Living alone. Doing things alone. Everything decided and created all by yourself is your comfort zone. You aren’t lonely. Because being in the c-zone is happiness.

The challenge is when you’re Not asked, Not dared and Not forced to share that space with another special person.

Someone who matters to you, who is determined to embark on a new journey with you. Someone who loves you. Sometimes, someone totally different from the people you’re used to having and taking.

And you…

Are just there mystified, rambling things in your brain, rationalizing, doing reality checks, making-decisions, nit-picking, finger-pointing and,

at other times just dreaming, fantasizing, miraculously writing songs, singing, wishing and carving wood, spilling beer,

frightened to leap, to be a fool, to make mistakes, to regret the only decision you made from the many options you had –it could be wrong, could be right,

I might be right, might be wrong

Afraid to live a different life, scared to be with a different person, scared to discover a new person in you, not wanting to do things, fear to lose control in doing so, experience the ruin of all things gradually in your face like colourful confetti up in the air, difficult to catch with your two hands when it falls–only gets even worse once it lands; filling the ground wet, dirty and useless.

Then, you’re back to square one.

And the good side? 

Because it’s the opposite; varied, difinitely not an empty experience. 

 

 

 

To a particular man I know little

…and in the corner I found him silent

head low, slouched, exhausted

a lot of things can be said about him

yet he was silent like a fetus in a woman’s womb

he is a man—

a man without a story

in a book left in my closet–

such a mystery filled only with

dots and dashes

But who’s to say–

from all the rumors

his heart is lost—

Lost to a tribe of the inner persona;

familiar to none.

But he loves and does love hard;

a beauty concealed by a mechanism

he called defense.

‘they’ say we need more than just thoroughfares

his body can try to be out going but truly, a contrast of what’s inside his soul.

But I have his name

his number,

his poems,

his faces,

games,

often I get brain freeze–

how interesting I only have these; little to nothing at all–

and I call him unpredictable.

His wind storms, it’s never calm

it cuts off trees and breaks glass windows

cos pain leaves him an element of blank_________.

Oh yes he does love and love so hard

or rather before his mind denies his heart.

His heart

is a silk woven myriads of wonderful stories

his eyes are the kindest behind all his frozen secrets

He is a fine man with such wildness in his bones

so beautiful, beautiful only if it is known.

To a particular man I know little

His hand is warm.

his aura a demon, people run for the hills–

He is a factory of oddity,

his heart a mayonnaise of unspoken words at the mere touch of cold philosophy—

To which, I often err his sadness for coldness and I clip his Angel wings.

rural to urban, 

to a painter’s house or just beach bumming

his lips are dyed of the colors of the landscape

..and his mind in awe of eccentricity

His life a fold of folded folds

searching for a space to rest as his home

women are illusions; children are provisions

he searches the nooks and the alleys oh but,

steps back not to see something

such a hassel-free, if only–

to find whom he intends to be

yet

the one thing he seeks and shall ever find—

is the thing he puts aside.