Sitting in my car on the highway
I looked outside the window
And I thought
Of what the other people
In their cars
Looking out of their windows
And I felt like I was alone
But not lonely
I was alone
But in a good way.
Some people remind me that there has to be bad, for there to be good in this world. But I like to think that there are more people who remind me that if you look at yellow skies often enough, they become a part of you.
Who remind me that even the largest of mason jars couldn’t trap all of the sunshine in this world. And they remind me that the toughest of days can be gone in a good night’s sleep, and that none of this will matter when I’m 42.
The things that will matter is the books I read, the movies I watch, and the poetry I write. I am the person that 7-year-old me wished to be friends with. I am the person that 10-year-old me wished she would someday be. I am the person 12-year-old me imagined as the protagonists of her favourite books. And I am the person 15-year-old me wrote about, because she knew how much words meant.
Maybe the reason I like paradoxes so much, is that they are omnipresent – but nowhere at the same time. The one thing we know for certain, when we’re born, is the inherent nature of death. We do the things that kill us, in order to feel alive. We live to the fullest, to die with no regrets.
And when I pondered upon the biggest paradox, that is life, I came across many along the way. The idea of organised chaos, of unheard words, and contradictory people. I found paradoxes in myself, in my mannerisms, in my being. I found infinities in nothingness, and realised that nothing with a twist is everything- is infinity.
And then I thought about knowing, and the idea of knowledge, of black swans, and awareness. We know some things, for sure- known ‘knowns’. We know that we don’t know about some things- unknown ‘knowns’. That is to say, we know that we don’t know some things. But there are some things that we don’t even know that we don’t know- the unknown unknowns. And these increase exponentially every second. With every move we make, and every step we take. How do we proceed to ever know them at all?
Twenty-five things I expect from myself at twenty-five
My parents warned me about the drugs in the streets
But never the ones with brown eyes and a heartbeat
My parents told me to stay away from strangers
But never that love was the sole danger
They said I was too young to feel
This wave of emotions, head over heels
My parents warned me about alcohol
But I was drunk with none at all.
Give me a hot cup of coffee
A book and a blanket, yes
Give me some time to do nothing
Escape the trouble and stress
A good book would be nice
Some company’d sure be better
But all I need is warmth
And a worn-out, loose sweater
Days like this will pass
Soon the sun will appear
Not in the sky or in pictures
But in my heart right here
When you’re looking for something you want,
Which seems impossible to find
But you find something you once wanted
That something, at the back of your mind.
That something that was forgotten
‘Til you found it once more
Between books, crushed up
At the back of your drawer.
Soon, everything evolves to this
To lost things in your room
But they can be re-ignited
And remembered; they can bloom.
So if you’re forgotten
Don’t worry, you’ll be found
Some day you’ll turn up behind a shelf
Tickers flashing, statuses updating. The words shiver down my spine, until they don’t sound like words anymore. They don’t sound like anything anymore. A hypnotising whirlwind of energy comes to an standstill- the abyss reaches its end.
I look at the pages of my journal, to the clips of movies playing in my head, to the lines on the tip of my tongue, to the nuances of my being. And I find cacophonies.
Cacophonies of poetry, of humour, of life. He reminded me to suck the marrow of life, to live deep, even if it meant living offbeat. And I don’t know if suicide is a side-effect of depression, or if free will governs our souls, or if life even ends at all. But I do know that your legacy will live on in the pages of my journal, the smile on my face, and the person I am.
“But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.”
Noses buried in textbooks
Butterflies in a jar
Clownfish stored in sea green tanks
To be admired from afar.
Bright red shoes in cartons
Rollerblades, tied up
Crayons, kept, neatly arranged
In a beige, spotless cup.
Feelings in metal cages
All is to be mellow
All is to be refined.
All is to be correct, neat
And yet we tell ourselves
Think out of the box