365 Attempts (At Life)

A simple seedling was carelessly planted in plain, flat soil by a stranger's hands. Through unruly climate, and in small spurts, the seed miraculously grew into a small tree. With the light and love of the sun, it blossomed and before long its branches grew vibrantly green leaves. But as swiftly as the buds came, the sun was hidden away by dark clouds. The tree soon recognized that rain also helped it grow, and that it should be grateful for those few rays of light that so seldom appeared. With persistence, through those dark days, the tree developed at double speed and its branches became heavy with flowers and fruit. Years passed quickly and the tree flourished to majestic heights. Its deep roots spread through the earth with great resilience and haste, tangling up with other seeds, urging them to life. Soon separate individual trees grew alongside it and the tree was so proud to witness each of them bear their own assortment of fruit. The sad day came when the tree becam

Nostalgia. You’re dangerous. You rifle through my memory as though it were an open book. You’re a song. A scent. A moment in time. A room in a house, a spot on the beach, a path in the woods, and a taste on my tongue. You’re the hot sun on my skin. You’re the perfect thunderstorm raining down hard on my rooftop. You sneak up on me. I love that you do that. You bring a smile, a tear, and even the fluttering butterflies in the center of my belly. You bring me back to where I cannot go again by any other means than your haunt. But it’s reckless; holding onto you, Nostalgia.

The ghost of Frida Kahlo came to visit me in my sleep. She sat on the chair by my bed and painted my portrait in the dark. Her bracelets jangled with every brush stroke, and in the shadows I could see flowers in her hair. Glistening. I was careful not to move, afraid she would purse those famous eyebrows together, shake her head and leave. I measured my breath, listening carefully as she began to sing a traditional ballad. A song about a sad dove, believed to carry the soul of a broken man, crying at the open window of his lover’s home. As Frida hummed, invisible guitars accompanied her. The melody left her lips and transformed into a hundred fireflies. Dancing. Louder and louder the music strummed, the room ablaze with colour. I felt delirious, as though I was floating in midair. But I still lay on my bed and Frida still sat on the chair. She continued to paint, gliding her brush in time with the music. Then she stopped. She glanced furtively, back and forth, from the canvas to

I am a victim of my own dualities. I am two things at once. I am a perfectionist. Meticulous to a fault. Like a detective, no detail escapes me. But I can be careless and ignorant, too. Closing my eyes to what I choose not to see. Oh yes, in matters of the heart, I could not be more dualistic. The Cynic duels The Romantic on a daily basis, for as long as I can remember. I have hurt good people and left them, because I could predict every failure. And I have let people fail me and hurt me quite ‘good’, because they were unpredictable. I am warm and affectionate. I am frosty, with biting words. I will laugh louder than anyone in the room. I will cry harder, too. I will jump right in with a big splash. Or I will stay 2 feet away from the water, careful enough to not get wet. I will look upon marriage, as I do, with bewilderment and little faith. But I will crave companionship with that ‘one’ special person. Every day. I desire wholeheartedly. I scorn myself for my desire. I will t

I can feel you. You're on the other side of the room, leaning up against the wall. Looking at me. And you paint my skin red with your eyes.