the sky she realized that it was her favourite colour, for that was where every other shade united to create one glorious masterpiece

some days i want to wear dark lipstick and thick eyeliner and leather jackets.  some days i want to wear blowy sundresses and have a flower crown in my hair and a sun kiss on my cheek.   some days i want to wear pale woollen sweaters pulled to my chin and the tips of my fingers; long socks and big glasses.  some days i want to wear ringer tees and converse, earbuds drowning out the noise of the world.  i want to be all these things, yet none of them—  because i can be defined, but i won’t be confined.

when one can feel a sunset—not only see it, but feel it in one’s very soul—one must either be porously happy or desperately sad.  you cannot feel a sunset if you do not feel absolute.

“thank you for understanding”, they told me.  no problem.  it’s what i do, isn’t it? i understand;  i nod and comply and everything goes smoothly sometimes i wish i weren’t so good at it,  that i could let myself say no. because i can understand why you would break your promise, but that doesn’t make it right -  and understanding and acceptance are two very different things.  but sometimes people use them as synonyms

There is a Portuguese term that I heard recently and can’t get out of my head. Saudade . It means "the love that remains"; a nostalgic longing for something or something that you have loved. It holds a suppressed awareness that the object of your longing might never return.  I wonder if it can have a different meaning, too. If you can feel saudade for someone that is still with you. If your love can remain, not for the possibility that they may return, but for the chance that they may feel the same way. So you wait, your love holding on. Praying, hoping, dreaming for them to love you in return.

it’s quite something to be fully and utterly understood by another being

I knew an actress a long time ago. She had the brilliance of a star, and it’s a pity the world never knew her name. But her gift wasn’t meant for a theatre’s platform, she brought it with her through all of life’s stages. When her heart was first broken—oh, you should have seen her act. She was all nods and smiles, and her lines were clear and well-spoken as she shook hands and said “goodbye, I understand. No, I’m okay. Take care of yourself.” I suppose it’s then I realized that actors weren’t people. they were something more, something higher, something deeper. they were the ones with the brightest faces, strongest hearts, and most positive smiles. their language was nothing but extraordinary, their words carved so neatly into conversation. everything was cheerful and composed, they executed their lines with utmost serenity. they command every gossip, they’re the star in all our rumours.   yet no one bothers to ask how they’ve been. i lost touch with my actress a l...

There is an ancient Japanese art called Kintsukuroi that has to be one of my favourite things in the world. The Japanese would perform this art on a broken dish or piece of pottery. They would repair the shattered fragments with gold. Kintsukuroi is the understanding that the object is more beautiful for having been broken. It treats the cracks and the restoration as a part of the objects essence and being, rather than seeing it as something to throw away or disguise. People can be broken. We can be shattered and damaged and crushed. But we can learn to see our scars as works of art themselves.  The healing is beautiful, but so is the brokenness. ~soleil

come away, o human child,  to where gold blossoms in the fen. come away, o daughter of man,  to the forests and the wild.  come away and dwell among the fay. come away, come home.

was i born a faery child?  spirited away to live among men? b ecause i often feel like i belong elsewhere -  out in the great unknown, the vast possibilities of the earth. i know that i’m home when the breeze whispers in my ear, when the sun offers a welcoming embrace, and then i hate to return.

i often forget what it’s like  to have the earth grow under my bare feet,  the wind playing in my hair,  the sun kissing my pale cheeks. i often forget the feeling of spring.

spring is not a season spring is an emotion it’s the feeling of life after death it’s the feeling of boundless joy to be alive it’s the feeling of breeze chasing the sun and sun chasing the breeze it’s the feeling of soft kisses and warm fingers in your hair it’s the feeling of diaphanous clouds, so thin you can see right through it’s an elixir to the tired winter-born soul

will spring ever come? she asked me of course, i replied but what is it like? i hardly remember. i smiled.  close your eyes, i told her. do you feel the wind chasing your hair? with her eyes screwed shut, she nodded and do you taste the flowers on your tongue? i think so , she whispered and can you feel the sun kissing your cheek? yes, yes i do that’s spring

i feel like there’s too much quiet in me, blocking out the sound. you ask how that is possible - i don’t know. can space howl? can emptiness scream? or can a shout be mute? a volcanic eruption be silent?  did you know i used to be in love with this earth. you would have noticed, you couldn’t have helped it. but right now i’m hardly aware of the way the grass pulses, the way the sky flames. i wish i could go back to seeing. it’s there, yet it’s not. i can gaze with my eyes, but nothing touches my heart. how can you be so full of something, yet still be missing it?

he laughed at me once, at my silence he tossed his head back in his carefree way, shrugging a smile he told me “you do not understand the art of conversation ” i wondered, i paused, i thought what did that mean? was i too quiet? was i too awkward? did i make others uncomfortable? but i tilted my chin and look in his eyes my mouth turned upwards, for i knew something he didn’t “i understand the art of silence"