LXII

Remind me why I’m here.

Remind me why I do the things I do.

Remind me why I love them when I do them and I hate myself when I don’t.

Remind me because sometimes I need reminding. Like these times, when what I do and why I’m here feel like a whole lot of nothing and for no reason at all.

[Image: The Sartorialist]

LXI

World Between Our Sheets.

When I’m in bed with you, all the world is as naught. The howls are quiet, the babes are asleep in their houses, the sky is colourless and the moon shines no light. There is no thief or betrayer, no soldier or soul-taker, there is no war and there is no wilderness. Outside there may be people, there may be voices, there may be armorers and dead things and wild things and love and lust and hate and triumph and stealth and gnashing of teeth and brokeness and retribution and regret. But inside, where it is warm, there is none of that. There is just you and me. When I’m in bed with you you are the world to me. And it is only when the morning breaks [who says it’s morning, who is an inanimate object to tell me when the getting up is right and the going out?] that you leave me, and I am nothing again. Until you return. I remain nothing. Until you return. My world. 

LX

Like Poetry.

If I only had one shot

If I only had one wish

I’d use them up on just the thought of you.

If I could see you for one day

If I could be with you one night

I’d gladly wait a thousand moments through.

And if you only said one word

And if you only knew one name

I’d pray it would be mine you only knew.

If you had love left for someone

If I could e-rase what I’ve done

I’d chase you down and wrap my arms ‘round you.

But I’ve had more shots than most would

And I’ve walked right by where you stood

And you’ve forgotten my name, my face, my voice, me through and through.

And you’ve loved more than a few now

And I have re-grets but somehow

I’ll chase you down and wrap my arms 'round you.

Oh wont you wait wait my darlin’

Oh cant you save your gaze for me darlin’

Cos I’ve been gazing long before you set foot in the room.

If I only had one life, I’d save it up for you.

I have only got one life

I’m saving it up for you.

LIX

Lie to me.

If I told you I was a no regrets kinda gal… that would be a lie. If I said I was pretty happy-go-lucky, also a lie. If I said I was carefree, or didn’t give a damn what other people thought of me, or was perfectly content within myself – all lies. But I do tell you those things. What I wear, the way I smile, my mannerisms around total strangers, the way I dismiss your remarks or ignore your stares. I’m telling you a story about myself that I know not to be true. And its not just me – the world is a liar. Because that’s what we’re taught to do and that’s how we’re taught to be, and somewhere along the way every single one of us just joins in the game of lies that we don’t even know we’re playing anymore. This is what makes the world go round. This is what makes statistics soar – depression, racism, insecurity, suicide, intolerance, repression, abuse, self harm, bullying, hate mail, pain, suffering, neglect, misfortune. Welcome to the world we live in. Welcome to the world you live.

[Images: Unknown, Edward Weston]

LVIII

You need neat nails like you need well-cut hair. 

Disappointment is real but so are goats that climb trees.

In life, the details are important.

[Image: SCF]

LVII

Today I did not one productive thing. Is this permissable within a week of returning from (a long and mind blowing, hot-sun-ruddy-cheeks-wide-eyes kind've) holiday? When there is so much to be done? Surely not. And yet here I am, still standing. I seem to do no-productive-thing more and more often these days, in an attempt to understand what it even means to be productive, and whether the things we ought to do really are the things we ought to do...? That aside - these musings shall perhaps rear their head more substantially later - consider yourself warned that I have just returned from said glorious holiday, and that telling images will soon surface with all the expected #wanderlust to ensue and #humblebrag-ging, etcetera.

xo

[Image: Oracle Fox]

LVI

Just a hopeless romantic stuck with a cynicism-only vocabulary. I only sound in love when I write it down. Ask me out loud and you wont hear it from me. But that’s the beauty of love, is it not? It makes us into what we are not and who we are not secretly becomes who we are. The fears and doubts and protective outer-layers we’ve successfully sealed ourselves up in are not always broken down, but they are always breached – perhaps imperceptibly, through a deep drain or a secret passage – so that what we are on the outside may appear the same, but on the inside nothing is left untouched with love. The hopefulness, the inexplicable joy, the laughter at nothing at all, and the wonder. Maybe the walls will crumble eventually, burst from the inside out. But if they do not, it matters not. For inside, love is ours, and that is the whole world.

[Image: Akila Berjaoui]