Reverse

It is hard to look into someone's eyes and not see who they were years ago.

I could gaze into the muddled green that are yours, and remember the spry person you used to be. Since everything has happened, you have become slower. Sadder. Less like yourself.

But it's not like I can blame you.

Some days it's a blank look. Some days it's an act of rage, swinging violently around the room until you find an answer.

I want to be able to open you up, half-shell, like a clam, and take a look at your soul. Hit rewind on the record tape that is your mind, and watch you transform back into the person you used to be.

Laughing. Singing. Dancing. Playing.

The charm and wit you once had has been transformed into a blank canvas, an unusable one.

Torn, frayed, ripped to bits and pieces.

I want to put your canvas back together and give you paint brushes with thick, fresh paint. 'Start over.' I would say. Please, start over and become someone new.

Become someone more alive.

Because your body is simply a shell, your mind cowering in the corner, not sure what to do with itself.

You used to tell me stories, do you remember?

Of days of work, of days of nothing, of days of baking or cooking or simply just relaxing and doing nothing at all. Of gardens, of dogs, of anything and everything.

But now, you don't tell stories. You say nothing, nothing of baking or cooking or relaxing, nothing of nothing, nothing of gardens or dogs, or anything, or everything.

You can't tell me where you hurt,

you can't tell me where you are

or who I am

or who you are.

So I will continue to look in your green eyes

and I will tell you my stories, of baking and cooking and relaxing; of nothing; of gardens and dogs, of anything and everything.

I won't tell you where I hurt, because it would be hard for you to help.

But I can tell you where you are, where we are.

I can tell you who I am.

And I can tell you who you are.

As long as you're with me, kid, we'll be okay.

Material Matters

Who made things matter?

What clothes I wear, what I look like, how much I weigh, what my opinion is?

Who started that trend?

Please, find them.

And tell them to stop caring.

Planned Perfection

Perfection doesn't happen on its own. It is a meticulous process, slowly thought out and rethunk and processed through every corner of one's brain, hitting every cog and gear that churns the powerhouse that is one's mind.

Perfection could be laying under the stars with a loved one on a blanket as a bonfire rages ten feet away, while shooting stars cascade over your eyes and a serenade of summer sounds tickles your ears. Already, we have

- one blanket

- planning for a meteor shower night

- wood for bonfire ---> raining? no? ---> actual bonfire

- any wolves around?

- turn cellphones off

- wet grass?

- are you really... in love?

See? Your happily ever after is someone else's thought-driven nightmare.

Inch;Mile

Those who act kindly in this world will have kindness - Islam. Qur'an 39.10.

All things in life are not reciprocal, you do not necessarily receive once you do give. I have known souls that will pour their heart out, dedicate their lives to saving, giving, cherishing; what are they rewarded with but nothing. An empty soul, left dry and cold without the feeling of a reciprocal bound. How does one give without the expectation of receiving? This answer escapes me, as fates of answers I will never know pass me.

Before The Worst

Heartbreak is a pain that is miserable and dry, cold and abandoning. Heartbreak is a rainstorm underwater, a million white feathers scattered over black carpet, a Rubik's cube with no sides that match up, the equivalent of pounding your head against a wall for 3 hours.

Unnecessary and smothering; messy and complicated; unsolvable and frustrating; painful.

I've never truly been in love, but I've heard of what happens when you love and leave.

Some people claim to want to be heartbroken, just so they can feel something.

Masochists.

Lights Will Guide You Home

Have you ever tried fixing something, only to fail?

That's how I feel.

I'm sorry that I can not save your life, I'm sorry that I can not be there to dry your tears when you cry, or clean the blood from the floor when you slip up. I'm so sorry that I can't catch you when fall from grace, like a parachute wafting in the wind, detached from its jumper. I can not be your trampoline, I can not be your bed. I can not comfort you like the carpet that is beneath your very feet. I want so desperately to be able to hold you while you shake, to touch you gently and whisper in your ear hopes of a great, sunny future.

I would tell you, 'It might look bad now, but things will get better. Sure, it's storming, but it can't rain forever.'

Sometimes I think you don't want the comfort, sometimes I feel like you would only push me away. This scares me, because I only want the best for you. How do I tell you? I just want you as you; I want to see you smile with meaning, and laugh without putting on an act. How can I tell you that I know it phases you? How can I tell you that I know your insecurities eat you alive?

I would walk into your room and throw out every self-help book, I would tear up the thoughts of depression that hide in the very corner of your mind. I would gather you in my arms and send the harmful thoughts away, I would hold you as we both cried, as I healed you, as everything that never mattered disappeared, until it was only you and me.

I can't fix you;

but I can try.