I’m an idiot sometimes, I make stupid mistakes. I think there’s two expressions that sum it up well “Live and let live for you reap what you sow.”
The crucial lesson to learn is that there is always a lesson to learn.
If there is no such thing as karma then there is definitely something that acts exactly like it, like some grand machination of the universe that cycles your wrongdoings back to you to teach you that it was most definitely wrong.
Become a better person, don’t dwell on it and do not repeat past follys. Progress yourself into the person you were always meant to be.
I like nights, because there’s a quiet heaviness and still calmness in the air that you can never get in the day.
I think people who are alone for longer; learn a great deal about self reliance, independence and themselves as a whole, as people.
Having your happiness and emotion dependant on someone else is taxing, arduous and can lead to hurtful situations, undertones of apprehension and something that requires transparent trust.
Finding someone who you can wholly give yourself and your trust might take time, most likely will. Until then, affirming your self-beliefs, values and morals is more important than leap frogging from one friend or relationship to another trying to dig for that connection and feeling.
It’s always a balance, if you’re never alone, you won’t be able to define yourself as a singular existence, defined only by actions and the people around you. Yet if you are alone for too long, you will forget how to bond or fully trust others. Forget how to co-exist outside of your singular central perspective.
Discovering love, trust and connections is an invisible lifelong journey, it has it’s apexes and dips but there is no rush at all.
Learning to love yourself is hard, but that’s where you start…
The thread which held the last twine of safety in the catchers net began to unfold, unravelling and dismantling the world in which you built around your guarded self. 20ft walls around your heart, held together with carefully thought words and answers. And when cracks show, the bricks start falling out with every lapse in judgement and each thundering clap of realisation. Cold truths of reality and responsibility, self-doubts and aversion of self-confidence, ebbing away slowly.
At this point, many would give in, denounce their demise or admit their folly. They realise, the central point of the crossroad they stand on, that every decision now has weight and carries burden and they shudder at the thought of such weary heaviness.
But it is not the end; the road is not always dark.
Even in the deepest pits of hopelessness and unbridled disappointment, there is always a slippery slope and a struggling way up. With claws and staggering steps requiring every last ounce of your will and heart.
And often, it is the only way up.
A path bridged by redemption, repayment of sins and mistakes. A path of acceptance and forgiveness of self. Of betterment and light. You learn or you perish. And it is in your own best interest that you learn.
So that sad day foreseen by the non-believers of your cuspal downfall is negated and completely avoided.
It seems, sometimes, everything you do, with all your might, with every vestige and ounce of strength, it seems… not enough. That the sun that rises in the morning is a sore on your eyes and it stings because the night had been sleepless and filled with ache. The pangs and restlessness inside your chest felt like it was something more than just the contracting of your muscles and the way your breath shortened wasn’t because of the air.
But to every sliver of moment that your sadness consumes your being, To every unshed tear you refuse to let fall. That strength to carry on, you should not let it wane. People will call it stupid to blindly keep trying. People will scoff as you pick yourself up after even the hardest of falls. People will sneer at your weaknesses.
Because there is no shame in believing. There is no shame in using up every last gram of your worth to fight against the stacked odds. To burn every obstacle in your path with the blaze of your hardened will.
And in your loneliness you will find others like you, they, who will look at you. At the marks of your effort and the scars of your countless tries. They will notice the fruits of your toil and the results of your suffered journey and hold you up and support your back like pillars hold old and broken bridges. And your loneliness will feel smaller.
And when you emerge by the scrape of your shins, bruised and battered from the tough road at your destination. You, with your own two legs will stand up tall. You, will look back, at your marks and your unshed tears, the nights of ache and all those pained breaths. And you, with a bloody mouth and broken raspy voice who never spoke and held it all in, you will finally be able to say with unwavering pride,
“I made it.”
That second night in Berlin was the most memorable out of all. After the well timed nap we met with our room mate from Taiwan, aptly nicknamed by @harryparsonage as… Taiwan, somehow the name stuck. So with the night still young and early we set off in search of a bar. Taiwan invited this lady from Hong Kong along as his +1 who seemed fun and friendly enough. She turned out to be quite a bit older than us and pretty interesting.
So after a short walk, we walked into a bar called Marekesh, a smoky shisha cocktail bar, ordered a towering apple shisha and a rainbow coloured variety of cocktails with names ranging from the standard Tequila Sunrise to some fluroscent blue Ocean Driver. It had a pretty nice chill vibe in there and I made a fool of myself more than once but all in all; pretty fun. We seperated, said good night.
Harry and I went back to the sky bar at the hostel for Happy hour, again. The drinks/beer flowed freely, again. This is where we met the French girls from the first night… again. A recurring set of events that led to quite a beautiful case of serendipity.
We got talking, their names were Anaïs & Elodie. Both beautiful and so charmingly French and sweet. Sipping white wines and sitting talking animatedly to eachother in bursts of French. We talked a lot infact. The conversation flowed with particular ease and gait, besides the occasional language difficulty. But we laughed, the jokes were funny and there was a sparking connection.
Harry spoke with Anaïs a lot, both students of Histoire and both wild and funny. Both in denim and her with blonde tip ombre hair. I overheard their conversations briefly of la vie and their crude yet hilarious jokes and yet deeper questions while getting to know eachother touching on their pasts. They seemed to be getting along superbly if not too well.
I spoke with Elodie a lot more, straight away we had a lot in common. She was more reserved, more shy perhaps delicate. Despite my half tipsy crude antics of little beer burps and terrible attempts at school level French we talked a lot about ourselves to eachother. Her love of art, how she studies it and what she does. Her dreams and hopes, about small corners and cafés in Bordeux and France. Her peeves and the little things she likes. All inbetween wine and laughing at our mistakes when talking to eachother. I can’t help but say i was totally charmed from the bright red lipstick to the way she said art contémpory in her accent as she smiled brightly.
The time flew by in the bar without us realising, 2 hours had felt like minutes. Yet we all felt like it wasn’t enough, just scraping the ice had led to a deep interest and really enjoying eachother’s company. So we clambered out into the cold Berlin night air 2am in tow, intent on finding a bar to continue our tryst.
We found a bar nearby, called 8mm, in Rosa-Luxemburg. All windows covered in black velvet curtains with red velvet covering the doors. With the feel of an private underground bar shut of from prying eyes. We entered the smoky atmosphere (Berlin still has smoking inside bars and cafes) with chilled 80s music and a backdrop of 70s black and white live band videos projected on the wall. It felt more like a dark club than your average term of bar. Berlin classification is unique I must say. More wine and more conversation ensued with increasing ease.
The attraction became more evident, our faces now closer to better hear eachother in the loud bar. It was more intimate then and seperated into pairs. The conversation more personal and about past love. At many points Anaïs kept signalling me to just kiss Elodie and that she liked me a lot when she was faced away haha. All through funny exagerated gestures, but I didn’t take Elodie for a fling type girl, she seemed far too sensible and sweet, so I hesitated.
Some time later, Harry and Anaïs took the step forward and started kissing (to find out it was also to spur/instigate on our end). It seemed full of passion.
I was already close to Elodie eye to eye, she smiled nervously.
I asked if she liked me.
Again nervous smile and shy nod.
You too? she asked me and I laughed and said yes.
You can kiss me now she said.
You’re really perfect I replied (to the other couple’s cringing faces and laughter) but we didn’t care really, at all.
I didn’t hesitate this time. I kissed her like I meant it. All between smiling push and pulling and French words.
“It’s a strange coencidence…” i remember her saying to me smiling, I couldn’t help but laugh and agree.
The night winded down, conversation still strong, more kissing more intimate. We headed back and slept, Harry returned with Anaïs to his bed. It was nothing dirty or filthy or crude for that matter.
She lay in my bed with my shirt on in my arms, while still whispering funny things half asleep. It was one of the most comfortable and most relaxing nights of sleep I’ve had in a long time. It felt really right.
I fell asleep to her stroking my hair and chest, our legs entwined and her slow breathing in my ear.
To conform or not to conform. There is no question.
The ill-timed curse of our generation is that we are overloaded and bombarded with an incredible abundance of ideals and perceptions on how to do this. How to do that. How to live. How to die. How not to live. How not to die. Our brains shot with bullets in the form of images that dictate your opinion on normality, abnormality, the strange & deranged. Rotting our conciousness with inane questions and ridiculing of sects and faiths, stripping away choice, free will and the ability to percieve as one wishes.
Information, stacked on top of information on how to do the things you like, tutorials on how to get the girl. How to lose the girl. How to be a girl. Shrapnel from poisonous thoughts broadcasted worldwide from those wise leaders we elected to stand and speak, froth such foul atrocities and fed truths that it blinds those who dare to listen. Follow this, follow him. Follow trends. Follow friends. Follow them where?
And those who choose to ignore the utter incoherency of such bespoken lies are blasphemers. Heathens and outlaws that are unfit to be part of the grand scheme, this so called modern society.
The time of self logic and freedom to be who you are, who you want to be is slipping away, if not already slipped away. Carving your path seems like an illusion. Anything and everything, there is already a mould, a route one must take to achieve it.
There is nothing left to define here. In this self-proclaimed utopian vision world.
You either fit in. Or you don’t.
It was around Autumn, the leaf gained colour, the first hellos between two people. By the following winter, hellos had slowly progressed onto more. Conversations about the finer things, the finer dreams and the finer wants. The future goals and future hopes. Past pains and past loves, the past gains and the past lost. Slowly the words became heavier and the time grew lengthier. How much can a person know someone else before it isn’t enough? At what point does a person decide to close up their gates? When does one begin to pine and yearn for the other? Moods got deeper and aches grew wearier. Feet walked with others but the mind mind stayed clear, focused on one singular point in existence it stayed in one place or perhaps it didn’t at all. The age old question, do they feel the same?
Sometimes one forgets when it was this charade, this tiresome tirade had all begun. Where it was leading one to and if it all had any meaning? Questions about this and questions about that. Was it fate? Was it destiny? Was it chance that led to such a amalgamation of two hearts, or two minds or two souls if you believe one ever starts out with one. Or perhaps a syncing of two parts of one soul coming together, seaming together at the cracks left since birth, before sinking in the throes of budding love together.
These thoughts they whirled through the emptiness in the chest and the cavity of one’s being. And amidst all the thinking one does, right before your very eyes, it was all gone. Time had escaped you when you were trying to make sense of it all.
Nothing left, except for the first state one starts out with, everything buried beneath, wiped clean.
An empty slate, a pale blank canvas with nothing to show.
The young Mr.Kite loved his wind dearly.
He had let himself get drifted along the currents of the breeze, rolling and furling across the expanse of the skies through tumultuous weather and calm days. He could never see his wind but he would laugh with it. He couldn’t hold the wind but he would run with it. And on days when his wind would not come, Mr.Kite would wait on the trodden grass on the highest hill and wait for his wind to pass by.
In the summer, the wind stopped blowing past the tall hill, instead the trodden grass became overgrown and Mr.Kite felt that perhaps the wind would not come at all. Even on overcast cloudy days, only a slight whisper and whistle came by in the air as it rustled through the overgrown grass. The lurid sun pelted the hill in sweltering waves of heat and yet the wind still did not come.
So Mr.Kite grabbed the string on his tail and wrapped it around his wooden frame and slid down the hill promising to come back. The paper sheet on his back started to wear away and the redness of the quadrants faded to a rustic maroon. Tears and frays on the edges slowly moved inwards as he struggled to move on his own, but he made it down with great difficulty without the help of his beloved wind.
At the bottom of the hill he found a park. In the heat of the summer, he saw the many people that frolicked across the flat plains. So he forgot about his own misgivings and undid his string from his frail frame and held it out to those who were lost in their own troubles and woes. He waited until they would stand and run with his string with all their might and then Mr.Kite would soar and run with them. Those people would eventually tire of him and find others to run with, but Mr.Kite would wrap his string around himself and watch them happily make their way across the yellowing plains with someone beside them. It made him glad to see his string had somehow reeled in those lost at sea.
And as summer began to pass and the people left the fields, he sat on the bottom of the hill watching the glow of the dusk as it fell past the horizon. Counting the backs of people as they retreated into the concrete jungles before assimilating into the crowds as they became part of a mass flowing liquid that washed around the cities, painting life into every corner of the once dark places.
At last, as night fell and the autumn leaves turned the ground into a collage of burning hues. Vivid with the dying leaves, Mr.Kite held his string out once more lest someone needed him as he lay buried in the piles of mottled leaves. In the crisp cold of the autumn night, someone pulled him out of the rustling mass. A young girl in a wheelchair with a bright smile.
Tattered and ripped after the summer, he hardly hung on to his own string as she lifted him up. The young girl took Mr.Kite in her lap and smoothed the edges with brittle fingers, equally frail as his wooden frame. She tended to him carefully and shared with him her stories and beliefs vowing to take the broken Mr.Kite home to safety. But the truth was sad, they could not run together, both unable to and broken from the wear. But through the sharing and contact, she began to understand what Mr.Kite could not.
So with a forced smile she mended him and without the help of the wind she carried herself up the hill with great difficulty with Mr.Kite on her lap. Blistering her hands as she turned the wheels of her chair, fighting the gravity that threatened to pull her down again. It touched Mr.Kite and he felt moved beyond all his worth as she clung tightly to his string pulling him forward up the hill he could no longer climb on his own.
At the top of the hill as she sat on her silver throne as she held out Mr.Kite in his repaired state. Frame held together by parts of his own string and his paper back patched up with tape and careful positioning. The young girl smiled softly at Mr.Kite one last time. And with the magic born only from the act of selfless kindness, she grew stronger and beautiful and stood from her metal chair. With a sad smile, she walked to the small growing tree at the brow of the hill and tied Mr.Kite to it’s tallest branch, fastening him tightly to the nook. He craned himself to watch the once broken young girl walking down the hill with glistening eyes, now walking away a strong, healed & kind-hearted woman.
And as the winter came, Mr.Kite waited, tied to the tree for the wind to come again. Thinking, “Perhaps, it will finally come. That same wind I ran freely with, perhaps before the end of my days, one last time.”
The wind came again for one more season, but it was not his wind. It was a vicious and biting winter wind that ripped across the skies as the icy breaths of winter froze the hill. It ripped Mr.Kites tattered body clean off its fastened nook on the growing tree. It swept him away above the mass flowing liquid, far above the concrete jungles and into the stormy grey clouds beyond.
All the while, on the tallest branch of that growing tree, on the brow of the tallest hill, Mr.Kite left his string tied to the same nook lest that same wind were to pass by that hill again. To run freely together one last time again.
And so I confronted the ghosts of my past and wrote away all my sadness into pixels and words that fell easily off the tongue.
I see people talk of loneliness.
I see them talk of the pain or the comfort they find in their own towering fortresses of solitude. How infinitely difficult they find the presence of large groups or the need to fit in. This constant image of a tortured soul who resides and rots in the confines of their own mind and self deprecation.
But tell me about a loneliness which you have not chosen and forced on yourself. Describe to me the feeling of a situation that you have not created yourself. Show me the loneliness that was forced on you by actual dire circumstance and cruel fate.
Write me the feeling of it when you had no control of the losses you were struck with.
Then after you live through that, finally you can write to me and teach me about the loneliness you felt.
Instead of feeding me these false pretenses of your idea of what it must be like.
I looked back along the road.
It was long and weathered.
I couldn’t see were it was going or where it split.
And then I realised it was time to move on.
I like it when people can write in a way that transcribes easily the words into structures and form that make them seem like they aren’t just words anymore. The syntax and topic isn’t something overdone. When it seems honest, almost questioning, a little selfish and with a pinch of logical cynicism.
It’s like hearing someone’s thoughts. Then again, it’s just as easy to hide real thoughts behind those pretty words of yours.
Then I also like people who can write in a way that you can’t tell if it’s a beautiful lie or an impossible truth. Then again, you can never trust those types.
Things with a lulled sense of sinking depth than just dictionary definitions to the words.
Those are words I like to read.
When you make a connection with someone, even the briefest of moments where you got each other, a second where you harboured a minute grasp understanding one another. When you realise it unconsciously, your smiles are easier, your thoughts are lighter and feel burdenless to share. You have someone to stand by, you don’t feel as alone in all of this.
The common misconception is null. In contrast, those kind of feelings and those kind of bonds, they don’t disappear. They’re there, rooted in your core.
You just happened to forget about it. Sad isn’t it?
Not quite… You just need to remember it, feel again.
Feelings don’t come from the heart. They come from your head. It will let you believe you feel it in your chest, when you clutch it. Your throat as you choke up in tears. Your face when you smile.
That’s why when something really hurts you, in a deep set emotionally concussive way, it does not reside anywhere. In that moment, those feelings they’ll wrack your whole body.
It’ll hurt your whole being.