numanbeing

I got two menace acting like that.

When I chew one, the other feels giddy and grins thinking it's unrelated to them and they are someone out of trouble.

When both are deplorable and filthy.

Now, I just don't care.

If someone who is in the wrong tries to rage and express their sense of upset, I don't budge from my place.

Oh you are angry? Because I said exactly the truth about you? Boohoo lil boy, go cry to your mUMmY.

Try me.

Try acting like a poked bull who was just flashed a red.

I can fight both verbally and physically.

You know where to find me and I will tell it to your face too.

It makes my day.

Burn in your own nature.

I like the red look on your face.

I think divine hand and ethereal blessings are like that. It is so present and just there, that it feels unnoticeable sometimes.

It's just there.

So there, that it feels so normal to even bother noticing.

In spring, I was gifted an orchid, gloriously blue. I tended to it, with water and care.

And when the summer returned with its burning heat, I moved again.

On my hand, the blooming orchid, on the trunk the baggage from the spring.

On the new place, I landed, believing that to be my forever ground.

But when the winter arrived with its frosting cold, I moved yet again.

On my hand, the bloomed orchid, on the trunk the burdens from the summer.

On the new place, I landed, finally digging my roots on that ground.

I stayed there for many seasons. I didn't move for a while.

The pleasant feeling of a forever home, blessing my heart with ease.

But as days went by, I watched the orchid wither in peace.

Its falling petals, making a grave out of the pot. I watched as the changing seasons aged away a friend.

And even though I moved no longer.

The sense of belonging began to dissolve yet again.

There, I realized.

Home had been the orchid,

the little blue in my hands that had accompanied the many changes.

Home had been the companion.

But once in a while a dread looms, on the back of my mind, I hear a voice, "No sons will be around my parent's tomb. With all daughters to continue life, the marked legacy that is a last name will too, be erased by an unfamiliar man who will give me his."

And that's when I hope I meet a man who will make a little space on his identity sheet to take on my last name that I am so afraid to lose.

I don't want my grandparents, my parents, my siblings, and myself to end.

You make me feel I'm alive

When everything else is au fait

Without a doubt, you're on my side.

It was all grey, and ever since a child, I very much liked the shade of the sun.

The walls were within my reach, and both my hands were free.

I wonder why I didn't paint the walls into the color I wanted.

I woke up in a house, with it's walls already painted, grey and withering silvers.

The chairs placed recklessly in the heart of the room.

The sheets dusted with a smoker's trail, the root of the walls slowly getting eaten by the mold.

In such house I woke up. Perhaps it was my loyalty to my beginnings.

Or perhaps I wanted to favor my parent's taste in decor.

But for long, I sat and stared at the walls painted in colors I didn't like.

Now, as age graced autonomy. I realized I have a place of my own.

And in this house, I get to paint the walls in the shade that I want.

A part of sun, I will keep on my walls.

An interior that resonates with my soul.

An artist I will be, to this one and only home I have got for me.

A you is seated in a chair, inside the room of your mind, the walls you stare at, perhaps your mother's making, the table placements perhaps your father's doing, limp and loyal, that 'you' lives, when inside your heart desires bloom, every sight of another's creation, reminding you of what yours could be like.

It is time to stand up from that seat and rearrange the furniture and repaint the walls.

If mind is a room we are placed in, who says we have to be seated there and just take in whatever is inside? We can pull up our sleeves, tie a bright bandana and start making that room we constantly live in, something more like us.

Sometimes the wall will find mercy and move away.

And sometimes the wall will stand it's ground,

"Its your patterns, your decisions. You take responsibility of it. Nomatter how much your head cries out in pain, I will not move from my place."

And I think life is like that.

We all are like that tin soldier, perhaps with inner makings that seeks sabotaging results, misery and chaos. We walk into the wall of life, bash our head on it. Get hurt, bleed, cry and feel lost in frustration as to why we always end up feeling that way.

Sometimes life will move away and have mercy on our unaware patterns.

And sometimes life will stand it's ground and let us take responsibility.

And when that happens, we are met with this realization that we must change from within.

The wires that controls the instincts, the patterns that moves our existential limbs, we must face them with a clear head and rearrange, fix, solve, redirect, soothe, relearn, rewire, what needs to be saved.

In this existential dollhouse, many of us are wired to go towards the pain. Right where the wall is, that's where we walk towards.

A tragic malfunction of sort.

But the good thing is,

although we are created by someone, the law of existence is that, even the creation can create.

Whether it be on the outside, or their own withins.

We can create, always.

She is so cutee and her energy is so pleasant!🩵✨️

Always.

Many weeks ago, I gave away my umbrella to someone who had their head bare, under the sun.

It was an endearing instinct to help.

But after I did, I felt a wave of regret.

Not because I helped, but because I missed my umbrella.

I realized that day that I love my things very much.

Anything that I bought and made my own, I feel attached to, deeply and just the thought that I gave it away so easily to a stranger made me feel like a mother who gave away their child, under the care of someone she barely knows.

In life, I want to be successful so I can buy everything in two pairs, I will carry two umbrellas, one just for me, with whom I will spend all my monsoon with and the other for someone who might have been unpleasantly surprised by the weather.

I wonder how the umbrella is doing now.

I hope it is taken care of.

I hope it is placed on clean grounds, opened gently, and held with a tender regard.

Only after I gave it away, I realized that I don't like sharing my things.

The things that belongs to me, I want them to wither away and age gracefully, under my care.

Such is why, from now on, I will be carrying two umbrellas.

Two of all things, I can share to another.

I think, things when bought, recognizes you as the caretaker. You buy an umbrella, it's handle will familiarize itself with your hands, you buy a cup, it's edges will familiarize itself with your lips, you buy a jacket it familiarize itself with your shoulder, you buy shoes it familiarize itself with your feet, etc etc.

So when we give them away, without a second thought, I imagine them getting bewildered by a new hand, a new mouth, a new shoulder, a new feet.

I don't like sharing. I truly don't.

What is mine, I want to keep it with me.

I hop and skip to save my feet from drowning.

I get to the station, with my umbrella drenched.

Inconvenienced and bothered by the drops of water spilling on the floor.

Like a hazard I cannot hold or keep, I avoid the crying umbrella that had sheltered my head, a few walks ago.

And just as I am about to make it a stranger, I feel this sudden urge to embrace it.

Because it is written in my fate to never get to touch the sky, so if it's only the rain I get to feel, I welcome the odds of being drenched.

For the clouds are far out my reach, and from above it pours plenty of hellos, a part of it I get to meet, through the rain that fell past the sky.

You can never touch the sky, only the rain that passes through it.

I'm a tidal wave of question marks,