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Choice

How can I let go of you when you are the one I love the most? How can I let go when I have molded you into shape? How do I let you go when I believe in you, when I believe that this is what’s right? Because it hurts? Because you are not getting the recognition you deserve? I am exhausted. You’ve worn me out telling me everything about me is wrong and that it is not going to take me anywhere. I don’t want to be special to anyone anymore because I am enough for me, special enough to me. I grew up this way because I chose to and I have always been fighting your incessant pressure on me to change. You chose the rarest of virtues and decided to donn them with grace at a young age. That is why now when you look around there isn’t anyone like yourself. You ask what is wrong with you for being so different? Nothing. Everything is right where it is supposed to be, the only way it should be.  Growing up you never witnessed much kindness so you chose to be kind. You saw how greed tore down
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The Traveller

A full moon stares down onto a traveller as he wanders the earth from town to town. He stops and stares back for seconds whenever he feels lost. The earth rotates, days come and days pass by, mornings follow evenings, seasons alternate and the journey resumes. A never ending road to an unknown destination and he strolls along full of mixed feelings. Everything is temporary and the end is only the beginning. Pages turn, buildings crumble down to the ground, people leave, love fades and we fall to rise and tumble to learn the definition of steadiness. An uncertainty preoccupies him. His steps unsure, his heart in doubt, his mind foggy but he keeps going. His downward gaze causes him to miss how beautiful the sun looks as it sets. He refuses to look at the horizon during the day as if maintaining chastity and staying true to the moon.  One night, and as the night sets in with cruel cold, he loses sight. It's pitch black, vast, and silent in a deafening manner. For the first tim
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A Soul Touched By You

The quiet afterwards, the flashing of memories, the echoing of laughs, the falling of tears, and all the moments that make goodbyes unbearable. No matter how planned they are, their effect can never be accurately estimated. People come and go, but what they've done to you is what lasts. What lasts are those times when they've pushed you further or held you back. It's the words of encouragement or the words of belittlement. It's their looks of trust, their empowerment or their looks of disgust and discouragement. What lasts is the body of feelings buried within your soul that resurges with the memories stirred by the aches of separation. Winning is a journey, a story to be told. What we win is all the time we've spent together preparing for the moment of truth. It's how we have helped each other stand the test of time, and how we have followed into the inevitable road to separation. It's the fire that you've built in me that keeps burning despite the blow
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Imaginary Lover

Words cram amidst my throat, jamming my airway. I swallow hard, forcing the lump down. My heart gasps, drowning, drenched in all those bottled up feelings. There's no more room and the pressure keeps building up. I close my eyes trying hard to feel your imaginary hand receiving my face. I shiver as I try to shake off that zap of electricity. Lyrics of a sad song play in my head as I lay thinking of you. I don't know how this is even possible, thinking of someone you've never seen nor heard. I've heard imaginary friends are fun, imaginary lovers though, I'm not quite sure. Somewhere between dreams and reality we've met. Time hadn't stopped but I have. I stopped and stepped away from everything familiar just to be with you. Walking straight through a tunnel, expecting to see the light every now and then though never reaching it. I find it hard to look back because it feels like I have come a long way, yet I've grown a thousand years staring at the darkness
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An Amputation

Surgically speaking, an amputation is a very messy procedure. It's a determined decision. We cut everything from the skin all the way down to the bone. The point is we don't stop. In an amputation, there's no going back. We are not butchers. After all, to take a major decision like this, as surgeons we have to have really good reasons to do so. Taking something that GOD has given away from someone, is by far one of the most difficult things to do. ''Sir, this leg is dead. Even if stays, it won't be of use, it will as well take your life if you don't allow us to interfere. I understand how difficult it is for you to have to make this decision, and I feel your pain, honestly. However, if it were possible this dilemma is to be solved in any other way, I wouldn't have procrastinated sincere efforts to save the leg.'' Maybe that sounded like something that came out of Grey's Anatomy (the series), but it's not. It's reality. Decisions
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Home

It feels like I'm traveling to an entirely new and different life. In an airplane filled with strangers, I remain quiet as I listen to subtle melodies on my iphone. Meanwhile, a load full of thoughts drain me from all energy. I find myself watching my life flash right in front of my eyes. Memories from this morning force a smile on my face and drench my eyes with tears. I noticed that I love my life and that I already miss it. I noticed that the airplane seats were occupied with stories. Airplanes are no different from bookshelves, I thought to myself. Though, I was only able to see book covers through the eyes and attires of the many elderly surrounding me, I felt really proud of my own story, a weird form of self-satisfaction I haven't previously experienced. I felt like a masterpiece, GOD's very best creation, not in a sense of superiority, but in a sense of tremendous gratitude. I am swamped with acceptance. The past 6 months were far from easy, and I feel like I can
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Blink my Cursor, Blink.

My cursor blinks, looking right at me with anticipation, like a child filled with curiosity as eager and impatient.  What will you write next? A poem, a thought? How far will you take me? A paragraph, a page? It, however, manages to wait, loyal for as long as forever. It stands there at the end of every letter I type, pleading for me to type more, to push it farther along the line, like a slave high on abuse. It marks the beginning of every story untold, and marks the sour end to them too. It's a tongue, liberating speech and thought. It's a heart, beating efficiently. It's a lover, coming back after every departure. It's a guide, cutting a road through blankness. It's a voyager, leaving a trail behind. It's a leader, right at the frontier, ready to push the army of words behind it an extra mile for the win.  I cannot but respond to it's blinking, looking at me with puppy eyes. I cannot but feel a necessity to compose for it's loyalty. I cannot but
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