sometimes i am a
relentless, untiring,
wave ebbing and
flowing to the
shore, back and
forth, back and
forth.
but today i am
transforming and
evaporating from
the sea to the
sky, yes, i have
surrendered and
turned myself into
a possessive sun.
kindness and
attention are
now my rays that
i won’t let you kiss and
have anymore for
i am tired, tired, tired,
of going back
and forth, back
and forth, without
receiving what i
always give.
love.
—
Over an hour. That is how long I have been staring at my screen flashing an unfinished article I should finish before the day ends.
Eight tabs. That’s how many articles and resources I have read to be able to start writing and get my mind do what it’s supposed to do.
Numerous words written and deleted. That’s how I have been trying (badly) to write and write and write.
But nothing. My mind is not at it.
Like a boat freely sailing, wandering, on the vastness of the endless sea, my mind seems to be here but nowhere, here but elsewhere. It would be ungrateful to say I feel like a criminal jailed to be stuck in my office chair but that’s how I have been feeling lately.
It took me years to land a job related to my course, Journalism. I have been here for almost three years now and yes, it is fulfilling, tiring, but exciting. But there are days when you want to be as free as a bird. To be a writer tucked under her blanket just reading and writing.
It might be because of age but lately, I have been yearning for a simpler life. A life in a quaint house, by the sea and near the forest where I can wander and wonder. A life without a rushed phase. A life not limited by deadlines. A life not commanded by corporate bosses.
But that kind of life, as simple as it may sound, is too expensive. Expensive because you need money while living a life away from the city and the 9-to-5 job. Because I have responsibilities, and I have a life that isn’t only about me.
It’s been almost two months since I released my debut book, and I am quietly wishing and praying for its success because I dream to be like Lang Leav. Living in New Zealand, writing. But the road to becoming like her seems foggy and bumpy. Am I losing faith? Maybe.
I may not be hungry to make millions for my book, but I am dreaming of living a life as a writer. A creative one. Not someone locked inside a corporate box. But then as the eldest daughter, I got to move. I got to earn. For the family.
How can I pursue my passion and provide for the family? That I have yet to find out. And yes, I am trying to knock doors and windows to turn my dreams into reality.
Like what Ms. Maya Angelou told me again last week, “All great achievements require time.” I need patience and endurance. But most of all faith.
Faith that my time will come. Faith that my book’s time will come. Faith that everything happens for a reason. Faith that no time is wasted. Faith in things I cannot see as of the moment. Faith that He is moving and guiding me.
Easier said than done, I’m trying. Every single day.
For now, let me get back and write the article I need to finish today.
on the day when her grandchildren will be sitting on her lap asking for the bravest thing she has done, she will be looking back at this moment.
she’s in no danger. no noise. no death-defying acts. but with peaceful tree-whistles, lullaby-like bird-tunes, embrace-like forest air. and her heart and mind who were both dauntless enough to walk out of a life in the concrete jungle and be with the one she prefers, a simpler, slower life.
she will tell them, for only the brave knows living is not owning. living is making each breath counts. with money or without.
notice how the
verdant blanket
look greener
after a stormy night,
notice how the
sun’s glorious rays
shine extra brighter
after a pitch black night,
notice how your
fragile, fearful heart
beats braver
after losing a fight.
for in failing,
in losing,
we grow.
—
whimsygizmo.
the noisy alarm dings,
like the starting bell of boxing,
another fight,
another day,
begins.
with the routine task
of waking,
eating,
commuting,
working,
eating,
working,
commuting,
eating,
sleeping,
repeat,
repeat,
repeat,
may I not lost
my value,
my worth,
my purpose,
my dreams,
under the haystack
of mundanes
in the world of
routines,
before my life’s
final alarm
rings.
—
—
inside the dark eye of the strong storm inside
filled with swirling and turning and unending
to do’s,
to make,
to finish,
to see,
to hear,
to read,
to write,
my tired eyes,
my tired mind,
my tired heart,
sssssh.
be still.
be still.
Grace.
inside a cage filled with fog of fear, she stays alone trying to heal the scars of the past of all that is done, the ache of the present she cannot share with anyone, the uncertainty of the future coming with each rising sun.
will i be able to stop looking back and leave the footsteps i have made? will i regret the decisions i have made? will i be able to see a better tomorrow or all that’s left is heart’s sorrow?
as morning rays slip through the tiny cracks of her cave, she cannot help but let hope grow inside. with the leftover, brittle faith she holds on to, she’s coming out. she’s coming out.
she finally choose
to sink not in fog of fear
but in sea of faith.
hayesspencer (Toni).
helium-filled balloons
float up, up, away
from the dust
of the waiting
earth,
to kiss the sky’s
welcoming
mirth.
why do we
find it hard
to be like
the cheery balloons–
happy when
we’re being
let go?
maybe because
we prefer attachments
over freedom.
whimsygizmo.
I smell how the supposed sweet, summer aroma turned into a chilling winter scent as I watch how her soft, smooth skin turns from blushed pink to lifeless violet. I listen to her frail heartbeats, silently begging, pleading, helpless against her quite incoming death.
With a tear-stained face, my mouth utters its own prayer as I hold my almost dying newborn sister. With my shaking arms, I wrap her little body and hope my warmth can give life to thee like the spring sun’s kiss to a frozen naked tree.
My little spring bud
is now a blooming flower.
Death, love can conquer.
—
Björn Rudberg (brudberg).P.S. This haibun is a recollection of a scene which happened six years ago when I held my almost dying sister. Today is her 6th birthday and she is still with us. ❤
She has seen thousands dusks and dawns
kissing crawling winds combing lawns.
She has felt sweet spring and harsh winters
clothing her heart’s ever resilient chambers.
She has lived more than two decades,
with turning time she swayed and swayed.
With the love and life she’s ready to give and take,
she knows she will not cease to create and be created.
—
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