A sunny disaster

Some mornings, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and sigh deeply. I cast a quick glance at the reflection and a million thoughts go through my head. At work I wonder how my colleagues can stand looking at me. I really should pull myself together. If not for myself, then at least for them. For the sake of the others, I should care more. I tell myself that every day. I try to make an effort. But the sleepless nights are just becoming longer, they keep on accumulating, and I’ve become an expert at telling what time it is based on the moonlight. Dawn comes earlier nowadays. I wonder if it’s okay to wear sunglasses inside?


To the future

She said she needed stories to tell her grandchildren, that’s why she did it. We all sat silenced at the dinner table. Her words held so much more depth than simple stories. Surely her motivation for adventure had to come from elsewhere. No, she pointed out as we asked her and she continued explaining her thoughts. She recalled that one of the greatest childhood memories we all had was listening to our grandparents’ wildly vivid, sometimes unimaginable stories. Whether there’d be truth to each chapter no one ever knew. With innocent eyes we were blissfully carried away to years before our own existence where things were completely different, or so the elderly claimed. We couldn’t question them because we hadn’t been born yet and thus had no legitimacy to do so. The adventures and mischief told of were exciting and unlike our parents’ stories, there wasn’t much of a moral at the end because frankly, grandparents’ anecdotes didn’t require that. Grandparents were allowed to be foolish. Old age justified petty crimes, the cases being dismissed a long time ago.

She continued telling us how she one day came to realize that she to-date had very few stories to tell her future grandchildren. What was she going to tell them? “Oh, children, I remember that one time when I got excellent grades” she mimicked with an old persons voice. We laughed. She was right. We had spent half our life playing it safe, saying no more often than yes, considering the future before acting in the present. But was that really the way it was supposed to work?

I don’t know if it was the excessive amount of wine which had us all nodding in unison. Somehow we all agreed. We needed to collect stories. And so, our adventure began.

To declare

He called me princess
And I listened
I hadn’t let any other man call me that before
Because I simply couldn’t relate
Yet uttered from his lips
The name grew on me
For his kindness and well meaning
Were all entailed in that name

He called me princess
And I believed him
Slowly but surely I became
What he had always seen all along
My fear of living up to the name
Day by day slowly dying
For his encouragement and touch
Were all that were needed

He called me princess
And even though in the end
I failed so very miserably
To compare
The name will forever
Mean more than anything ever imagined.

The tormenting

I googled melancholy. The second after I had typed it into the search field I knew I was in for a downfall. You see, I sometimes push myself into sadness. I provoke it. It’s as if my brain says, “Hey, you know what we haven’t thought about for a while? Yes, that’s right, unhappiness.” Perhaps I should thank my mind for those subtle thought notifications. The same gentle reminder usually goes hand in hand with shedding some tears.

“Oh, your tear channels seem to have tried up. Let’s see, how about this for today’s cavalcade of waterworks?” Cue search result. 0,35 seconds. 28 million hits.

Thank you Google. Thank you brain. Now I’m off to write. And I purposely didn’t put any mascara on today.

A confession

There are words dedicated
To every man I’ve ever loved
Be it for a second
Or for an hour
Be it for a month
Or for a year
There are words written
To every man I ever loved
Be it for today
Or for tomorrow
Or for the man
Far, far away

So if it makes sense
If there’s a recollection
A memory
A feeling
A thought provoked
Consider yourself welcome
Be you forgotten
Or just arrived
For there are words for every lover
And the next
Who may come my way.

A beauty

Have you ever seen yourself cry? Have you ever watched tears stream down your face? I’m sure you’ve felt them but have you actually caught a glimpse of them? It might seem ridiculous to do. And I promise, you do look quite hideous.

We’ve all seen another loved one cry, we’ve all felt the pain. Admittedly, we’ve all been there. The hulking, the wet cheeks, the running nose, the black mascara pretending to be blush, sometimes even lipstick.

I cried yesterday, all alone. I had felt it coming for a couple of hours and at a certain moment, I just let go. I’m not a ‘selfie’ person but after the initial stream, I took up my phone, thinking it might make a good picture. It’s crazy that even in my saddest moments I think of being artistic, discovering something pretty in unhappiness or maybe just a plain attempt at being a narcissist. I took five shots, one of which I actually look into the lens. I sent one to a close friend, asking if it was weird that I actually took a picture of this peculiar nature. She responded, “You are gorgeous. It is one of the best facial expressions I’ve seen on you.”

Although it hurts to look at the pictures now, I haven’t erased them. Maybe there is beauty in pain after all.