Writings – Young Adult, Old Soul

Letters to a Young Poet

I’ve grown so unbearably fond of Rainer Maria Rilke.

I read him first on one of those Facebook pages and then again in another corner of the internet. A kind, devoted voice.

Then, one late night, plagued by boredom, steeped in loneliness, the name came to me as through a mist.

Reading him felt much like a meeting, a physical introduction. I could picture him with his back bent over some sturdy desk, carefully writing these long letters under candlelight to Kappus, the young poet, his face burdened by the worries of poverty… yet ever still believing, holding onto the beauty of this life.

“If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself, tell yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; for to the creator there is no poverty and no poor indifferent place. And even if you were in some prison the walls of which let none of the sounds of the world come to your senses—would you not then still have your childhood, that precious, kingly possession, that treasure-house of memories?”

Some books provide distractions. Others, fulfillment for what we cannot experience for ourselves. Many inform and broaden horizons. But some books, some rare books are friends. I have precious few of those: Le Petit Prince, Le Grand Meaulnes, Love in the Time of Cholera, The Prophet…and I cherish them to the point of pretending they do not exist in front of others. They are mine, in that strange way. Nobody else can love them in the precise manner that I do; others could not possibly have experienced what I have, they could never love them the way they should be: as sacred maps to the soul and what lies beyond it…

“Things are not all so comprehensible and expressible as one would mostly have us believe; most events are inexpressible, taking place in a realm which no word has ever entered, and more inexpressible than all else are works of art, mysterious existences, the life of which, while ours passes away, endures.”

It should be impossible to feel this way, as though you know someone you’ve never met. How can you connect with someone like this, across the chasm of years? Someone who would never know I would one day exist.

It’s home, somehow.

Home, the only feeling that matters. Not love, but home. The welcoming, the casual certainty that your place is waiting for you, as you have been waiting for it all this time. It is shelter, for a moment, for a piece of your soul.

“…for at bottom, and just in the deepest and most important things, we are unetterably alone…”

Note: So it’s been a long while…

Home-making.

In the half-light, half-darkness of not-yet morning, I breathe peacefully, content to be tending to my own little world.

On the rooftop, my basil saplings are pushing against the soil, glistening after being watered half an hour ago. The kettle bubbles and gurgles over the fire. In some moments, it will let out that odd whistle-shriek I have grown familiar with. Droplets of condensation are pearling on the lid of the weathered teapot, falling back into the milk tea I poured a little while ago. The wind welcomes itself to a dance through my sleep-mussed hair. Clouds drift in and out of view from my window. Every now and then, the neighbour’s drying clothes wave at me and spread the scent of lavender.

These compositions of sounds and visuals are the building blocks of my small existence, the evidence of the littlest things falling into place.

It’s strange that I actually enjoy this: doing the dishes and other menial chores. It is not the task itself that draws me in. Rather, it is the meaning behind it: the crafting of my own little life, the making and taking of space in this never-ending, callous world.

Every chore is an act of creation.

I sign my name and intention each time I prepare to welcome myself into the future. Or each time I stretch lazily into the present, taking comfort in it.

It’s a beautiful life. It can be.

Note: Call me crazy but clothes drying on the line is somehow so romantic.

25.

It’s already here.

The idea smacks me in the face at times.

This, right now, is the future I used to dream of.

This is the impalpable life I envisioned so distantly when I was 12, when I was 21. I’ve reached here somehow, pushed by Time, rushed into the next minute, the next semester, the next year and now to my mid 20s.

Expectations of grand careers, loves, travels and kids notwithstanding — the most unsettling thing about being 25… is that it does not at all feel like it ought to.

25 is uncertain, in that strange way an object loses its shape and dimensions as it descends into water and lays there, unmoved. The sight of it is troubled, changing with each ripple and sunbeam that flits across the water. 25 is so far away somehow, I always have to convince myself that it is true whenever I say it.

I am 25.

It’s logical. I was born 25 solar revolutions ago, therefore I am 25. It says so on my ID, my passport; it’s the box I tick now when I fill surveys, the number people use to form their understanding of me. 25.

Twenty and five years.

The first 10, a child. The second 10, a succession of transitions. Then 5 years fumbling, 2 of them in a pandemic.

That’s a lot of maths but I can cope with the number, irrational as it feels to me. 25.

25.

I’ve said it so many times, I’ve been 25 for 6 months now…but it always feels like a borrowed word, no matter how confidently or proudly or gratefully I say it.

25.

It’s on loan to me now and soon I’ll have to swap it out for another murkier-looking number.

Actually, I’m already 25 and a half.

Oh, what a pickle we’re all in! A masquerade, a performative dance with deadlines.

What power do numbers have that outweigh who we are inside?

~~Why are we bound~~ Why do we bind ourselves to these bits of data and rearrange who we are to match a number, to dance to the tune of expectations and fall into square categories?

I am 25, yes, but also a million other interesting things. My age is not the most striking part of me, not the path that leads to what is true and essential in a person. It is a loanword, a name tag that Time will soon replace.

Note: So it is that time of year now where I go “Oh, it’s been a while!” 😂

Listening to:

Nightscape.

Artwork by Hajin Bae
Photograph by Eduardo Acierno

Trigger warning: Street harassment, misogyny

I, as a girl, am terrified of the night —this world owned and ruled by men since the first dawn.

I find myself engulfed in its obscure depths, comparable to a small fish darting in the abysses of the ocean, this place of corners and hidden holes that the sun does not touch, deserted in some places, teeming with unprecedented creatures in others. In it, men lie in wait like eels that could snap you without you even feeling it, others like angler fish that lure you with the illusion of compassion, and yet others who, in their numbers, amass the strength to harass.

At night, my very existence is an anomaly, an anachronism begging the question: “What is she doing here?”

My presence is an open invitation. After all, how dare I be in the world of men, if not to serve them in some way? If not to please their eyes, then to relieve their itching hands, to caress their deflated egos in dire need of a superiority boost? They inflate, these men of the night, when they understand that their presence can intimidate women. It is perhaps the only time when they have that power — when the world is stripped of expectations of good conduct, and all is let loose.

Their eyes are aggression enough. Their gazes land on me like unwanted touches, lingering like dirty hands that come too close for comfort or decency.

Most of them do not do anything, though. After all, they are not the sort of men to do that kind of thing, no. They are just men – boys, really – looking for some innocent fun. So what’s a taunt compared to actually touching a girl? It doesn’t mean anything if they walk close to you — what, the streets belong to everyone, right? If they call after you repeatedly, that doesn’t make them bad men, you know?

Women can’t take a joke. Now, that is the real problem.

I feel as if they win though, if I let them take the night away from me. If I let myself be scared.

There is a night that does not belong to men.

A night that is all cool breaths and freedom.

An ancestral night, the first one that welcomed all the stars and you and me in it.

There is comfort in darkness, as all the world fades into the distance and I retreat into the shore of my inner home.

I cannot let them take this away.

Note: It’s been a long, rough week. I don’t think I’ve ever posted something of this nature on here. I think it means I’m growing up, who knows. But either way, I hope that this coming week treats you well 🙂

Self-chosen.

Trigger warning: mentions of wounds and grazes

There is a burning sensation rising from my ribs, a sting keen enough to draw soft hisses each time my curious fingers graze the inflamed skin.

In the shower, I realised I didn’t just get hurt: I actually managed to scratch myself to the point of leaving marks. It’s usually what happens when I let my nails grow out: dotted red lines, like constellations, start meandering across my body.

“Much of your pain is self-chosen.” wrote Kahlil Gibran.

My fingers press a little harder on the swollen skin, stopping at the rigidness of the rib bone. The pain is sharper, but still burning somewhere along the pleasure-pain scale. It is the kind of minor pain that lights your consciousness, that offers a heightened sensitivity to life and to the experience of it.

You know, I chose to like him.

I chose the 5-hour long conversations, the crazed 2 a.m. ramblings, and the delicious warmth of not-quite-friends. I chose my pain when I chose my joy: that is how these things work. But it’s not quite pain, not a devastation; I haven’t cried for him though I’ve sighed into many golden afternoons and blue nights. It is not pain but rather something more faded, subdued.

Newspaper clippings of past moments. Out of focus memories. The smudged ink of this dying story.

It stings but not quite enough to truly hurt, the pinprick of it a proof that I have lived.

Much of your pain is self-chosen. Yes, very much so.

So long, O.

Note:
As always, I hope you’re doing beautifully! I found this interesting little article about the pleasure-pain idea: https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20151001-why-pain-feels-good

Love.

I am a child when it comes to love.

My eye is attracted to the shiny flame, the exciting spark of something new in this old, worn world. What a beautiful fire; warm and gentle, it burns bright like stars in the night and I want to drink it in, drink it in. I want to pull it apart and understand it, hold it in my hand, keep it at my side, tucked in my heart.

My love is like a small child: curious, insistent, true but unable to handle fragile things with the care they deserve. So without thought or permission, eager to know, my fingers reach, my hands grab for that fire dancing so prettily before me.

My skin burns red, and the air is choked by the smell of something gone dark. A broken spell, a dead fire and a choked out chain of I’m sorrys, drowned by tears.

I wasn’t lying, I am a child when it comes to love. But even children must grow up, one day.

Note: It has been a very long time, hasn’t it? I haven’t even been able to write a birthday post this year, even though I have for the last 3 years. A lot has happened, as it tends to when one disappears like that. I hope you’ve been doing well and that you’re spending your time happily this holiday season.

Listening to:

L’été.

Summer is sweeter this year, something that is very much at odds with the devastation and grief of a raging pandemic.

We have had a case of local transmission here after several good months of hugs and handshakes, masks hanging precariously on ears and no moisture-peeling hand sanitisers. The anxious fear has found me again, sprouting scenarios of endless grief and loss.

So I want instead to count the little things — each of them an argument against fear, a shred of reason to counter the rising irrationality of my reeling mind.

Summer is sweet and soft like a kiss, still clinging onto the last dregs of a delicious winter. Often enough in the past, I had known summer had come when I would have to woefully send my blanket to the wash. You know the kind: thick and fluffy like a risen pancake fresh off the pan, it traps in warmth and banishes the cold from your fingers and toes.

This year, I find myself sighing into this heavy blanket even now, during midsummer nights that should have been sultry and sticky and uncomfortable. Instead, these nights gather me close, they hold my dreams above my head like a mobile, like the universe has unravelled in my room to tell me all about where I am from.

You need only take a single look at me to understand what I’ve become: a creature of summer’s making… Flowy dresses in my wardrobe, pineapple-printed shirts, wandering without fear of getting lost, and — at long last — a little curious about love.

Note: I hope you are doing well, wherever you are. It’s tough times out there and I’m only beginning to realise that all over again.

Glow up.

young adult old soul magic realism writing

The thing about shaking off the shadows and reaching for light is that it cannot be done in silence.

I had hoped I wouldn’t have to roar to announce that I had arrived, finally, through adversity and darkness, into the version of myself I was always meant to be. Naively, I had hoped that perhaps this transformation could pass unnoticed, like the water that quietly steals away under one of the city’s bridges — drowned out by all the other manifestations of life, melting into an indistinguishable symphony of sounds.

But to be yourself is to create ripples, echoes. And people listen, they pay attention.

The other day, I realised while watering a thriving Zenith the Zealous, that weeds had only started growing my little chia plant when I started caring for it. And I think it’s as simple as that: life attracts life. When you push through the darkness, discontent with the safety of mere existence and seek light, weeds will grow vicariously through you, envious.

So yes, I have attracted a whole lot of shallow attention.

People who call me pretty disbelievingly. Formerly indifferent men who now give long looks. Others who notice every little change as if it had been made on their own bodies.

I stepped into the light hoping to be seen, but instead, I am being viewed.

It’s disconcerting, to be sure. More than that, it makes me want to crawl back to where I came from. To safety. To comforting darkness. To being alone in my own little world, my lonely little planet of thoughts.

But these reactions are just passing distractions. My quest for light goes farther than them. There is more to me than what they see: I cannot be boxed into words like ‘pretty’, I offer no explanation as to why I am the way I am.

“I am not this hair,
I am not this skin,
I am the soul that lives within.”
Rumi

Continue reading “Glow up.”

Lingerer.

I’ve earned quite the reputation of being a lingerer.

I was always caught a little too long in the warmth of morning sheets, and I took hours steaming up the shower, only to emerge, skin flushed and thoughts nebulous. Voted most likely to run into a pole while staring at the sky. Serial latecomer, eternal late bloomer.

I settle too comfortably into moments — I melt into them like candy on a summer’s day: messy, gooey and all over the place.

I can’t help it though: I’m just so in love with the idea of being. It is magic to just be. To be able to create thoughts. To move your hand just because you want to. And feelings — how deliciously complex they are! Like scents, they have undertones and influences that make them unique. But there are always the classics,too: love, sadness, fear, anger. And how intriguing to have a place for your thoughts, for your dreams, for every unspoken part of you. Do you realise that every idea you have first existed as a spark of electricity in your brain? All of the world’s greatest inventions and art were born in that liminal space. Inexistant to the rest of the world, to MRI scans and brain surgeons but so vivid for you.

There are worlds inside my head always calling me. The worlds I knew first.

And then, there’s the world world.

How it is both overwhelming and small at once.

The sweetness of it amid its acridity. A flower bursting from the concrete, flocks of birds flying over industrial zones, the lullaby of the ocean, minutes away from the national reserve bank.

So I linger. There is so much to take in, to admire.

A lifetime will never be enough for this purpose: there is too much out there.

The sun, the sky, the progression of the day, mountains, the rain, the unnamed stars that light up our nights. The people.

How am I expected to be on time when all these ideas orbit my head? How am I meant to just accept it all, to brush the world and myself under a carpet and pretend it’s all…normal?

It’s not.

It’s exceptional, all of it.

So I will linger, charmed by the world and its ways, entranced by the inner workings of my mind. And I will call the clock a liar for saying I’m late. Because I’m not, I’m always right on time somehow.

Note: Still alive! Very much enjoying it, too. I hope and pray you are all doing beautifully as well. Also, are you or someone you know also a lingerer? Please tell me I’m not the only one lol.

Listening to:

In the universe.

young adult old soul magic realism — Art by: 9jedit

I like to take guesses as to what the universe is.

Some days, I think of it as a shell, washed up on shore somewhere on an odd planet, safe beyond even the reaches of our imaginations.

Other days, I wonder if the universe isn’t held within a dewdrop pearling precariously at the edge of a leaf.

Perhaps the universe is a pair of well-worn boots hanging by someone’s door.

Or perhaps still, it is hanging between the pages of an unserialised tome, tucked between a paragraph and a dried wildflower in someone’s attic.

Would that be so strange? It’s an odd life, to be sure. Can it not be that the universe that contains all of us — all we’ve ever been, all we are, all we hope to be — is smaller than we thought? What if we are a world within another world?

What if nothing was as complicated at it seems?

Listening to: