Debris

My head feels like it is bogged down by bits of bygone conversations. Every time a thought arises, it gets inevitably entangled in words, phrases and stray sentences floating around like clutter in space – precious pieces of relationships that fell into disuse and now end up orbiting my conscience endlessly. Matter cannot be destroyed, not really; I suppose it is the same with memories. All we can do is transform them into something unbecoming and trick ourselves into looking the other way.

Dancing In The Wind

Every time you leave, my hours feel endless; stacking seconds against each other seems to take forever just because there are so many of them. I feel like a little café down the road with its windows thrown wide open, waiting for a pair of feet to scurry across the threshold, announced by a soft musical ding. I put out whimsical menu boards colored in chalk and bake word-cakes, only to throw them out resignedly as they go stale. Every day, I keep myself open for less and less time, hanging up the “CLOSED” sign with a sigh a little earlier every night. But I’ll never shut down. You know that, don’t you? That you can stay away for any amount of time, and then walk in out of the blue like nothing happened, and there will still be a sweet treat in here with your name on it.

Questions

I feel like asking you a lot of things.

Being Primary

Scrolling through IG, I came across a video on manifesting (Is it like a LA thing, or does this really make some kind of psychological sense?) and for some reason, I stopped to listen. It talked about how the need to manifest a specific person comes from a place of lack of trust, self-doubt, a need for control and a feeling that things will not pan out the way you want otherwise, and how it needs to be replaced with wanting to manifest good things in general, out of self-love and happiness, knowing that you don’t require one specific thing to be complete. I had to admit that it made sense, at the very least. And I suspect these are things that I’ve thought about on my own too over time, but forget to actually put into practice.

Mediocrity

I choose mediocrity.

Maybe all I'll get to know henceforth
Are hours clocking in
Half-hearted attempts
At survival routines,
And all my tongue will ever taste
Are remnants of bland conversations
And stale affection.