I wonder about all the different versions of myself that I didn’t get to explore and create in this linear time frame. Like a hologram, I can see myself in the future, I’ve stepped into her skin this moment, and as soon as it passes, she’s become my past. A state of constant change reminds me that it is also a state of constant stability- I understand in a flash-

that this is Eternity-
Until that moment too,



Writing for the Soul

The trick is to stop thinking. To let your pen dictate what your heart wants to say. To allow the words to flow, effortlessly onto the skin of your book, to connect your soul to the pages of your journal; to discover- that you know more than you think, feel more than you believe, that you hold all the answers to all the questions you could ever ask; that you are the Master and the Servant, the Intelligence and the Ignorance- You hold the power in your pen, the power to make a difference- if only to Yourself.


Time, a strange thing. A single point in infinity containing infinite number of planes. Time, proof that our mettle is that of magicians for we can conjure up a fiction so well, the fiction becomes reality and reality becomes unacceptable. Time, a clever veil to disguise the Truth. Time, a race to the final point, the first place, an irony because that doesn’t exist.

Time, a funny thing like that.

A Witch’s Monologue at the Stake

Burn me at the stake tonight,
I’d like to see you try to take the witch out of me.
Hear my cries cut through the night like steel knives,
Watch the fire devour my heart alive
Till there is nothing left but skull and silence;
A dark sky turned to ash, painted red with fury.

For I am an ocean of everything you’re afraid of contained in a body
And when you light me up in flames, all that is in shall break free,
Rolling upon you like waves,
Bringing a chill down your spine,
A terrible fear snaking up your legs,
The wind a witness to the murderer you’ve become.

So go on, burn me at the stake.

I dare you.

Art by http://www.instragram.com/themindnightproject/

The Sea that’s mine

I’ve decided to embrace this sadness that I feel. To let it cloak me; let it be confused for my skin. To let it seep into my blood, soaking it’s way out of my eyes and let it gather in my throat like a stone I can’t swallow.

I will let sadness be the sea I walk upon and watch as people call me a miracle.


We baked a cake today. I think that someday when we look back on this day, we will never be able to say, “This was the so and so date of the so and so month.” Dates and numbers and figures are meaningless without its measure, and the truest measure of time are the moments spent in them. I think, instead, we will say, “Remember that day when we baked the cake?”

We’ll remember buying ingredients from a local shop, we’ll laugh about our clumsy and careful way of putting in the ingredients without measuring cups, we’ll think back on the scepticism we felt when the ingredients didn’t mix well enough and the sudden fear that caught hold of us- what if this was not perfect, or worse, inedible? We never said those fears aloud of course, they were too heavy to be left hanging in the air. Instead we said, ‘I hope this cake will turn out okay,’ which is almost the same thing. Almost.

When all the ingredients were mixed together, and the batter looked thick and brown, we felt relieved, and when we poured it into the vessel, we smiled. Then, we waited. Soon it was time, and we didn’t make a lot of noise; we were too afraid of how the outcome would be. Had we done it right?

There’s an exclamation of joy, we did it, the cake looked fabulous! It was almost too pretty to eat, or maybe we just felt that way because the cake was ours and we often feel pride in the things we own, as parents feel for their new born children, or owners for their pets.

We were careful with the cake, we decorated it with chocolate, put it in a fancy plate and then took pictures to show the world our creation.

Then, we ate. Savoured every bite. The cake that came out from the kitchen that was so clumsy and yet so perfect, the cake settling into our stomachs as we ate ate in our pajamas, and we knew then- this was never just a cake.

This was more than its ingredients- this was two friends and a mother making the best of what they had, this was the beating and the mixing and exasperated laughs in between, this was the concern and the elation- this was more than baking; this was the joy of baking.


I want to be reckless. To draw rash strokes with my paintbrush, to write without thinking, dance only feeling, sing from the pit of my stomach, from the back of my throat, loud out into the horizon, to be the girl that I am, and am not; and to live, to live, to live.


What do I miss about home?
The smell of home cooked food
that mother usually makes served with delicious smiles
The breathtaking glimpse of the silent mountains
standing like a crown on the Queen of the Hills
And all it’s roads, and it’s people,
For I feel nostalgic for a life that has already happened,
That will continue to happen,
Long after I’m gone.


‘A beauty neither of fine color, nor long eyelash, nor penciled brow, but of meaning, of movement, of radiance.’
Charlotte Bronte// Jane Eyre

Of all the definitions of beauty I’ve ever read, this has to be my favorite. Beauty of fair skin, of dark hair or golden ringlets, a good figure and stately legs seem to be overdone. While it strikes a description of an attractive woman no doubt, and justifies it well, I have never admired such beauty unless it is accompanied by some other quality that distinguishes it from the mundane. An inquisitive eye perhaps, a playful smile, a strength of character, or timeless intelligence.
Beauty is of course physical, talk as we may of inner beauty, but beauty seems to be enhanced, and adds depth when it is accompanied by more than what can be seen on the outside.
And there it is, beauty of meaning, of movement and of radiance; the  age-old, timeless beauty, the only kind of beauty that I’d ever aspire to possess.