Somewhere in Northern Italy, she's sitting against the couch and playing guitar, singing to her dog. She loves country songs, and peace, and meaningful conversations. I watch a cloud over me, passing by, I immediately persuade it to be my messenger. "You look the prettiest when you sing without an audience." I whisper to it and send it to her door. A drop of rain teases my cheek. The sky knows. I smile.

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She says this earth is too small
to house everything I have to share,
that I should tell her instead,
because she's vast, like the sky:
distanced by fate, yet always just near me.
She's strange, for liking me this way,
for seeing me like no one else,
for wanting me so endlessly.
She's so strange that no matter how far
I run away from her, the road always
ends at her door.

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The stench of June,
A reminder,
You have to go.
This time around
When the rain visits
I will open my heart,
Let it wash away every inch of you
From my being.
On the empty surface where once
I buried all the wishes I had,
A new garden will grow
Of roses, sunflowers, and lilies.
I will flip death like a player;
On the other side, I will live gloriously.

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Have you ever met someone who remains eternally romantic in the way they lead their life in your eyes? What do they do? They too suffer quietly just like you. But do you know what else they do? They light a candle in their closed room and read a book while sipping a cup of coffee, they hum songs randomly, talk to the birds that sit on their window sill, whisper to the winds, send messages to the clouds, dance in the rain, sit in forests for hours and smile at strangers. They are so in love with the privilege of being alive that storms pause before them to wish them well. They flow in sync with nature. They love passionately, live intensely and die with a smile.

-

.....

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Excerpts from the book I never wrote

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Hope is a scam but I am addicted to it

-

Forget-me-not

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I talk about death as much as I talk about love, because you have to die away to love completely — from your ego, your expectations and your limitations. Love is not meant for caged souls.

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There are days when I really worry if I will ever get to do the things I want—for myself, for my people and the community. The pain in my bones makes me so weak that reaching another day feels like a privilege. The fear of leaving so many words in the draft lingers in my mind for a while. Then I look outside, and watch a teensy bird sit on the window sill, fearlessly. And the fact that it knows I won't harm it makes me smile. "All that I have lived so far is good enough," I think. That the storms don't forget me on the days I am weary and the swaying trees make me hum a song long lost in time is beautiful enough. So, I gather the strength to make myself a cup of tea and tell my mind to calm down. I am already who I always wanted to be.

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