I don't remember the last time I picked up my pen to write something. Maybe my head isn't clouded anymore that I have to write to clear it up. Maybe nothing exciting is happening in my life. Maybe I am baptizing myself in the need for satisfying capitalism a little too much. Maybe I no longer have the words in me. Maybe the words don't dance for me or even dress up in their cute little metaphors to satisfy my need of making something beautiful out of all of this. Maybe there is too much to spill out off this head that makes me afraid to even start pouring. Maybe I am afraid I am romanticizing the pain. Maybe I have sunk a little deep into the normal day today life I have neglected my alone time. Maybe there shouldn't even be an alone time for the life I am living. Maybe you know maybe its time I let go. Maybe its time to stop and let life take me wherever it wants to take me with every tip of its grusemoness and beauty without restructuring it.


You know maybe the words were there to accompany through the hardest battle of having no ear to listen to my thoughts. Maybe the words were there to give me the feeling of living after everything I go through throughout the day. Breakfast in bed after the panick attacks. Vanilla scented fragrance to put over my hands for the tremors. Bracelets for the joint pain. Lipgloss for the mouth that doesn't speak. Comfy baggy clothes to make the tired body comfortable. Milk to put it fast into imagination. Spiced life enough for me to stay and be present.

.....

"While I keep finding how you live through me I will unlearn a few things,replace them with a few constructive ones."

When that man from the side of the street mentioned that I looked like my dad without being being fully aware I was his daughter, I thought I was the same exact physical copy of my dad. Mentally,spiritually,life principle wise o found i was more him than myself. The same traits he wanted me to suppress are the same traits his father told him to. The same rituals I practiced that he loathed are the same traits he got shamed for.I can't lie it wouldn't have been a bad thing to have a killer smile that can make men line up. Maybe in another lifetime I guess. I remember what we went through together to make me break my silence. All the blood flooding on my face from crying too much. Multiple rides from the voices and the silence. No friends. Isolation. Alcohols. Even in the brokenness I love who I am through him. Pain and pencil weren't necessary. He is a life long teacher. Everything he taught he lived teaching it. 24 hours of non stop labor. Discipline. Silence. Peace of not dealing with anything that doesn't require energy. Jeopardizing his critical illness to give us a stable future. Selflessness.Mostly vivid memories of "I love you" but had his fair share of the maker in living love rather than speaking it.I still would have loved it if I had his smile.
My father raised himself and so did we. He is our idol. I still see a little 14 year old boy who left his hometown to belong in the streets of 'Mercato' while looking at the 75 year old version of him....most part of him stuck there. Salivating over no responsibilities,a father to suck life lessons out of,a mother to come home to after disappointing workday to make him 'kocho with aybe'-made from the hands of love. Hometown smell. Flavors of the sense of belonging. Existing among his true root. That is a thing about this blood line. Each of us ceased to exist somewhere. Looking at our family photo I can see which one of our life incidents we have sank into to never come back. Living him while also killing the doomed parts of us feels like betrayal. But I am still honoring his last words before I left to face the world. 'Live! Promise to live.' What other way of living than existing in the uncomfortable awareness of self. What other way of existing than killing parts of yourself in the name of Love.
-Yeab T

A little mid night rant....🖤

And some of us, why is it that when we are loved, we are incapable of receiving it? Every time someone leaves us we are grateful for it. The worst of us return this gratitude as a form of love.

Maybe that's why we love the people who distance themselves from us.

We want to be loved but we can't be loved.

"There is nothing we can do with suffering except to suffer it? Who still thinks there is some device(if only he could find it) which will make pain not be pain. It doesn't really matter whether you grip the arms of the dentist's chair or let your hands lie in your lap. The drill drills on."
C.s lewis

"And grief still feels like fear. Perhaps,more strictly,like suspense. Or like waiting; just hanging about waiting for something to happen."