What if every single minute of your life and every single thing you believed in was a lie. I am not talking about a blatant lack of honesty on your part; a penchant for relaying a false narrative when expressing your day to day life experiences, or lies of omission, I am talking about the total and complete annihilation of your private personal reality.
What if your whole life is a dream. Even when you are dreaming, you are dreaming in your dream. All that you know to be true and every memory that you hold exists only in a dream called your life, a non stop movie, staring you. Every interaction, every disappointment, every joy, every illness, every achievement is just an act and meant to teach you something. A lesson connecting you to another dimension unknown, until….
what do you love?
i think that all of us —
as much as we are blood and flesh and stardust —
are built of collections of what we love.
what kind of music makes your soul dance?
bubblegum pop or monstrous metal,
no matter the sound: it is a drop of you.
black coffee or sugar-filled sweets,
beaming puppies or pretty kittens,
raging thunderstorms or the rainbow that comes after —
or maybe you love all of the above.
you are made up of all these little pieces that make you, you.
it is not a perfectly put together puzzle,
and i say the chaos is what makes it interesting.
of what am I made?
my body is a pillow of stone and weeds
that sprout from my head like ideas from seeds
my arms are salvation from danger and cups
I put some things down and pick them back up
my mouth is a rainbow with socks at the ends
it tells me bad things that were "thought by my friends"
my brain is a jar filled with lemon and greed
it stings on some days and on others it bleeds
and when I bleed out, it turns into goo
if I could be made of what you're made of too
I'd surely turn out as a jumbled up stew
WHAT AM I MADE OF
my skin's the pile of paper in the corner of my desk; some of the sheets stay relatively unspoiled while the majority population succumbs to spills and the claws on my cat.
documents, checklists and a lot of tiny post-it notes. i'm not sure how long that crap's been there, and i'm not planning on sorting it out anytime soon.
my hair's a clump of tangled cords, like the earphones in my pocket
and my eyes just never stop; they're like a pair of boiled eggs on a plate - impossible to keep still as you carry them to the table. if i'm not careful, they roll out of their sockets. don't even get me started with my hands at a time i'm being told to stay still.
and my brain -
well, it's a junk drawer waiting to be sorted.
i mean, one thing for sure is it's full of stuff, stuff that's magically made its way in there.
ironically, i don't even have a so-called junk drawer, and if my brain were an actual drawer, it'd be the messiest one in my room. i'm cool with that.
when i have to, i can dig through and pull out what i need, though it may take a while...
sometimes the clutter's so bad that it's embarrassing when someone takes a look.
but sometimes, once in a while, occasionally, i discover an old photo or a trinket -
a sugary quirk in the grey garbled brain salad, something i want to share, or stare at for ages, something that definitely doesn't belong in a junk drawer.
our own junk drawer messes probably look a shit ton worse than those of the people around us, but that's just because we're constantly opening and examining them and everyone else likes to show the more organized bits of themselves - the parts they've already combed through and licked clean.
amidst the rubble we see in us - the stuff we're made of, there always ought to be something worth discovering; we just have to look past the chaos, including the confusing piles of paper, knotty wires and weird, fidgety eggs.
though it may often feel like it, i guess we aren't complete trash after all.
You are made of stars
I am most definitely made of failure.
I’m in college - what, am I 20? A junior. My English professor calls me over to him after class. What is this? he says, holding up my paper. This is the same paper you turned in last week. You were supposed to hand in a revision. I can’t give this a passing grade.
My sister sent me a long text the other week. This is now, 2020, I am what? 27? Jesus. She said, in an anguished paragragh of text: Our relationship is a one-way street. I need to focus on the healthy relationships in my life.
In the psych ward later that week, I slept for two days straight. I paid $2,000 for that sleep.
But in the psych ward, on some hopeless bulletin board, I saw an image. It said, you are made of stars.
I am most definitely made of failure.
But this was suggesting I am made of stardust, trying to find my way back to the stars.
Is that what I am made of? Can I be both?
Can I say - yes?
A lazy duckling
I often ask myself : what am I made up of? The rapt answer pops up in my mind is laziness.yup I am the laziest girl on this planet. Wow, and the award for the laziest girl of the Universe goes to the oversized duckling of my beautiful mom. Yes that's me.My mom must have been a serial killer in her past life as she has "Me" in her this life. Oh my mom! It's Friday and she is coming today from her one long stressful trip to Asia. Let me think what awaits her. A dirty house, pile of dirty clothes, a sink full of utensils, a heap of dishes, wrappers of instant noodles and lays lying lavishly here and there, some million cans of coke thrown here and there(na who am I kidding, oops sorry mom, they are everywhere), cushions lying on floor and floor mat on the back of chair, some popcorn on couch, some on floor, some on table,some are still breathing in the packet, half eaten pizza and 2 burgers on the carpet and an oversized teenager duckling (I mean daughter who has not changed since last Monday or was it Tuesday? Well Frankly, I don't remember so what's the big deal. That's how I am. And I have just lied to her on call that everything is fine. Nothing to worry about. Yeah so I am right. I am actually made up of laziness.