Home is... leaving at the eleventh hour, arriving twelve hours later, with only three hours of uncomfortable sleep, to be welcomed by familiar arms, butts, and faces. It's that almost forgotten feeling of not being constantly surrounded by strangers for whom your existence doesn't matter much at all. Home is remembering who you are, where you come from, grounding you to a reality that you seem to have removed from the now empty corners of your mind. It's your heart smiling for no apparent reason, the warm love received unconditionally without you having to beg for it, look for it, pay for it, in a place that is not only cold because of the weather (pinch of salt). Home is not having to eat leftover dinner by yourself, but rather being surrounded by loud, no longer annoying, voices. It's the (yes) sun raining all over your bleached body, the sea spraying salt all over your bare feet, the appetiser to a flirty summer, knowing very well there will be no main course. Home is the pause button to a life that seems to be stuck on fast forward. It's a bonsai of mixed raw emotions, fully grown and nurtured, while you try to hold on to something that has always been there and will still be there when you're gone. Home is them knowing what you want, who you are, and loving you anyway, even though doing so breaks their beautiful hearts into tiny hardbound pieces. Home is a swimming pool of memories, staying afloat if and only if you want them to. Home is a feeling and this was my failed attempt at trying to define it.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Sometimes, translating built up feelings onto pieces of leftover paper just isn't enough. There are times when no matter how much you want to, no matter how much you need to, it just doesn't happen. You'd think that words, being your usual go to, would help you get through it, that they would cure you, comfort you, caress you. That they would always be there no matter what. Well, you'd be wrong. Like everything else in this life, they leave, they change, they bottle up inside you in a form you have never quite exploited before. Or maybe you have and you just don't remember. You're so forgetful lately, forgetting what and who you are, where and how you've been, the little things that really matter.
What about them little things anyway? Why are they so little if they're really just big? You used to have it all figured out, back when figuring stuff out was the hardest task at hand. Not anymore. It's like playing rock-paper-scissors with yourself, and you're either always winning or always losing, because you know the outcome way before the hands are dealt. So maybe it's time to change the outcome. Maybe it's time for something more. But more of what? Of this? Of anything else that is not this? But this is good, so anything else is just going to either be worse or much much better.
Eventually, it's all about the chances you're willing to take, the fears you're willing to overcome. It's about succumbing to the smart little people in your high-on-something-that-is-not-weed brain telling you that it's okay, that change is good, that chickening out is not even remotely an option, that fear of the unknown is only natural, that no one ever really gets anywhere by building tree-like hedges around himself; the thorns may not be pretty but the flowers are. And they smell good too. But you won't be able to smell them from a million miles away. Try all you want, but you won't. Believe me, I tried. It just doesn't work like that.
You want something? You go get it. Don't pretend like it's going to fall from the sky one fine evening on your way back home from work. It might, but it's not going to. But it might. And if it does, what then? Do you catch it or do you just let it go? Well, if the past is anything to go by.. okay, okay.. let's not go there. Not today. Not right now. Then when?
If not now, then when?
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
That's the thing about patience. It can screw you better and harder and longer than any male stripper ever could. Not that it has ever been experienced first hand, and not that you would need to know. But you see, no, you probably don't. You feel it, deeply penetrating your skin, your soul, like a parasite eating and sucking every cell of your body, injecting venom, poisonous, inch by inch, until there is no more space left, until it's all clogged up, and then suddenly, just like that, you feel asphyxiated, breathless. Your flesh, like that of an old man who's been through hell and back, captivates you. You'd think that that's a good thing, that it's finally happening, that the quiet selfless tormented bastard is finally ready to come out. You would think that that's a good thing. Well, it is, until it's not. Until you slowly start to realise that it has always been there for a reason, and just like every other reason ever invented, it doesn't make much sense at all. Until every organ in your body oozes bitter sweet tears, tears that stopped coming out a long time ago, a time when patience was still acceptable, when it was still a virtue, a time when oxygen was not produced in limited editions. Yes, that's the thing about patience. It screws you hard, and time and time again, and for what it's worth, better than you ever thought it could.