Playing with creativity -- The Art of losing

The art of losing is a necessary one

Lost memories that are unstitched through time

Each string lost 

Until your face is a blur

Emotions  are torn apart

From the very fabric of these memories

They are Recycled

And Reused

Into new memories

Where new lovers delight

They are mended again

Neatly stitched within each memory

And a nicely placed red bow called love

When your gentle hands are finished

I realized that the art of losing was necessary.

Playing with creativity - Letters from the beyond

You there, standing, You don’t notice me. By the time you get this I will be long gone. I wanted to write something cheesy like, “thank you for loving, sorry in advanced for not telling I was sick-peace”, but then I realized the humor would be painful, and you would probably resent me so I opted for this. I remember when we met. You were reading by the library. At this time I was fine, probably dying, but fine anyway. I liked your yellow stripped shirt that made you look like a bee with your fuzzy buzzcut that was now growing. Well now that I am dead you must know that I think it was love at first sight for me.

Misstep (poem)

We didn’t want to take two steps forward

That was one two many steps

And so we stayed there  without moving

Flint

Loneliness makes me uneasy. It is a flint bouncing off a wooden surface, ready to combust. I’m so scared to confront it; to get consumed by it. But if I don’t, it will take everything.  Some days its not so bad, but other days the flint becomes unstable and threatens the cabin.

Prologue - A novel in progress

Night 1.

            He came to him in a dream, wearing that same tight shirt and jeans he wore in that first picture he ever saw of him. In a sense, it was love at first sight. Fascinated by the skinny jeans, that weren’t too skinny but fit tidy, and that innocent, naïve smile, he clicked go and wrote a message that was responded almost instantly. It started there, and went somewhere and then nowhere all the same. He named him Red in his dream, because he could not remember what his name was in sleeping hours. Just as later, he would not be able to remember what his name was when he was awake, but would be able to easily tell you what his real name was.

The Hero Complex

Sometimes I wonder if the “need” to save someone is a factor that could influence “love”. We all need to be needed, but to what degree do we need to be needed in order for us to grow affection? Is this need illusory, and idealized?

Playing with creativity - The Luxury of Sadness

Its like things are pilling up. Rubble that has fallen from the hill is too overwhelming to take off you. Your arms are just too weak, they can’t keep up. In a matter of seconds you see the light vanish from the tomb. It went from blotches of light, to small specks, then nothing. You have no strength left. The air leaves your lungs, and its getting harder to breathe.

Getting over someone....

Sometimes you want to, but for whatever reason you can’t. And its not that you can’t is really that you won’t, because at any moment they might change their minds and come back to you or maybe they will finally notice you exist or even do something so right that will completely erase the wrong that they had done. The problems a lot of the times is that they rarely, if ever do, and so you are stuck in a pattern of unrequited, unhealthy, or dysfunctional love.

New Year, New Beginnings

 There is something relatively cleansing about a New Year’s Eve. It is like taking a shower after and getting rid of all the dirt, rust, or dust that had accumulated over that year, and just washing it all away. The covering is clean, the metal is sparkling silver, and the joints that were once slowed down by the specs of dust are as nimble as ever. With this cleansing comes the knowledge that there is still work to be done.