zoha

I don’t know. I’m a raccoon sitting in a feild of grass, waiting for a new day. Sitting in silence hoping that the sun will set and the moon will rise. It always does, but I still fear one day it won't. One day I won't be here to watch the sun or to look at the stars. I can't even see stars well now given my eyesight and light pollution.

Part of that is me.

But I'm also a poet and author, praying that one day I'll be able to share my work with the world. That people will care and be inspired by the things I write. I sit in bed hoping that one day, I'll be brave enough to share my work somewhere that isn't the internet, but until then, the internet will do.

But that still isn't all I am.

I am a collection of everything and everyone I love. Everything I've seen and done has affected who I am today, and who I am now will change as I do and see more.

Not all my posts will be this dramatic, but I wanted my first to be an introduction of kinds to who I am. The answer?

I don’t know.

But one day, I might.

Play the song you've been wanting to hear. Right now, they are singing for you.

Give yourself a moment to pet your cat. This warm and purring person loves you.

Stop where it is safe for you and wonder at the soft glory of a sunset.

Really smell the rain when you get caught in it. Look at what beautiful reflections it can make.

Eat a cookie if you can, and marvel at how many people are involved in growing, harvesting, processing, transporting, and selling each ingredient.

We are all connected. On our worst and most lonely days, we are all connected to the earth and to each other.

in plastic chairs or sofa dragged out as truce of trees

have you absorbed —

the photo albums?

gathering petunias for my niece

while she conquers the world by a raised foot gesture

litanies of her blue kurta arabesques

the train doors untimely sandwich our shoulder span

anything that can be taken back

the exhaustion, though. every morning and every day, like a weight. a hand that dampens sound. every joy quietly extinguished. under that weight, you wriggle.

if you had the ability to stop time, your first thought has always been i'd sleep until i wasn't tired anymore. just that. just sleep. you are so fucking tired of constantly-pushing. you can carry it, sure. but fuck. just for a second, if everything could slow down. if all that kindness and justice and trying that you pour out into the universe - if it would finally fucking find its way back to you. if it could - just for a second - finally be easy.

bj