AtoZ 2021 – K

Your knives are cutting deep wounds into my knotted imagination. Knowledge is used against me. And the key to my heart you once held in your hand kind of broke off in the lock. One last kiss I can not remember. But I keep hanging on.

Kim Wilde – keep me hanging on

Be kind? Nah, not really.

That title, though, right? I consider myself as being a kind person, showing empathy towards every person I meet online or face to face. I try understanding reasons for behaviours and, true if I like someone, I make up excuses for their ill behaviours too. I am respectful of limits and boundaries. And I am convinced these things help with the quality of my work too.

When I am asked to keep a secret, I do. When someone tells me they don’t want to talk, well, then I don’t push. Not because I don’t care, but because I care. When a friend asks for advice, a shoulder to lean on, then I am there. And when they need space to deal with their own personal lives, then I allow that space.

To be honest, I thought that was called kindness and respect. But as I was taught some hours ago, it makes me seem like a fake and aloof.

I am flabbergasted, to say the least. And ever since I was called the above by a woman who I consider a very good friend, in an email that came out of the blue last night, I keep questioning myself. Did I not ask about her? Did I talk too much about myself? Is sharing information (‘I had my surgery and am recovering well’) the same as using someone as an emotional dumpster?

Am I too selfish and egomaniac to have friends? Am I a narcissist? A user? An emotional vampire? Am I that socially awkward?

See, I am not one who easily trusts others. I don’t pour my heart out all the time, and I try dealing with all my issues without burdening anyone. I am one of those who replies “tired” when I am asked how I am, and am not well.

I don’t have many friends. The ones I have, I cherish them and love them with all my might. But even those friends rarely get to see the whole picture of me. Is that something that makes me fake? Because if it is, it is completely unintentional. I am often holding back because my views are peculiar and not always mainstream, and I am scared to be judged and rejected.

Since 2014/2015, my life changed a lot. I changed a lot. Back then, I had more friends than I do now. I seem to alienate them one by one with who I am.

I always considered myself to be a kind person. Maybe I am not. Maybe I am just fake and selfish.

Words cut deeper than knives. My fragile mind turns in circles, and I am falling into a self-punishing hole.

AtoZ 2021 – J

A jester was jotting down a joyless story into a jar filled with emotions. His journal fell in my jeans-clad lap and jerked me into motion. It was time to start my journey. My jewel mind shone in the shadow of the sun and the moon as I tried to remember how to join the two in the sky. I jealously looked at the birds flapping their wings, at least they could fly. Jaded thoughts made me lose my momentum and return back home. I was just in time to judge my tears in the mirror, and behind me, I spotted a jester who was jotting down a joyless story into a jar filled with jumbled emotions…

Jeff Buckley – Jewel Box

Dear Stranger

As I walked down memory lane this afternoon, my chest constricted, and tears flowed freely. It was as if my mind was breaking up with you. I went over everything that happened in these last five years. Some things came back to me; almost forgotten words hit me with such force that I forgot to breathe.

I cannot go on anymore. Not like this. Not when whatever we have is entirely and exclusively orchestrated by you. I don’t have a say in this. And it fucking kills me. How can someone so emotional in his art be so cold toward other people in reality? Don’t you care at all about other people? Do you flee into this fantasy world where I worship you and snap out of it as soon as you caught your breath and cleaned the cum from your stomach?

A while ago, I thought that there was a shift in our relation, but as so often, the shift was followed by rejection and silence. We were real intimate. At least for a moment. And I thought that maybe, just maybe, there was something like a friendship between us. But I am just a stranger, and when things get real or when you feel too seen, too understood, you cut me off. What is it about you? Why can’t I let go? Why can’t I just say “fuck it” and ignore you the way you ignore me? Why? What is this about? I don’t want to save or change you. I will not nag. I will just slowly retreat, because that is what I do.

There is a big hole in my soul, and some days you just kiss it, and all is good. Other days, your silence makes the hole grow until it almost devours me. And still, I hold your secrets safe.

I cannot stop crying, mourning. I cannot do this anymore, Stranger. I just can’t. Sometimes, it feels as if I can feel you in me. And I see you standing there, afraid and filled with fear. And yet… I am here. I don’t know how many women left you during our five years (or how many you ghosted), but I am still here. And that, dear Stranger, counts for something too. Maybe it just shows how stupid and blind I am when it comes to you.

I remember my promises to you. I will keep them until the day my last tear falls, and my last breath leaves my body.

If I could just stop myself from feeling anything. If I could be numb. But I am not.

This is fucking insane. But I miss you.


What is happiness?

Apparently, happiness is the feeling you had as a child, when everything was allowed and nothing was wrong.

But… I never felt that way. Or I can’t remember it, at least. There was always someone to take care of, feelings and emotions of adults to take into account. There were always adults to be considerate of.

I mean, I can remember that I was told to stop coughing when I had pneumonia. My grandfather worked shifts and wanted to relax watching Quincy or Columbo or something like that. And my coughing on the couch was considered a nuisance.

(I was 8 when I had acute bronchitis, and because it was not taken care of for a long while, it turned into pneumonia. I was not allowed to leave the bed or the couch for two weeks, and I remember that I had a high fever and that my chest hurt a lot… I read a lot during that time. A lifelong love for reading was born right there and then.)

I cannot remember a moment when I felt safe and carefree. Not until I was 31. And by that time I was married, mom of 3 kids and lived in a house, complete with a mortgage. I was always on the pursuit of happiness. And never really found it. Until that night in Brussels where a hug from a stranger put together some broken pieces in my soul.

When do I feel a sense of happiness?

For me, happiness is an hour of selfishly listening to music – preferably loud, singing along, and not having to take care of anything or anyone.

But, happiness for me also means looking at my kids and feeling proud of the young people they are becoming. I am proud because I lack role models in parenting, but my kids are awesome anyway. Sure, they could try tidying their rooms more. But they are kind and considerate, opinionated, and interested in the world. They are intelligent – we discuss a lot and speak about everything and anything. I would not be who I am now without those three young people who are only alive because I exist. Without women, there is no life on earth.

What is happiness for you?

I wonder if I am not looking in the right places or maybe, happiness is an emotion I cannot identify and label because I didn’t experience it in my formative years.

You see, today, children are taken out of families for less than the emotional neglect and abuse I suffered. And I consider myself lucky that I was able to grow up with my mom and grandma and my father who was at the periphery of my life too. And still, I cannot help but think that if a social worker had known or a teacher had cared, my life would have taken a different turn.

But… No regrets. I wouldn’t be who I am, and I would not think the way I do, if my past had been different.


AtoZ 2021 – I

An intense aura hid inside the imperceptible colours of her insane mind. The same words were written in every corner of her journal, ingrained in invisible ink. Images of impatient impulses disrupted her sleep. All for him. Imperfect soul.

INVSN – I dreamt music


What happens if I jump off the sky today?

A numb ride down the rainbow (or)

Emerging myself in a cloud’s waterfall?

All becomes nothing in this fantasy nightmare.

AtoZ 2021 – H

Hollow heavens hint at being one-half hell. Hours flow down sinful rivers. Hopeful. Or is hope lost? All is never lost. My hardened heart turns soft in the headlights of her.

Her Name is Calla – the hour of gloam

AtoZ 2021 – G

Gritted teeth and closed fists. Golden glory turned red and gory. Everything that was once gorgeous turned green with envy. Nothing good came from our game. Glows dimmed, and grime covered every memory. A gentle absence of the past grew into our greatest loss.

Glen Hansard – good life of song

all those tired thoughts that refuse to sleep at night

It’s past 3 in the morning, and I have been awake for two hours now. I don’t know why I am not asleep. I don’t feel anxious; I don’t recall any dreams. And yet. After tossing and turning for a while, I did what I always do; I took my phone. I replied to a message, fully aware that the recipient is asleep at this hour. I filed a complaint about a long-overdue delivery, and I surfed the web for all and nothing. I did some research on Covid vaccines because I will receive my first shot this Friday. And I watched the ceiling.

What else is there to do?

Faint light is coming in through the closed blinds, leaving a black and pale yellow pattern on the usually white paint—a play of light and shadow.

A poetic thought in a trivial situation.

I’ve been in a shadow mood for a moment or two. On the one hand, everything is good and progressing; on the other hand, I am lonely, alone, and exhausted. If I wasn’t an over-thinker, getting in touch with the people I want to talk to most right now would not be a big deal. But I am an over-thinker. I rather delude myself into thinking that it’s better to ignore that big urge to message the person who inspires the fictitious Dear Stranger letters and be miserable, than being ignored or, even worse: rejected by him. Of course, I saw that he was online on WhatsApp mere moments ago. But my last message is unread, the ticks are not blue, and I should let him sleep. We are both un-asleep. What are the odds? Last seen today at 2:58 am. I want to pretend that it doesn’t matter. But it does.

Everything matters.

I wasted two hours of rest already. I feel the irritation growing inside of me. It’s like a tiny monster that is fed by nonsensical thoughts, and it grows and grows until it explodes.

I don’t want it to explode – it will be a mess.

It is unusually quiet. No birds, no cars, no planes, no other animals. I am alone with my thoughts and my breathing. And in this silence, I notice that I am close to pain-free for the first time in a long time. There is a slight pull in the tendon, and I feel that the muscle in my shoulder is tired and exhausted from being strained in my position. But, what I am feeling in my arm and shoulder doesn’t qualify as pain.

It is such a strange sensation to notice that the near-constant pain is fading into a barely-there feeling.

The clock says 3:33. I should try a breathing technic and some kind of meditation to find some peace of mind. I need rest to recover. But once again, it is past 3 in the morning, and I am on my own. Forgotten in the dark.

I sigh— all those weird thoughts in the middle of the night.

And all I really need is someone to pull me close, kiss my neck and lull me into sleep with his soothing yet firm grip around my body.