Scribbles

"ወዶ የገባ ሰው ፣ ከባህር ከውሃው ዋኝቶ ይውጣው እንጂ ሌላ ማን ሊረዳው?" I hope the bystanders are better than this. Even if they witness my act of willingness and my participation in all of these, I hope my lack of knowledge factors. I hope they know I didn't know. For if I did, I wouldn't have followed. Return your smile that would lead me to my doom, reply to a conversation with a conversation a hand with a hand, I wouldn't have. Would I? If I had known I would have spent days with a heavy heart, and nights in agony I wouldn't have fallen. And I hope the bystanders are better than the cruelty of not lending me a hand. I hope someone has seen despite my skipping legs and my jumping heart I didn't know anything else. I didn't know not to love you. My ears weren't trained enough to pick a lie from your two truths, to rethink maybe you didn't mean it. If I had known the stomach that had felt butterflies would be the first victim, and I would feel you not loving me deep in my gut, perhaps I wouldn't have followed. Deep in the sea, in this love of yours had I known, I wouldn't have dipped in. If I had known, ultimately I would have to rely on the act of kindness of a bystander perhaps I wouldn't have loved you. I hope someone realizes the only thing I did to be in this predicament was trusting you. "እሷን እሷን ሁለት እጇን ይዛችሁ ጠይቋት፣ ዋናተኛ ጠላቂ ሰው ከሆንሽ አውጪው በሏት..." But I have a feeling the universe played a sick joke on me, and you will not save me, even if you know how to swim. I hear your voice, shocked and amused, voicing aloud why on earth I had thought you loved me. You don't let anyone know it's because you told me. And I have a lung full of water to say my truth. Why didn't you love me? Why have I gotten punished for loving you with my full heart, returning the kindness I thought you had given me? Why did I get punished for my naivety? I hope someone has seen. Though I followed you willingly, I hope strangers are better than they seem. I hope their hands catch me. And I hope - I hope I make it. #RANDOM_THOUGHTS

-BarbedWireAtTheGates.xlsx @MenAce7

A dream: You have burning eyes that tears can’t extinguish. I yell at my sister for taking too long with her baths. Water is seldom, fire is forever. Forever lasts forever, and forever has your eyes dazed. Then you look at me. You smile. They take you away. You smile. You say it’ll be okay. You smile. I bleed out in the living room we used to play in. A dream: In the living room we used to play in grows a small flower. I teach her cuss words when her mother isn’t looking, hoping one day she yells it out when things get rough at school. My broken bones teach her dance moves, Folk songs blare from the TV, deafening, but she features with a giggle, and I seem to find heaven’s notes. It all leads to the living room, to the couches we used to jump on. Then she looks at me, a single tear on her left eye, dazed as yours looked, contemplating forever, and forever lasts forever. She pleads. They take her away. She kicks and screams. They take her away. I stand frozen, watching the songs loop. Then I fall, hoping my blood makes its way through the carpets this time, to water little flower. A dream: The earth splits in two. Furniture sinks to the core, utensils burn to liquid. The ceiling cracks; pipes explode in the corner. electric in the air, as wires duel like cobras in the desert. The TV explodes. Pictures on the wall fall slow. Time moves slowly through photographs: hairstyles, missing teeth, pimples, “I’m too cool for a family picture” pictures. The chandelier finally falls on the dinner table. Wasps fly out of the bulb. Thunder clears its throat in the distance. The house falls apart as I try to hold it all together. It all comes back to this, the living room we grew up in, descending to hell. And I sit, in the middle of it all, this time alive and well, waiting for forever. Forever takes forever. But I bide my time, comfortable on the couch, sipping on the devil’s wine. - The cousin of death.

You smile - a smile I have convinced myself - is magic you laugh - an obnoxious laugh - I have often counted and I grinned proudly on the rare times you laughed your heart out with tears in your eyes and I'm responsible for it. Perhaps I grew myself into your sense of humor joked now and then - even when I didn't have a funny bone in me just to make you laugh. I am not a funny human but a quick student and your laughter? I thought the world of it. Or perhaps you took pity on me, watched as I tried and you graciously offered it. Your laughter. I wonder, all the things you have let me be even when I didn't have a knack for it. Did you perhaps think a fireman would make a perfect fit? Did you know I'd run back to a burning house to save the things I have loved? That I did. Is that why you started it? Or did you think it would put itself out and I wouldn't notice? Were you in the house I ran towards or were you wise enough leave first? Did you watch? Did you watch as the smoke took me? My eyes. My breath. As I ran room to room frantically to salvage what is left of it did you simply watch? Did you have water to spare my way you chose to drink? (Maybe you needed it.) Did you see me? Did you see the flames cook my flesh? Could you tell my bones were starting to be visible? Did you see the smoke fill my lungs? Did you know? Did you know I saw you ignite the matches? In that burning house, you were the only thing I wanted to find, did you know? Did you hear my coughs? My desperate calls? Did you believe me when I told you my scars run deep? Or does that not count cause vaseline did the trick and I healed? Did you laugh because I was funny? Did you stand and watch as the arson you started took the life out of me? Did you count it as my final act of love? That I decided to stay as the house collapsed? Did you take pity on me when I became a shell of who I once was? Or did you claim second hand smoke inhalers had it worse? That you had it worse. That you had suffered, just as much, if not more did you tell me? As I was pleading for you to please save me. Did you watch? As I learn to get back up. As I let it burn down to the ground, did you judge how my love couldn't withstand that? Did you? Watch me? As I realized loving a dishonorable man with honors, did no good for me.  【Love lost, I won. (0-2)】          #RANDOM_THOUGHTS

“Gum?” you offer, with your hands pulling out a pack. I shake my head. I smile, the type of smile I copied from my cousins when Grandpa brings sweets. Shy. Sly. Indifferent. Grateful. A reply, a reaction, and a question; an “ask me again, please?” That’s how we learned to say yes: by asking to be asked again. But you don’t insist. You respect my wishes. You fail to read between the lines, the pack of gum finds the corner of your pockets. I look out the window, searching for an escape from the greetings, but on small talks you insist. You ask about my family. I say the usual, and God is mentioned. You ask about my studies. I say my memorized lines; this time I was wise to not involve God. You complain about the line for the bus and the weather. I echo your complaints. We play tennis on the surface level of conversation. People rush in the bus. The seats fill up. A busy afternoon at the busy part of town. My city makes the same noises I grew up listening to, nothing out of convention. But then, suddenly, out of nowhere, you turn your head. You look at me, no, you stare, deep into my eyes. Then you yell, like a person calling for help on a deserted island. You ask, “What are you doing? Why are you here? Why? Why?” I shake my head. This time I don’t smile. I look for an escape toward the driver, yet you persist. I look at you in disbelief; I thought we were family, estranged perhaps, but family nonetheless. You continue yelling like a madman. You start banging your head against the seat. You ask, “WHY? WHY? WHY? You don’t belong here. Get out. GET. OUT. Why is he here? Why are you here?” The passengers stare at the commotion. I seek help in their eyes. But they abruptly join the rant. They all yell in unison, harmonize your anger and sound out a refrain of their distaste : “Why is he here? Get him out. Get him out. Get him out.” Fear drowns me. Somehow, I find my feet and I rush. I run out of the screaming bus. I walk along the street, panicked, looking for another bus to take me to the same destination. I spot one. I jog a little to catch up. I make sure this bus is one of normalcy and I hop on the steps and take a seat. I take a breath. I calm myself down. I think to myself how that was strange. I check the time and find a way to relax. All seems to be quiet. Then I turn to my left, and to my surprise I see you. Yet again. Before I could ask how, “Gum?” you offer, with your hands pulling out a pack. *** Life is a traffic jam. Life is a traffic jam. Life is a traffic jam. Life is a traffic jam. Life is a traffic jam. *** “ሳሪስ ሳሪስ…የሞላ አንድ ሰው እሙዬ ሳሪስ ነሽ?” እህቴ “ከአዲስ አበባ ግማሹ መገናኛ ውስጥ ሲቦዝን ነው ሚውለው” ትላለቸ። እውነቷን ሳይሆን አይቀርም። መገናኛ በየቀኑ ሺዎችን እንደፀባያቸው አስተናግዳ ትሸኛለች። ግን ወደ አስር ሰዓት ሲል መገናኛም ልክ እንዳላት መረዳት ቀላል ነው፡፡ የፀሐዪ ቃጠሎ፣ የታክሲ ግፊያው፣ የመንገድ ዳር ገበያው፣ የደምብ አስከባሪ ከነጋዴ ጦርነቱ፣ የታክሲ ሰልፉ ይህ ሁሉ ተደምሮ መኪና መግዛትን ያስናፍቃል። “እሙዬ ሳሪስ ነሽ?” “በአቋራጭ ነህ፤ በሚካኤል? “በአቋራጭ ነን እኛ፤ ገና እንደገባሽ ነው የምንደርሰው” “አይ ይቅርብኝ” “ባክሽ ግቢ። ምን ትቅደረደሪያለሽ። ሊሞላ አንድ ሰው ነው የሚቀረው። ለመሳለም ከሆነ ዮሴፍን አሳልምሻልሁ” “ኸረ ባክህ?! ትቀልድ የለ እንዴ። ሆ...” መገናኛ ሆኖ እንዲህ ባለ ልውውጥ አለማለፍ አይቻልም። የተፈጥሮ ህግ ነው። እኔም መሄጃዬን ሳላውቅ፣ መዳረሻዬም የት እንደሆነ ቅጡ ሳይገባኝ መገናኛ ጋር አንቺን ካገኘው በዬ ተንከራተትኩ። ድልድዩ ስር ፈለኩሽ፣ ህንፃም አልቀረኝ፤ ቡና ጠጡም አላዩሽም፣ ወረዳም አስጠይቂያልው። መገናኛ ካገናኘን በዬ ስቅበዘበዝ ውያለሁ። ፈልጌሽ ቢደክመኝ፤ እሷም ፈልጋኝ ተስፋ ቆርጣ ሄዳለች ወደሚል መደምደሚያ ላይ ደርሻለሁ። እንግዲያውንስ ከተላለፍን፤ የሄድሽበትን ባላውቅም ዝምብዬ ቀልቤ በላከኝ አቅጣጫ ልከተልሽ። የአውቶብስ መዓት ናላዬን ሲያዞረው አንዱ ጋር ተጠግቼ ገባሁ። ምናልባት ካለሽበት ያደርሰኝ ይሆናል። ስገባ አንድ የማቀው የሩቅ ዘመድ አየሁ። ሲያየኝ ፈገግ አለ። እንዳላየ ለማለፍ አሰብኩ። ከተገናኘን ቆይተናል፣ ብዙም ቅርበት ባይኖረንም አጠገቡ የነበረው ወንበር ባዶ ስለነበር እያንገራገርኩ ቢሆንም ሄጄ አጠገቡ ተቀመጥኩ። አይ ይሉኝታ! አንድ ቀን ይገለኛል። አጠገቡ እንደተቀመጥኩ ፈገግታውን ሳያቋርጥ ከኪሱ ፓኮ ማስቲካ አወጣና “እስቲ እቺን ያዝ” አለኝ። ጭንቅላቴን ነቅነቅ አድርጌ ፈገግ አልኩ… -መገናኛ ካገናኘን @MenAce7

"...you lose your umbrella against bad weather." -The Irish I often find myself searching for words. To describe this. You. The non existent version. The alterante reality. In songs. In movies. In poems. I look for words just in case I relate to them. I search. And I - "...you sink a foot deeper into the earth." -The Welsh I save words that describe you. Your absence. And how much your presence had meant. I say it. Like a mantra. I carve it. Repeatedly. Obsessively. So I don't ever forget it. "...he comes back as the thunder." -The Indians You know I hate the rain but I'd happily put my earphones out if you decided to make a cameo in it. Is it true? Are you in the thunders? Or do you have better things to do with your time instead? "... he takes your childhood with him." -The Russians You knew me when I smiled a lot, but I now laugh out loud often. And my hair is way past the shoulder length. And you wouldn't believe it but I think my frontal lobe has finally developed. I now know Your God and I walk in His Grace after every wins and losses. I also have your biblestudy notebook and your new bible. "...the sun shifts forever, and you walk in his light." -The Armenians Forever your child. Forever fifteen. But somewhere along the way, I grew up. Somewhere in between. -3-【Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell. - Edna St Vincent Millay】 #RANDOM_THOUGHTS

These days, my alarm clock is a panic attack. Your name appears as the credits for my dreams roll. Your silver hair haunts my pillowcases. A knack for attention, always talented in all the right things. But you seem to be awfully terrible at staying dead. -The flowers next to your gravestone have found a way to grow from my bedpost. @MenAce7

-Travelin’ Prayer @MenAce7

"እስቲ ምክንያት ላምጣ... ሰበብ ልስጥህ ጥላኝ ከዚያም ልጨብጥህ ልረዳህ አንተም አትሰቃይ እኔም ግራ አይግባኝ ሰበብ ልስጥህ ጥላኝ ስትወድቅ ብገፋህ ስትራብ ብመታህ ስትማፀን ብዞር ስታቅፈኝ ብወጋህ ፊት ትነሳለህ? ፍቅር ትነፍጋለህ? ቃልህን ታጥፋለህ? ምክንያት ላከታትል ሰበብ ልስጥህ ጥላኝ ስትጠማ ብተፋብህ ስትፈልገኝ ብጠፋብህ ሠራዊት ደርድሬ ለጦር ብጋብዝህ ታፅፋለህ? ስትሞትልኝ ብገ’ልህ ለጥብቅና ስትቆም ብቀጣህ ምክንያት ብደርድር ሰበብም ባበዛ ሂደት ተከትለህ ትበቀለኝ ይሆን? እኔስ አውቄህ ይወጣልኝ ይሆን? እሺ በለኝ ሞክረው ሰበብ ልስጥህ ጥላኝ።" -በርባን ጅራፍ ይዞ @MenAce7

I have this new habit of saying I love you and hoping it works like a charm. I have this new thing where I hope my love pieces back your shattered bones. I have this ridiculous conspiracy where I try to resuscitate you with a kiss. So the next time you come with a gaping wound, expect a flower instead of a stitch and pray the pen works, I am but a poet— love and words are all that I can offer. I love you, I love you, I love you. Let it heal you if it can. -something from the notepad #28 @MenAce7

“He has put a knife on the things that held us together and we have fallen apart.” -Chinua Achebe I Preface: This is a love poem. I stay up Thinking about Your smile… Your wit… Your power… You have acres on my heart, A place only you can go to. You made me a stranger to my past, You broke down my walls, Burned my ego with your kiss. You pillaged my stubbornness And echoed laughter at everything I call bondage. You blessed my father’s seed, You gave purpose to my mother’s trials And made me watch as they celebrate. You brought peace to the house. You angelic soul, I dare not wash you off my skin. One day, you will mother my children. I dream of you playing dress-up with my son. You rewrote my story, you introduced me to freedom. You sentenced me to be your subject in love, And I don’t object to your sentences. My forever bride, You draw on my body, You treat my gaping wounds, You bless generations with your kindness, You uplift with your heart. My home is yours, My mind is yours, My body is yours. You taught me gratitude, You taught me self-worth when I didn’t know better. You separated me from those who don’t serve me. You took a heathen to a place of worship. I will sail through oceans just to have a space in your mind. My love at first sight, I can’t live without you. You freed me from my bad habits, Saved me from my insecurities, Taught me self-love and how to be comfortable in your skin. You took my foul language and taught me the language of love. You are the reason for my poems, My eternal muse. I have picked up on your tricks, For you have taught me how to love. So I wrote you this- This is my love poem. *** II Preface: This is a love poem. I stay up Thinking about Your smile that hid your intentions, Your wit that fooled my heroes, Your power that coerced my god. You have acres on my land, A place I can never go to. You made me a stranger to my home. You broke down my walls And burned down my cities. You pillaged my sanctuary And laughed at everything I called sacred. You spat on my fathers, Raped my mothers, And made me watch. You brought chaos to my house. You conniving evil, I can’t wash you off my skin. You stepped into my son’s future And told him how to dress. You rewrote history to cripple my essence, You sentenced me to be a subject under your feet, You made me an object in my own sentences. You heartless bride, Even after divorce, You whip my back with alimony. You find amusement in my gaping wounds. You trap generations with your mischief, You subdue with your tactics. You have colonized my home, You have colonized my mind. You sold my flesh for profit. You lend a hand And whip me down when I don’t show my gratitude. You made me hate my brothers, You made me curse my lineage, And you made me worship you. When I try to make my way to where you reside, You buried me in your oceans. You shameless leech, I still sense your hold on me. You made me hate my religion, You outdated my god, You made me hate my skin You made me hate myself. You took away my language, You forced your own on me. You are the reason my poems exist. But I have picked up on your tricks, For you have taught me how to lie. So I wrote you this— This is my love poem. -My White Valentine @MenAce7

“መንገዴ ለየ፣ አይኔ ብርሀን አየ።” I have discovered a new trick, a way to confound the heart through sheer will and volition. When fear makes its way to my doorstep, huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf, I will be crouching in the attic, ready to strike him down from above with a box of confetti. I have found a boost, a medicine for my jungle fever as I run through this forest to find the gumption to fight. When the bear sets his sights on my soul, I will rush him with a hug and tickle my way out of tribulation. I have found a trick in battle. When the enemy lines his archers and awaits my cavalry, I will meet his arrows with a parade, loud with drums and horns. I have found a way to trick the devil. I host surprise parties in hell and roast marshmallows in his living room. I have found a way to confound my heart and conquer my fears, a way to walk before I plan, to run before I pace, to fly before I buckle, to perceive before I see, to shoot before I aim, to do before I fear. -something from the notepad #27 @MenAce7

I lay under the blanket of splinters and shrapnel, nursing sleep apnea as a shadow of a phantom floats from the corner of my room. He seems to speak in a language only I understand. I seem to be an optical illusion, the special kind, deciphered to all those who meet me except myself. But the years come and go, and the winter wind of a foreign land smells much like a can of tear gas thrown to tire off that part of my soul that blocks the way home by burning tires. The days come and go, and the sun rises in protest of my wish to rest and lay under my blanket of wreckage and debris. I witnessed the demolition of our dinner table as the TV read the nightly news. I set my anchor down from the boat I built to get away and stared into the lake to see my father’s eyes stare back at me, and I once again drown in his tears, able to see myself in history. But I would rather pawn my hurtful hypocrisy for healthy hesitance and climb the moral summit that formed from my own shame. I strut and I stammer, I have a garden of bad habits and I am in the market for a straight posture, and I have the world to chase and my own self to run from. I’ll count and track my dreams and hope they fit in my wallet along with a picture of your smile. Your laughter is my favorite sound on the planet, and maybe I’ll hear it louder if I ever drive down that intersection we hugged goodbye. History will repeat as I burn to give you vision. And I find myself tracing the distance between “home” and “hope”, and I freeze reading the dictionary, praying we are on the same page. I pray my reflection believes the affirmations because I’m not buying them anymore. Decisions I’ve made and decisions made for me all lead me to lay here, under my blanket of splinters and shrapnel as the shadow of a phantom sings a song at a frequency only audible to me. -In October, the boogeyman sings Happy Birthday. #2 @MenAce7

When a queen bee is trapped, the hive is in disarray. Chaos holds hands with calamity, organization breaks, production halts, and life is limbo. Eventually, the hive declines, and the population dies, all because of a queen who stepped on the wrong puddle. Honey, your highness, the day you were trapped, I felt a sting, rather, a tear in my heart, and blood spilled everywhere as a myriad of my dreams hit a wall. Bodies dropped, tears were shed, and thoughts were shared. The day you were trapped, I raised my voice at God. He replied with silence, which I took for defiance, and the day you were trapped, I lost myself. Let my pillow tell you all the pain it witnessed. The day you stepped on the wrong puddle, I sank. The day they took you, I organized an army to free you. All cowered, all retreated, but, my queen, I stood for you. Granted, I was on my knees, but I still had stature. The day you got stuck, my hero retreated to his bad habit, and my rock crumbled to sand. I wrote letters, I said prayers, I sent pleas and promises, and bargained my soul for a crane to get you out of that quicksand. On your day of bondage, I lost all sense of direction. Your hold on me, your pull on me, I stung myself. I killed, I killed myself for you. I lost all character, my moral compass pointed to you. The day you were taken, I raged. I stepped out of line. I lost strength. I lost my home of rest. I lost a pedestal to be on. But can you blame me? Can you blame a lowly peon? The day you were trapped, the hive was in disarray. Chaos held hands with insanity, organization broke, production halted, life was limbo. Eventually, the hive moved on. The bees kept busy, they flew, they swam through, but as for me, I sank. -Love and Commissary @MenAce7

My love, my love if I were a well versed poet this would be my cue to mention a greek goddess that went mad, or died, or got casted away for the simple act of love. Pick one. I am sure there is one. And put me in line of those who lost and got lost because they loved. My love, my love I loved. A little early when I shouldn't have before I lived I chose to love. Only that it wasn't a choice only that I didn't realize love sneaked up on me and twisted my arm. Ouch. I loved? But before twisting my arms love had been holding them first. Perhaps that was why I got distracted. I loved you first, when you weren't mine but the world's when you came and went as you pleased my love was enough to be a host and you were my favorite guest in it. I loved you without wondering if you would ever come back but what a pleasant surprise it was when you did I loved you happy, I loved you free. When, pray tell, did I start wishing for all of it? That thing that holds you back, when did I become it? When did I start envying your freedom? When did it start paining me when you leave? When did I stop being a host? When did I start feeling lost? My love, my love is it possible to feel all this angst in your absence? To feel all the peace in your presence? It was. And I did. Only, I loved you young and identified it as a mistake to love you like you were mine when you were of the world's. Were you never though? Were you never mine once? Didn't you love me in private? Didn't you love me in silence? My love, my love weren't I the one who was free and didn't you want to hold me first? Didn't you clip my hands? My wings? Didn't you tame my wilderness? Would I be called mad if I saw that and try to reciprocate? Tell me, in which story does the goddess give her life up and the god takes her up on it? I gave my freedom up to love you and you chose to hold on to yours. Do I have the right to be furious? Can I curse my fate? My dumb luck? That made me fall in love with you when you didn't love me back. (Did you not love me back?) Can I curse us? Can I curse you? That held me like a lover but didn't follow through. Can I curse you? But I didn't know better so I cursed me that got held as your lover hated me for I knew you wanted to run but I wished you would walk slower. And for my heart that kept getting pierced when you wanted one thing and it wanted another I thought you could do better. So I cursed me. I fought my love before it had a chance, I called it off before I knew what it was. Alcestis (-A coincidence. A choice.) #RANDOM_THOUGHTS

Describe sunset for me. Once more? Please, once more. What does Lady Luck look like, and what of her dress? What of her skin tone? Any bumps, any bruises? Does she have a dimple or a black spot? Huh, I bet Luck wouldn’t have any pimples. Of course, how could she? How could she share qualities with the impure, with those down on their luck? With me? What business would she have with me? I sometimes think I have the wrong concept of the shapes of my own lashes. Reality is nothing but a box of darkness in my head. And air, yes, the wind is a silent observer that makes noise once in a while. I sometimes make words out of space. I have it all wrong. Forget that. I have questions, you see. Cause you see, you know. Why do pews face the stage? Do my brethren see God on the pulpit? Is God an inside joke intelligible only to those with vision? Tell me. What does it mean to be blue? Describe it to me. Describe it, I beg you. What does it mean to be? You see, you see, you know. I know not. I’m blind. Describe the ocean to me. Why does it differ from the sky? You say it’s wide, why do you use such adjectives, your pesky little adjectives that confound rather than inform? Why do you call it vast? What is vast? What is grand? See, my sight is limited. There are walls in this house that I reside in. I cannot comprehend eternity. Does the ocean stretch like time? Describe eternity. Does it have a hue? Does it have color? What is color? Describe it, please. Who makes it rain? Is there a man in the sky with a hose for the universe? Are you all conspiring? Is this all some kind of sick joke? Who would conspire against a blind soul? Is there a council that tells lies to those without vision? Do you purposely skew my perception? Do you take me for a fool?! I am sick of this duck-duck-goose. If I quit the game, would you conceal your observations? You tell me the rain grows grass. You tell me the grass is green. You tell me green is good. Why is it good? Why is it beauty? Describe green to me once more. Please, I’ve never seen it, see. Describe black once more. You say black is all I see. You say black is skin deep, you say black is royalty, coal, fire, space, absorption, radiation, ink, blood, peace, pain, resistance. You say black is home, you say black is foreign, you say black is everything. How can color be everything? Describe it to me, I beg you. I cannot see for the life of me. Describe her smile to me. Describe the edges of her lips. Describe the way she fights back her tears, the rain from her eyes. Describe the blue she feels and the fields of green she seems to run through in my dark, closeted brain. Describe the black spots she hides and the black dye she shows off. Describe the expressions of her face, the words she rhymes, the words she complicates. I can’t read. Braille makes no room for empathy. I am a helpless observer with no observation. What is love without sight? What luck is this? What kind of God grants a man a heart in exchange for his eyes? What’s the point in me loving if I can’t be seen? Describe heartbreak. I doubt you could see that, but tell me, what does she look like, and what of her dress? You see, you see, you know. I know not. I’m blind. Lady Luck is a crow’s beak that found my pupils at conception. Maybe, dear observer, you’re the one living a fantasy. Reality is just my dark closet that knows no colors. That’s your fallacy. I’m your anomaly, perpetually asleep, ingredient to your ignorance, point of reference for your gratitude. The evils of the world require no descriptions, no ploy, no luck, no miracles at play, but still, I ponder, still, I beg. Keep on describing; perhaps I’ll wake one day. Describe sunrise for me. Once more? Please, once more. -Mimir's Well @MenAce7

Dearest beloved, "መልካም ገበሬ ወቅቱን ጠብቆ ይዘራል።" I write to you, hiding behind beautiful words starting with an intriguing sentence so you keep reading making it ambiguous enough so you read it twice, or thrice hoping it would keep you busy between now and then - until the next time I write to you again. I write. To you. All my excuses all my incapability all that makes me unlovable I turn all into what makes me a tortured poet. I rewrite so you would still love me. I write. I rewrite so I can bring peace to the two beings that reside in me. A farmer. And a soldier. But all my life I only ever wanted to be a good farmer to you. ልክ እንደዛ መልካም ገበሬ ሳልደክም ሳልሰለች to work in accordance with the seasons to give you all my love all my thoughts all my randomness. And I do. Oh, I really hope I do. Until I don't and my fullness leaves me and my soul sits in what seems to be a big desserted desert all alone wondering why couldn't I have been a good farmer to you? Why couldn't I beat the seasons like all farmers do? I curse myself for this incapacity for being at war with your love and mine with all that I'm unable to give you. A soldier. For all the wrong reasons. To kill, not to protect I bring all the real and false eveidences so you could leave me. I kill all that I have given life to and I wonder in the midst of it if it would survive. Could it survive? Was I a good farmer when I was? Did I plant my seeds rightfully? Are they rooted properly? Tell me, when I have nothing to give and it's all empty do you remember the times you were loved by me? When I hide under my bed, a monster of my own making and all your words seem so distant making it unbelievably easy for you to leave me do you remember what I once was do you remember the farmer I used to be? For I know, "መልካም ገበሬ ወቅቱን ጠብቆ ያጭዳል።" and I hope I did enough, just enough, for you to come back to me. So I write as your soldier all wounded all tortured to you, hopelessly hoping my good days outweigh the bad ones and you would let me run back home - to you. -Your farmer and soldier #RANDOM_THOUGHTS

Red: …What about you? What do you chase? Blue: The next train, I reckon. I have a layover in Zurich. It’s packed over there this time of the year. Red: You’re not going to wiggle out of this one. Seriously. What do you chase? Blue (avoiding her eyes): I don’t think I do. Red (puzzled): Chase? Blue: Yes. Red: Then what do you do? Blue: I run. Red: Blue: That’s what I do. I run. I crawl. I pace. I drive. I fly away. Ambition is such a strange concept to me. Everything I am is because of everything I’m trying not to be. Does that make sense? Red: I suppose. But isn’t that such a horrible way to live? Blue: Wow, I really should’ve taken your word and found a better travel companion early on. Red (shrugging): I mean, you still can. Blue: Nah, I’m in too deep now. It was either you or that poor old man that talks in his sleep. And as entertaining as that would have been… he doesn’t have your eyes. Red: You like my eyes now? Blue: They’re not so bad. Red (exaggerating a gasp): Are you flirting with me? Blue: Flirting implies effort. As I said, I don’t chase. Red: Even those worth chasing? Blue: Someone’s full of themselves. Both laugh Blue (sipping his drink): So what do you chase? And you can’t say your reflection, Narcissus. Red: Haha. I like to think I chase freedom. Blue: Interesting. Why do you “think” you do? That makes it sound as if you’re uncertain. Red (avoiding his eyes): I don’t know. I grew up falling in love with the idea of being free. I think I romanticized it to the point that the aesthetics of it took over the initial desperation. All my life I have yearned for something I cannot explain. How can you chase an abstraction? And I don’t know… I keep finding myself priding myself on my destination but at the same time sabotaging myself throughout the journey. On my best days, I idealize, fantasize, and strategize this dream, and on my worst days, I catastrophize knowing that I’m just another person that does everything in convention while dreaming to be the nonconformist. So maybe I’m like you. I’m running away from being a person that doesn’t chase things. But I still want to be liberated from it all? So maybe there’s still something there. A drive. Maybe. What do you think? Blue: Sorry, you lost me at “romanticized.” Red: Asshole. Blue: Seriously though. I understand, and I empathize… I think. But I don’t think I can reply to that. But I know that that’s such a horrible way to live. Red (chuckling): Touché. Blue: What do you think that persevering drive is? Red: Red: I don’t know. I’m trying to find out. That’s why I’m on this train. Blue (lowering glasses): Ooh. A mystery. Interesting… Red (flipping hair): I’m interesting. Blue: Red: What do you think keeps you running? Blue: Fear. Red: Why? You seem pretty confident right now. Blue: You’re not as scary. Red: What do you fear then? Blue: Nah, you would have to buy me dinner for that. Red: Umm. Blue: And it can’t be a snack from the trolley. A proper dinner. Somewhere fancy. Red: That would imply effort. Sorry, I got something else to chase. Blue: Touché. -Patient Purple #1 @MenAve7

At first: ድቅድቅ ጨለማ። I woke up at midnight. I opened my eyes. I tried to see through but all I saw was darkness. I opened. I closed. I repeated. All there was was nothingness. My God! Have I turned blind? Why is there everything but colors? My Lord, have You let me go blind? Have I let myself go blind? I panic. I touch and try to feel everything just in case I feel anything but I come up with nothing. I woke up at midnight when it's the darkest of the night. But time isn't really an essence to a person that doesn't breathe because the right sequence would be that I stopped breathing and it woke me that it was midnight that it was supposed to be that dark who was going to tell me? Perhaps you did. And perhaps my ears didn't work either. But I'd have to see your lips moving and my ears not catching the sound for me to panic about my ears. I woke up at midnight and perhaps you woke up with me. I didn't see. Maybe you are a witness of the time I taught myself darkness too was a color to see. You are a witness of how I taught myself to breathe. You didn't have to, and I didn't always see but perhaps you had been there with me. And then: a little bit of ብዥታ... Wait. Could that mean I was not blind after all? Could that mean I could see? A little bit of light but ብዥታ I wish to follow it with everything in me but blurry. So I stumble. I fall. And I grab everything there is to stand back whether it made or broke me. I wish to follow the light but perhaps I have ruined myself when I let my eyes be accustomed to the darkness. So I beat myself up for giving up and believing I no longer see. Perhaps you were there moving your hands trying to guide me but it was blurry and the world kept spinning around me. I didn't see you. I didn't see. ከዛን፣ ቀስ እያለ ነጋ... The first ray of sunshine pierced my eyes and I immediately closed my eyes and reverted back to the darkness I'm familiar with. ድቅድቅ ጨለማ። And then I squinted: to ብዥታ... until I finally opened my eyes and I saw Light Himself. ቀስ እያለ... the ray started filling all around me. Huh. I could in fact see. And in my face, I saw the tear stains that were marked from the times I believed I couldn't see I saw my hands all wounded up from the blurry times where I frantically grabbed everything I saw my bruised knees that took a fall every time and I saw you. I saw. And I smiled. Because I see! It must not have been easy to see me at times I thought I couldn't see. It must have been really tough to get through and speak when I couldn't hear you. But I saw Light Himself and I saw you. So I just wanted to tell you let my words be read that the darkness didn't win but my God sure did. - ዳንኩኝ ሞት እያየኝ። #RANDOM_THOUGHTS

You have once held my hands, led me out of a mess I didn't ask to be out of and I have followed you. Later I have looked back and called it love because it was. Cause I have loved you. What a privilege it had been to be me when I was loved by you. You have once held my hands, tighter when I wanted to go and I dared, I stayed, because you asked because it is you. I called it love because it was because it was true. My sometimes muse, my usual writer's block only for you I'd compromise the absence of ink on my paper only for you I'd call it love because it was. You have felt like the card I cheated to win my last circle on 'bingo!' my inexplicable luck my 'too good to be true.' I called it love because you were because it was. You have smiled, and I have giggled like a child for it - for your happiness. You have cried, and I have sobbed for I was your trusted audience - to your sadness. You were a mix of this and that and no matter which day it was I loved you nonetheless. I call it love, because it was. Would it break you if I told you I no longer miss it? That I am struggling to write this but it isn't the same as the days you used to dry up my inks. Would it stop you and make you count your mistakes? Would you perhaps find another word for what once was? Modify it? Call it something else? Or is it still love, even when we no longer abide by it? Would it stop you from your steps if I told you you make writing feel like work? That neither the love nor the hurt made me a better poet would it cause you disappointment? I have suffered the loss and I have come out of it. Neither better, nor worse just different. And I see it. I see what it was and I set the record straight. It was love. I am sure it was. Only now I don't really ache for it. Not from resentment but from an abundant lack of interest. You and I sit across the table from each other and there isn't a single thing about me I want to tell you so you can try and get to know me better. I see before for what it was and I nod for now - for what it is. But for what it is worth I call before 'love' because it was. ( - And now is called: moving on, I guess.) #RANDOM_THOUGHTS