stay there forever.

the wisdom of winnie the pooh still gets to me. It's filled with child-like, innocent hope and poignancy. 

it's a simple thought, but one filled with a genuine love of friendship. and now, a poem...

Hold hands and hold on.

(do you see its pulse race?

and my whispers, quiet quiet?)

slow down, frantic child.

don’t let it go away now:

the road is a million miles,

a hazed horizontal, the shore.

It’s time to hold on, let the feet

drag on the pavement, hot

Like the star’s organic aura,

And travel 'cross the land, not

Unlike a mouth asking for more of.

More of this motion,

Heading in towards the ocean,

But crawl slow, slow, now, and

Watch the sky change shapes

And wrap you up in a drape

Of sea foam and titanic white.

(do you see its pulse race?

and my whispers, quiet quiet?)

now is the time to slow the pace

and enjoy the scenery of this place.

so let's hold hands and hold on.

who am i?

- What a wonderful thought!

yes, i've become one of those...

One of those people who post pictures of cute animals - but how could I resist?? SO CUTE!

parched.

Three days without water.

Drunk on air and sun-dappled leaves, 

but we're heading out to see

All the grains of sand that each could be

A dream undreamt by broken minds.

Lost in all this unchanged time,

these shards lay parched and confined.

Melded into a mirage that must show

All the dreams that we did throw,

Now that we’re dried up and ready to go.

can never go home.

I know people say you can never go home, like once you leave, you are too old and different to fit into the cubby named "Leena, age 9" or "Leena, loves drawing" or anything really. Are the toys I left behind no longer a part of me, now that I do not play with them? Are the people no longer mine, now that I have other people in my sphere? Sometimes, yes, I feel so different from them. Like they can no longer understand me. Even my sister, who is but two years my elder, feels a little different. We have not lived in the same house for six years. That is a long time, especially during a time when we are maturing and growing and finally shedding the awkward skin of childhood. So sometimes, we all drift away in a lazy haze, softly like a feathered kiss, without even knowing why.

But the truth is, there is something inherently beautiful about family and home. The peace I felt when I returned was something lovely and sweet and languid, spreading like the warmth of a fire after being lost in a winter forest for days. It is home. It is the streets I know like the back of my hand. It is the lone dinosaur toy I played with when I was young, sitting on the shelf like it is treasured. It is the perfect silence. It is the song I want to play again and again. It is like an anthem in my mind, "You are home." It is where I know I am loved. It is beautiful.

It also made me think of this song, Open Up by Editors, which is lovely in and of itself, but also pretty much expresses everything I felt. At around time 2:30 in the song, the repeated "You are Home" is  pretty much the anthem I feel once I land in Chicago. What a beautiful place.

small, yet magnified.

Is there a moment that I do not know myself?

Yet, I find you, my soul, there, in silent footsteps

On the outreaches of the dimming twilight;

Her tiny hands, palms out, open, holding the

World, telling me: now, do you know?

The world is smaller than it appears, and

Your spirit is not so big that you cannot see it:

Pressed against the glass window, small yet magnified,

Your soul is encased in this animal body,

And you know it, like you know your own mind.

Do not be afraid now. 

---

Well, I'm basically unsatisfied with how I've been writing lately. I like what I wrote above, but it just doesn't say how I feel sometimes. Like I've changed and I don't know what or who or how I am anymore. It's a scary feeling, to feel at a loss. I'd also like to note that I now understand how people write so many things about love/heartbreak because I feel as though when I've gone through that this past year, I wrote like crazy. And some of the poems were ones that I'm most proud of. 

On another thought, I reread Plato's allegory of the cave (or skimmed it at least) and I remember how much of full and wonderful thing it is. I want to write something so eloquently elegant and original that it has staying power. Maybe someday. 

---

qu'est-ce que c'est?

what do you mean?
am i beyond help?
has the wind whispered defeat?
do i luxuriate in the sound
of the melody of the ground
as it shakes under my feet?
(je te souhaite, dans mes mains.)
and do i, do i much
hold onto cotton
with the feel that its
my first soft touch?
qu'est-ce que tu desires?
je veux ce que je veux 
quand je le veux.
why do i do what i do?
pour quatre nomes sur ma main,
oh, nomes que j'adore,
for the languid taste on 
my tongue they lay.
qu'est-ce que c'est
que je rêve?

great migrations.

I was watching a documentary about wildlife and great migrations. How these herds or prides or flocks of animals move together in symphony, moving with the dawns of seasons. Around and around the plains and seas. Every time I watch some sort of documentary like this, I mourn the fact that I am not that free. I do not leave my home except when it is necessary. I have not seen the world and moved with the seasons, moved with nature. I am almost jealous, the closeness other species have with the natural realm. We are so isolated from nature's beauty that I cannot even imagine where these wildlife must preside. Everywhere I look, human civilization has taken over nature, leaving behind only scattered trees and preserves. It's hard to imagine that among the hundreds upon hundreds of species on earth, we are so different. We do not migrate for food or mating. We root ourselves in one place and find ourselves bound by friends or responsibilities or vocations, unable to wander the earth in search for something else.

Sometimes, I want to get in my car and drive in one direction until I reach the ocean. In between I might see the desert or the echoing shadows of looming mountains. In between, I might see more than this landlocked life I have resigned myself to. I think of this every weekend, that I should just go. go. go. go somewhere, anywhere, anywhere but here. I cannot help this feeling of being trapped in my own world, with no hints of escape.