When Did I Get So Grey. Or Maybe I Have Always Been This Dull Shade Of Nothingness. I'd Like To Think

Woww

her hair and lips change to the color of your blog

And the forest hugged me, the moss sheltering, the leaves and vines curling and the wild flowers showering me with perfume.

"Welcome back," the forest whispered in my ear," I've missed you."

~Me

The Comet Book (1587), details, “16th-century treatise on comets, created anonymously (or maybe it was a woman who endured erasure) in Flanders”. Originally named in german Kometenbuch.

Virginia Woolf〡Selected Prose; Mrs Dalloway

My atoms have always know and loved your atoms. Maybe that is why we understand each other like nobody else. Maybe our souls met in the beyond, since before our birth, in a place which escapes our imagination. Maybe we're atoms and dust from the same star, its explosion scattering us into the abyss. Yet we were fortunate enough to have met. Maybe it was our destiny to meet one another, our names written beside each other in elegant script from a divine pen and scribe high up in the heavens, watched upon by The King of all kings. We humans have labeled this partnership as "best friends" or "soul mates". Some even call us "family". These are the people who have learned the pattern of our atoms inside out and yet have the courage to love us and keep us company on this cold, space rock orbiting a burning star in the middle of nowhere. These people are always there for you, reliable and trustworthy and if that is so, then yes. Yes, you are my best friend, my soul mate, my family. May we meet again in the highest of heaven. Till death do us apart and heaven reunite us again.

We, humans, have a natural ability called neuroplasticity, which means we learn new knowledge and have new experiences, we can develop new networks or circuits of neurons and literally change our minds. But remember, if you're not having fun, you're not learning. There's pleasure in finding out things.

"The voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes but in having new news"

-Marcel Proust

Depression may be invisible, but your absence is not.

Tired, ancient soul,

What secrets do those eyes hide

That you shelter so close to your chest

A chest that is bursting at the seams

With raw anguish,

But beautiful soul

Pain isn't meant to last

And neither is happiness

These fleeting emotions

Hold not tight to them

Because the only immortal here

Is You

~Me

"A House with No Mirrors"

I live in a house. A house with no mirrors.

What am I hiding from, you may wonder. What is it that I don't want to see?

Is it the way my mother's smile quivers when she's been hurt? Or the violent anger my father's fist holds?

Is it them I'm avoiding? Or… is it me?

Do I hate the curve of my nose, the same nose I share with my father? Or is it the hint of my mother's cheekbones, that I can't stand?

Do I despise the oppressor or pity the victim? Do I…. fear them? Fear becoming them? Or do I fear myself?

Which category do I belong to? Which one am i? A perfect blend of the oppressor and the oppressed. Where do I fit in?

In the broken cracks, where the world forgot, or perhaps, chose to forget, about me because it's so much easier to ignore than accept that there's a gaping flaw in the system. Where at some point, I too forgot the feeling of a warm embrace and loving eyes. And with the broken shards of time, I forgot my own name. Just like I hope to forget my own face.

I look in the mirror. Who am I looking at this time? A monster? Or his slave? Whose face do I see more?

Whichever one it is, I know for a fact that it's not my face that I see but theirs.

Always theirs.

I was cursed from birth. I was cursed to carry the DNA of two contradicting forces. They've blended inside me, melded as one just to create a disgusting mess of weaknesses, insecurities and existential issues. I wouldn't know where I began and they ended, what part of me even belongs to myself.

I had the misfortune to live among thieves. They stole my childhood, my sanity and now my face.

Heads turn away refusing to accept that mistakes were made. I guess I inherited that as well.

I hide away.

In moments of despairing sadness, I see my mother's lifeless smile instead of mine and in moments of rage… well. I don't like to look at that.

I wish I could see my mother's curiously intelligent mind. Or my father's sharp, observing gaze. But…

I live in a house with no mirrors because I'm afraid of what I might see this time.

I fade away.

~Me

I wish to learn the history in your bones.