early august.

a moment of realizing i'm in a different place now, without the usual loving support of my family and familiar faces and friends around me - written in two ways.

(1)

The day ends, with a soft sky

Blanketing the sun, oh my oh my

The world gently slows down

As the sun kisses the ground

Lighting up the sky with lines of colors

The trees, ancient and old, stretch,

Shakily reaching up, to the sun

Their leaves trembling, as the day is nearly done

The cities slumber, dark and stark silhouettes

Stippled across the fire lit expanse

And I, I watch alone

(2)

The day has come to an end. She can tell by the changes in the sky, the way it undergoes a metamorphosis of pigments and hues. This is when the sun kisses the ground, cosseting the world in color as it does so. The light glimmers and shivers, blurring in the august heat.

She pictures the mourning of the trees and flowers, all wanting a moment longing with the sun's glory. Their leaves are shaking, trembling, reaching out to the sky. A lone leaf struggles, but wavers and flutters slowly to the ground. She stands on her balcony twelve stories high, feeling adrift in the sky, feeling shipwrecked on the rush of light and dark caressing the land. Standing still and silent, she feels as though the sun's sweet melody is playing in her mind. Whispering words of how the world turns and how it has aged, once young and green, now turning black and gray with steel.

She shivers, though it is warm outside. The breeze has picked up and is whistling through the trees. And so she hugs herself, and imagines it is a technicolor embrace from the sky.

a man.

a man looks at his wife and thinks, i want to write harmonies about you. i want to strum the stiff strings of a guitar into submission, into a soft croon of all that makes you, you. i want to make a rhythm like the sound of your heart beat when you tell me you love me. i want to write lyrics floating on the edges of a blue jay's wings, soaring through the sky, eclipsing on the sun. let it emanate, glow, like the sweet taste of dew drops on honeysuckle, savored on the tongue like the raspberries that stain your hand. let them entangle like vines on an old schoolhouse, mystify like fog in the morning. so distinct, like the whorls and swirls of her fingerprints, delicate and beautiful when i hold them in my own. i want the sound to echo like the rumbling thunder of a humid summer storm, make you feel the song in your bones like the distinct chill when you're running running in the rain. i want the words to enrapture you, oh my oh my, like lightning striking you. a man looks at his wife, and thinks. if only, if only i could. for now, i shall hold your hand and tell you i love you. i hope that is enough.

tonight. the sky.

i went outside on my balcony. it was chilly and foggy and the lights of the buildings around me burned in a soft glow. i felt less alone, because with every light, there must be a soul, living, breathing. And, maybe some of these lights that shine at night has an owner thinking about life, and maybe, just maybe, feeling the same way i do.

my art.

didn't feel much like writing.
so here are two of my pieces from last year. i should start painting again.


when the sky touches the sea. by leena danawala


weight. by leena danawala

homesick.

There are times when I lay down and I feel the softness of the sheets beneath me and the pillow under my head. But, my mind is flittering away, on the edges of an organic notion of timelessness. I feel as though I am a soul without a body, a sun without a sky, diverting my attention from the physical planes of my body and thinking about my mind's place in the world. I feel my body shifting through landscapes, one moment I feel the grass beneath my skin, prickling and irritating and itchy. The sun beaming its warmth over me like a soothing hug, while the breeze lifts my hair and places it lightly on my face. I morph again, shifting from the cocoon of warmth to the freedom of flying through the sky. I feel the air beneath me, my clothes fluttering like useless wings allowing me to float. I feel the clouds condensing around me, a thunder sound in belly of the horizon and a lightning flash from the periphery of my vision. The colors dance underneath my eyelids, and I feel energized. This feeling, this wandering lost feeling, is one I experience late at night, with the thick blackness overwhelming me. I can't see where I am or where I am going.
In this moment, there is this sense of motionless time. I feel in one place, but in another at the same time. In the dark, I can't see where I am, physically, emotionally, mentally. Am I in this new place, with different sounds, smells, and feels? Am I lost between places, between home and change? So, I close my eyes, and I think of myself at home in Chicago. On the couch with my favorite blanket. The sounds of my mother cooking downstairs, my sister upstairs, and my dad walking in the front door -- all soft lullabies of comfort, safety, and belonging crooning in my ear. The smells of a home cooked meal and the crisp air wafting in from the open door that my dad just walked in. Outside the window, snow falls in snowflakes to the ground like small kisses from the sky. In the next instant, I remember I am nowhere near home. I am at my new home, which may be temporary or permanent, and I feel lost and drifting. Will I ever find once again the roots of family and home, when I cannot feel more disconnected from my own? Or will I be forced to find a new location, a new emotional anchor? Perhaps I need a new place to rest my head, where I can listen to the sounds around me and they'll croon to me like a lullaby. And maybe then, during those cold nights, I can shut my eyes and feel truly at rest. Truly at home.