Poem: Who Am I? by Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Who am I? They often tell me I would step from my cell’s confinement calmly, cheerfully, firmly, like a squire from his country house.

Who am I? They often tell me I would talk to my warden freely and friendly and clearly, as though it were mine to command.

Who am I? They also tell me I would bear the days of misfortune equably, smilingly, proudly, like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really all that which others tell me, or am I only what I know of myself, restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage, struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat, yearning for colours, for flowers, for the voices of birds, thirsting for words of kindness, for neighbourliness, trembling with anger at despotisms and petty humiliation, tossing in expectation of great events, powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance, weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making, faint and ready to say farewell to it all.

Who am I? This or the other? Am I one person today and tomorrow another? Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others, and before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling? Or is it something within me still like a beaten army, fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?

Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine. Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am Thine.

Poem: Advice by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I must do as you do? Your way I own
Is a very good way, and still,
There are sometimes two straight roads to a town,
One over, one under the hill.

You are treading the safe and the well-worn way,
That the prudent choose each time;
And you think me reckless and rash to-day
Because I prefer to climb.

Your path is the right one, and so is mine.
We are not like peas in a pod,
Compelled to lie in a certain line,
Or else be scattered abroad.

‘T were a dull old world, methinks, my friend,
If we all just went one way;
Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end,
Though they lead apart today.

You like the shade, and I like the sun;
You like an even pace,
I like to mix with the crowd and run,
And then rest after the race.

I like danger, and storm, and strife,
You like a peaceful time;
I like the passion and surge of life,
You like its gentle rhyme.

You like buttercups, dewy sweet,
And crocuses, framed in snow;
I like roses, born of the heat,
And the red carnation’s glow.

I must live my life, not yours, my friend,
For so it was written down;
We must follow our given paths to the end,
But I trust we shall meet—in town.

Do You Deserve To Be Loved? What Bull!

I found this and it made me laugh. Written in June last year.

One thing that bothers me sometimes is that when I read people’s innermost thoughts, they’re so different from mine and yet the same. Things which have never even occurred to me and things which I’ve thought about a thousand times.

One of the former things I mentioned are thoughts like “I don’t deserve to be loved” and “Am I so bad that no one loves me?” When I read lines like these, I can’t help but make a face. And there have been times when I’ve hated myself passionately, but I can’t remember ever thinking something like this. More often than is healthy, I’m convinced I’m a horrible person but never because of what other people say.

And then I ask myself ‘Why haven’t I?’ and look within the grey world of my brain cells for the answer.

In this world of wisdom,
No one never really has a clue
They kill their lives every day
With what they say and what they do.

The world and the people are so… petty (that includes myself). Everyone is so blind that there doesn’t even arise a question of who deserves to be loved and who doesn’t. Besides, everyone is loved. Hitler was adored and idolized by millions, the cruel Bill Sikes was loved and cared for by Nancy, and the ignoramus Noah Claypole by Charlotte. Who is to say if they deserved it or not?

My brain boggles at the question of ‘deserving’ love.

There will always be people who love or hate you for what you seem to be. What’s important is to know who you are, to evaluate yourself, and decide whether you can freely respect your own self. Where do others come into this? They don’t know you, they don’t know what goes on in your head. There are only some who are less ignorant about you than others. In the end, it’s only you and your Lord who know your heart and its true colour.

Stop questioning the presence or absence of love or admiration. It doesn’t matter. Even if everyone admires and adores you, there’s no point in it if you can’t look your conscience in the eye.

I’m not saying love isn’t important. To love is to live. What I’m saying is that who you are is not defined by what people think of you. Even if they are people who love you.

I have seen with my very eyes how unjust that thinking can be. I know persons who define ‘good’ and yet people don’t recognize their value and I’ve seen the same people running after those who, when compared to the inner brightness and brilliance of the first star, shine with a cheap glint. The glitter comes off on your hand when you come near enough to touch them.

‘People’, in a general sense of the word, are incredibly stupid and their opinion is of no value at all. In fact, it is worse if they admire you, for then you seem to get a bloated impression of yourself and it’s very painful when you look into your soul and see barren dusty lands where you expected gardens of delight. And you despair that it’s too late to till the soil, too late to sow the seeds: the monsoon has already passed. But then you realize that the rains come every year and that it’s never too late.

But sometimes… sometimes it is.

Take heed, Fatma, take heed.

Poem of the Day: In Mind by Denise Levertov

There’s in my mind a woman
of innocence, unadorned but

fair-featured, and smelling of
apples or grass. She wears

a utopian smock or shift, her hair
is light brown and smooth, and she

is kind and very clean without
ostentation—
but she has
no imagination.
And there’s a girl
turbulent moon-ridden girl

or old woman, or both,
dressed in opals and rags, feathers

and torn taffeta,
who knows strange songs—

but she is not kind.

The 2010s

I was surfing across the net when I stumbled across the term- ‘the 2010s’. It took me a minute to register what it meant, and realize that we are already in the second year of it.

The two thousand tens. I say it out loud to taste the word on my tongue, and familiarize my mind to it.

I’m sure, that after a few decades, people will look wistfully back to the 2010s. Perhaps teenagers will say ‘I’m a 2010s kinda person.’ or ‘I wish I lived in the 2010s’. Some author might pen down, ‘The 2010s- it was the best of times, it was the worst of times’. There could be many television series based on this period, perhaps one of them being called ‘That 2010s Show’. Quite possibly, there will be fancy dress competitions and dances with the theme ‘the 2010s’.

This makes my mind travel on another train of thought: What are the styles and fashions of today? What will historians see when they study us?

All this serves to wake me up to the fact that we are in the middle of the history which is being made each minute. There is no time to waste; every moment has to be experienced fully; there should be no regrets.
I remember with a start what I had forgotten in the midst of exam worries and career planning: Life is beautiful. We’re here to enjoy it.

Here’s to hoping this decade brings us happiness.

Poem of the Day: The Remains by Mark Strand

I empty myself of the names of others.
I empty my pockets, I empty my shoes and leave them beside
the road. At night I turn back the clocks; I open the family
album and look at myself as a boy.

What good does it do? The hours have done their job.
I say my own name. I say goodbye.
The words follow each other downwind.
I love my wife but send her away.

My parents rise out of their thrones
into the milky rooms of clouds. How can I sing?
Time tells me what I am. I change and I am the same.
I empty myself of my life and my life remains.

 

Short Story: I Stand Here Ironing by Tillie Olsen

Note: This makes me cry each time I read it. That’s all.

I stand here ironing, and what you asked me moves tormented back and forth with the iron. “I wish you would manage the time to come in and talk with me about your daughter. I’m sure you can help me understand her. She’s a youngster who needs help and whom I’m deeply interested in helping.”

“Who needs help.” — Even if I came, what good would it do? You think because I am her mother I have a key, or that in some way you could use me as a key? She has lived for nineteen years. There is all that life that has happened outside of me, beyond me.

And when is there time to remember, to sift, to weigh, to estimate, to total? I will start and there will be an interruption and I will have to gather it all together again. Or I will become engulfed with all I did or did not do, with what should have been and what cannot be helped.

She was a beautiful baby. The first and only one of our five that was beautiful at birth. You do not guess how new and uneasy her tenancy in her now — loveliness. You did not know her all those years she was thought homely, or see her poring over her baby pictures, making me tell her over and over how beautiful she had been — and would be, I would tell her — and was now, to the seeing eye. But the seeing eyes were few or non-existent. Including mine.

I nursed her. They feel that’s important nowadays. I nursed all the children, but with her, with all the fierce rigidity of first motherhood, I did like the books then said. Though her cries battered me to trembling and my breasts ached with swollenness, I waited till the clock decreed.

Why do I put that first? I do not even know if it matters, or if it explains anything.

She was a beautiful baby. She blew shining bubbles of sound. She loved motion, loved light, loved color and music and textures. She would lie on the floor in her blue overalls patting the surface so hard in ecstasy her hands and feet would blur. She was a miracle to me, but when she was eight months old I had to leave her daytimes with the woman downstairs to whom she was no miracle at all, for I worked or looked for work and for Emily’s father, who “could no longer endure” (he wrote in his goodbye note) “sharing want with us.

I was nineteen. It was the pre-relief, pre-WPA world of the depression. I would start running as soon as I got off the streetcar, running up the stairs, the place smelling sour, and awake or asleep to startle awake, when she saw me she would break into a clogged weeping that could not be comforted, a weeping I can hear yet.

After a while I found a job hashing at night so I could be with her days, and it was better. But it came to where I had to bring her to his family and leave her.

It took a long time to raise the money for her fare back. Then she got chicken pox and I had to wait longer. When she finally came, I hardly knew her, walking quick and nervous like her father, looking like her father, thin, and dressed in a shoddy red that yellowed her skin and glared at the pockmarks. All the baby loveliness gone.

She was two. Old enough for nursery school they said, and I did not know then what I know now — the fatigue of the long day, and the lacerations of group life in the kinds of nurseries that are only parking places for children.

Except that it would have made no difference if I had known. It was the only place there was. It was the only way we could be together, the only way I could hold a job.

And even without knowing, I knew. I knew the teacher that was evil because all these years it has curdled into my memory, the little boy hunched in the corner, her rasp, “why aren’t you outside, because Alvin hits you? that’s no reason, go out, scaredy.” I knew Emily hated it even if she did not clutch and implore “don’t go Mommy” like the other children, mornings.

She always had a reason why we should stay home. Momma, you look sick, Momma, I feel sick. Momma, the teachers aren’t there today, they’re sick. Momma, we can’t go, there was a fire there last night. Momma, it’s a holiday today, no school, they told me.

But never a direct protest, never rebellion. I think of our others in their three, four -year-oldness — the explosions, the tempers, the denunciations, the demands — and I feel suddenly ill. I put the iron down. What in me demanded that goodness in her? And what was the cost, the cost to her of such goodness?

The old man living in the back once said in his gentle way: “You should smile at Emily more when you look at her.” What was in my face when I looked at her? I loved her. There were all the acts of love.

It was only with the others I remembered what he said, and it was the face of joy, and not of care or tightness or worry I turned to them — too late for Emily. She does not smile easily, let alone almost always as her brothers and sisters do. Her face is closed and sombre, but when she wants, how fluid. You must have seen it in her pantomimes, you spoke of her rare gift for comedy on the stage that rouses a laughter out of the audience so dear they applaud and applaud and do not want to let her go.

Where does it come from, that comedy? There was none of it in her when she came back to me that second time, after I had had to send her away again. She had a new daddy now to learn to love, and I think perhaps it was a better time.

Except when we left her alone nights, telling ourselves she was old enough.

“Can’t you go some other time, Mommy, like tomorrow?” she would ask. “Will it be just a little while you’ll be gone? Do you promise?”

The time we came back, the front door open, the clock on the floor in the hall. She rigid awake. “It wasn’t just a little while. I didn’t cry. Three times I called you, just three times, and then I ran downstairs to open the door so you could come faster. The clock talked loud. I threw it away, it scared me — what it talked.”

She said the clock talked loud again that night I went to the hospital to have Susan. She was delirious with the fever that comes before red measles, but she was fully conscious all the week I was gone and the week after we were home when she could not come near the new baby or me.

She did not get well. She stayed skeleton thin, not wanting to eat, and night after night she had nightmares. She would call for me, and I would rouse from exhaustion to sleepily call back: “You’re all right, darling, go to sleep, it’s just a dream,” and if she still called, in a sterner voice, “now go to sleep, Emily, there’s nothing to hurt you.” Twice, only twice, when I had to get up for Susan anyhow, I went in to sit with her.

Now when it is too late (as if she would let me hold and comfort her like I do the others) I get up and go to her at once at her moan or restless stirring. “Are you awake, Emily? Can I get you something?” And the answer is always the same: “No, I’m all right, go back to sleep, Mother.”

They persuaded me at the clinic to send her away to a convalescent home in the country where “she can have the kind of food and care you can’t manage for her, and you’ll be free to concentrate on the new baby.” They still send children to that place. I see pictures on the society page of sleek young women planning affairs to raise money for it, or dancing at the affairs, or decorating Easter eggs or filling Christmas stockings for the children.

They never have a picture of the children so I do not know if the girls still wear those gigantic red bows and the ravaged looks on the every other Sunday when parents can come to visit “unless otherwise notified” — as we were notified the first six weeks.

Oh it is a handsome place, green lawns and tall trees and fluted flower beds. High up on the balconies of each cottage the children stand, the girls in their red bows and white dresses, the boys in white suits and giant red ties. The parents stand below shrieking up to be heard and the children shriek down to be heard, and between them the invisible wall “Not To Be Contaminated by Parental Germs or Physical Affection.”

There was a tiny girl who always stood hand in hand with Emily. Her parents never came. One visit she was gone. “They moved her to Rose Cottage,” Emily shouted in explanation. “They don’t like you to love anybody here.”

She wrote once a week, the labored writing of a seven-year-old. “I am fine. How is the baby. If I write my Ieter nicly I will have a star. Love.” There never was a star. We wrote every other day, letters she could never hold or keep but only hear read — once. “We simply do not have room for children to keep any personal possessions,” they patiently explained when we pieced one Sunday’s shrieking together to plead how much it would mean to Emily, who loved so to keep things, to be allowed to keep her letters and cards.

Each visit she looked frailer. “She isn’t eating,” they told us.

(They had runny eggs for breakfast or mush with lumps, Emily said later, I’d hold it in my mouth and not swallow. Nothing ever tasted good, just when they had chicken.)

It took us eight months to get her released home, and only the fact that she gained back so little of her seven lost pounds convinced the social worker.

I used to try to hold and love her after she came back, but her body would stay stiff, and after a while she’d push away. She ate little. Food sickened her, and I think much of life too. Oh she had physical lightness and brightness, twinkling by on skates, bouncing like a ball up and down up and down over the jump rope, skimming over the hill; but these were momentary.

She fretted about her appearance, thin and dark and foreign-looking at a time when every little girl was supposed to look or thought she should look a chubby blonde replica of Shirley Temple. The doorbell sometimes rang for her, but no one seemed to come and play in the house or be a best friend. Maybe because we moved so much.

There was a boy she loved painfully through two school semesters. Months later she told me how she had taken pennies from my purse to buy him candy. “Licorice was his favorite and I brought him some every day, but he still liked Jennifer better’ n me. Why, Mommy?” The kind of question for which there is no answer.

School was a worry to her. She was not glib or quick in a world where glibness and quickness were easily confused with ability to learn. To her overworked and exasperated teachers she was an over-conscientious “slow learner” who kept trying to catch up and was absent entirely too often.

I let her be absent, though sometimes the illness was imaginary. How different from my now — strictness about attendance with the others. I wasn’t working. We had a new baby, I was home anyhow. Sometimes, after Susan grew old enough. I would keep her home from school, too, to have them all together. Mostly Emily had asthma, and her breathing, harsh and labored, would fill the house with a curiously tranquil sound. I would bring the two old dresser mirrors and her boxes of collections to her bed. She would select beads and single earrings, bottle tops and shells, dried flowers and pebbles, old postcards and scraps, all sorts of oddments; then she and Susan would play Kingdom, setting up landscapes and furniture, peopling them with action.

Those were the only times of peaceful companionship between her and Susan. I have edged away from it, that poisonous feeling between them, that terrible balancing of hurts and needs I had to do between the two, and did so badly, those earlier years.

Oh there are conflicts between the others too, each one human, needing, demanding, hurting, taking — but only between Emily and Susan, no, Emily toward Susan that corroding resentment. It seems so obvious on the surface, yet it is not obvious. Susan, the second child, Susan, golden — and curly-haired and chubby, quick and articulate and assured, everything in appearance and manner Emily was not; Susan, not able to resist Emily’s precious things, losing or sometimes clumsily breaking them; Susan telling jokes and riddles to company for applause while Emily sat silent (to say to me later: that was my riddle, Mother, I told it to Susan); Susan, who for all the five years’ difference in age was just a year behind Emily in developing physically.

I am glad for that slow physical development that widened the difference between her and her contemporaries, though she suffered over it. She was too vulnerable for that terrible world of youthful competition, of preening and parading, of constant measuring of yourself against every other, of envy, “If I had that copper hair,” “If I had that skin…” She tormented herself enough about not looking like the others, there was enough of the unsureness, the having to be conscious of words before you speak, the constant caring — what are they thinking of me? without having it all magnified by the merciless physical drives.

Ronnie is calling. He is wet and I change him. It is rare there is such a cry now. That time of motherhood is almost behind me when the ear is not one’s own but must always be racked and listening for the child cry, the child call. We sit for a while and I hold him, looking out over the city spread in charcoal with its soft aisles of light. “Shoogily,” he breathes and curls closer. I carry him back to bed, asleep. Shoogily. A funny word, a family y word, inherited from Emily, [y, invented by her to say: comfort.

In this and other ways she leaves her seal, I say aloud. And startle at my saying it. What do I mean? What did I start to gather together, to try and make coherent? I was at the terrible, growing years. War years. I do not remember them well. I was working, there were four smaller ones now, there was not time for her. She had to help be a mother, and housekeeper, and shopper. She had to set her seal. Mornings of crisis and near hysteria trying to get lunches packed, hair combed, coats and shoes found, everyone to school or Child Care on time, the baby ready for transportation. And always the paper scribbled on by a smaller one, the book looked at by Susan then mislaid, the homework not done. Running out to that huge school where she was one, she was lost, she was a drop; suffering over the unpreparedness, stammering and unsure in her classes.

There was so little time left at night after the kids were bedded down. She would struggle over books, always eating (it was in those years she developed her enormous appetite that is legendary in our family) and I would be ironing, or preparing food for the next day, or writing V-mail to Bill, or tending the baby. Sometimes, to make me laugh, or out of her despair, she would imitate happenings or types at school.

I think I said once: “Why don’t you do something like this in the school amateur show?” One morning she phoned me at work, hardly understandable through the weeping: “Mother, I did it. I won, I won; they gave me first prize; they clapped and clapped and wouldn’t let me go.”

Now suddenly she was Somebody, and as imprisoned in her difference as she had been in anonymity.

She began to be asked to perform at other high schools, even in colleges, then at city and statewide affairs. The first one we went to, I only recognized her that first moment when thin, shy, she almost drowned herself into the curtains. Then: Was this Emily? The control, the command, the convulsing and deadly clowning, the spell, then the roaring, stamping audience, unwilling to let this rare and precious laughter out of their lives.

Afterwards: You ought to do something about her with a gift like that — but without money or knowing how, what does one do? We have left it all to her, and the gift has as often eddied inside, clogged and clotted, as been used and growing. She is coming. She runs up the stairs two at a time with her light graceful step, and I know she is happy tonight. Whatever it was that occasioned your call did not happen today.

“Aren’t you ever going to finish the ironing, Mother? Whistler painted his mother in a rocker. I’d have to paint mine standing over an ironing board.” This is one of her communicative nights and she tells me everything and nothing as she fixes herself a plate of food out of the icebox.

She is so lovely. Why did you want me to come in at all? Why were you concerned? She will find her way.

She starts up the stairs to bed. “Don’t get me up with the rest in the morning.” “But I thought you were having midterms.” “Oh, those,” she comes back in, kisses me, and says quite lightly, “in a couple of years when we’ll all be atom — dead they won’t matter a bit.”

She has said it before. She believes it. But because I have been dredging the past, and all that compounds a human being is so heavy and meaningful in me, I cannot endure it tonight.

I will never total it all. I will never come in to say: She was a child seldom smiled at. Her father left me before she was a year old. I had to work her first six years when there was work, or I sent her home and to his relatives. There were years she had care she hated. She was dark and thin and foreign-looking in a world where the prestige went to blondeness and curly hair and dimples, she was slow where glibness was prized. She was a child of anxious, not proud, love. We were poor and could not afford for her the soil of easy growth. I was a young mother, I was a distracted mother. There were the other children pushing up, demanding. Her younger sister seemed all that she was not. There were years she did not want me to touch her. She kept too much in herself, her life was such she had to keep too much in herself. My wisdom came too late. She has much to her and probably little will come of it. She is a child of her age, of depression, of war, of fear.

Let her be. So all that is in her will not bloom — but in how many does it? There is still enough left to live by. Only help her to know-help make it so there is cause for her to know — that she is more than this dress on the ironing board, helpless before the iron.

Icy Dread

Of course I ran after her.

Even though it was snowing, and I didn’t have a coat on.
Even though the wind blowing was biting, and I had been battling fever for days.
I forgot everything, and I ran.

“Wait! Don’t gooo-o!” I was shouting with all my might, but my voice could barely be heard against the howling wind. When I saw her run into someone’s arms, I stopped chasing after her.

I froze.

Now the snow was falling on my heart. The cold and numbness seeped through, till there was only a dull aching left inside. She laughed and clutched his arm affectionately.

She lied to me, and left me standing in the snow, for a boy who was waiting to break her heart. The wind roared in my ears, the snow melted on my skin, but the coldness felt nothing to the chill in my heart.

Poem: All the Words that were Said

25th August, 2010

I did not know
That someone else’s pain
Could hurt so much
I don’t feel sane

Anymore. How could I forget?
That life isn’t fair?
My eyes burn, my heart feels heavy
But I don’t wish I didn’t care.

It’s hard to witness your favorite blossom,
Which you had watched so delightedly as it flowered,
Be trampled upon by the heel of destiny
And you can only observe in horror.

I used to revel in the utter beauty,
the entrancing loveliness of the bloom.
Now I don’t know where to go-
Every shadow is filled with gloom.

But the hardest part is seeing the person you love
Putting up a brave front while breaking up inside
And you wish you could help, at least show you care
But it’s no use, and the friend is too occupied.

My eyes are tired from weeping all day
My heart is filled with sorrow unexpressed
My mind is crowded with fleeting images,
feelings, expressions, and all the words that were said.

It’s always the words that haunt me
They crawl and skitter about
They echo in my head, and keep me awake
And they’re the ones who really make me cry, of that there’s no doubt.

It took me a while to realize that we, as human beings, have no idea or control over what our lives are going to bring us the next moment. And it may seem like the end of life as you know it, but it could actually be good for you.
When I accepted that I know nothing, and Allah SWT knows everything and that I trust Him completely, I felt the distress and pain go out of me.

I felt at peace.

Poem: The Ground and The Cloud

December, 2009

‘It’s all so confusing!’
She sits and sighs aloud
Sometimes she feels the ground
And sometimes she’s floating on a cloud.

The ground says ‘People are fickle.’
The cloud says ‘You are right in loving them!’
And so she rises and she falls
Like a raindrop- which shines like a gem.

And the tears on her face shine too,
When they are not lost in the pillow.
‘Ah.. the ground.. ’tis too hard!’
She cries as she falls to the earth down below.

But her eyes- filled with happiness- shine more
As the lips of her heart curve in contentment
And she floats like a fairy on her cloud
She looks at the pretty mist in amazement.

‘But what is to be done?!
I can’t change who I am!
Is it better not to love?
Just because you’re afraid of getting hurt?’

As she sits and ponders over this,
A voice comes from within.
It says ‘I’m the voice of your soul
I’ll tell you how to win.

‘If you want to give up pain,
There’s a price you’ll have to pay:
You’ll have to give up joy too
There is no other way!

‘For the ground and the cloud
Are nothing without each other-
The ground would not be called hard
If the cloud wasn’t as soft as feather.’

She said with some awe,
‘I see what you mean,
But I’m just a child
Can’t you please intervene?’

The voice replied ‘There is one other path
But it requires great strength of soul,
Along with courage, valour, patience,
And then a little more.

‘You must learn to feel the earth when you’re on the ground
And relish its musty smell.
You must learn to get back on your feet
And smile like all is well.

‘Work hard and you’ll grow wings
Which will enable you to fly
To that white and misty cloud
So high above in the velvety sky.

‘And when you reach the pearly cloud
Don’t forget the ground below
Remember others fall too
Who are much worse off than you.

‘Learn to give a helping hand
to each and every soul
And keep in mind to always smile
With kind and cheerful words.

‘And if you fall to the ground again
Give thanks to your Lord
For all the time he blest you with
On the white and shining cloud.

‘And soon you’ll find that you have come to love
The cloud and the ground the same
You accept your fall as a part of life
And oh! the joy of floating up again!

‘This way of life- it’s not easy
And often you’ll lose hope
But you’ll have the voice of your soul
To always help you cope.’

She smiles ‘Oh my! I didn’t know
That all this was inside
The answer was in me all along
I only had to try.

‘I’m glad I took the time to think,
To make sense of this mess.
And I’ll try to follow the advice from my soul
Because life is a test.’

The funny part about this poem is that I was actually sitting and sighing, and then I started to write. I couldn’t stop, and perhaps it really was a message from my soul, because I wasn’t thinking, yet the whole page was filled with words, in twenty minutes. Lovely experience, and I wish it happens again. It hasn’t so far, but maybe I did not try hard enough.

PS. I’m officially sick of posting about myself/my writings. This is the last post of old writings. Wheew!